To Take, Or Not to Take, What is Communion?
At about the time I found myself in an ashram in India, my mom started to pray for me. I was on the other side of the world, and that’s about all she could do. Her practice was powerful--and I have the sense that she saved my neck more than once.
She and my dad found a Catholic church that same summer. They’ve been going regularly for about a year and really love it. So much so that she decided to convert the other week. I’m happy for her--she’s growing, learning, traveling, and evolving in faith.
Then last month, I went with her to church, took communion, and didn’t think twice about it.
On the way out, her sponsor grabbed her firmly by the shoulders, pulled her aside, and got angry at her because I took communion even though I’m not “Catholic.” My mom didn’t know what to do. She wants to respect the church, but she also understands where I'm coming from.
The next week, I took communion again. This time that sponsor went to my dad (again of instead directly to me). Not long after, I found myself in dinner-long shouting matches with my parents about whether I can take communion. Eventually I was told not to come if I was going to take communion...
From their side, they want to respect their church. Fair. From my side, communion isn’t negotiable--it's the whole point.
Week after week, the same conversation came up at dinner, and every time it digressed into a dramatic back-and-forth about whether I could take communion in a Catholic church even though I'm not "Catholic". How could me taking communion affect other people so strongly?... I agreed: The sponsor’s anger is my fault, my parents’ confusion is my fault, the drama is all my fault, which makes it my cross to bear. My relationship with God is my own, not for anyone else. The more they pushed against me, the more I dug my heels in.
The day before Easter, before my mom’s Catholic confirmation, I was told straight up: "don’t take communion, or don’t come." I said nothing then stepped outside for air...
Ken, the carpenter working on the garage, walked around back to fix the electric box and saw me pacing on the porch. Not only does he know more about carpentry, religion, and history than anyone I've met, but he's also a really good guy. I trust him on these spiritual matters, a lot... So I told him what was going on.
He said: "Go. The wafer and wine are symbolic. Not taking it tonight doesn’t separate you from God. You’re there for your mom. That’s what matters."
He's absolutely right.
Off we went: my mom, my dad, and me, together.
The mass started outside with a fire pit, then moved inside. It was long, 2.5 hours long, so I closed my eyes and started praying. At some point, without really thinking about it, I was reciting: "helmet of salvation, breastplate of righteousness, belt of truth, sandals of peace, shield of faith, sword of the Spirit."
Last time I put on the armor of God like that, I was in Bihar, India, listening to Vedic chants and knew I needed spiritual protection from the brainwashing per se. Now, I found myself sitting in my own parents’ church needing that same level of protection more than ever...
There's song, readings, Genesis, Isaiah, Revelation, a sermon story about miners trapped underground, sitting in darkness, until light breaks through and they’re pulled out one by one...
My mom gets confirmed. She’s crying. A lot. It’s a big moment for her. I’m happy for her--she's put a lot of energy into this process. And then communion comes... she goes, then her confirmation friends, the next row, now my dad and my row... I stay in my seat, head down, eyes closed, praying...
Afterward, there’s a party in the basement. Wine, conversation, people laughing. It's all good. Then the priest walks up to me and asks, “Do you now understand why you can’t take communion yet?”
I tell him, “I’m really happy for my mom. It meant a lot to her. But I fundamentally disagree.”
He tells me the disciples waited three years to take communion.
I tell him that I won't let another man come between me and God.
He starts shifting from one foot to the other. He says that people study theology for years for this.
I tell him God isn’t that complicated--I've always known right from wrong. We all have. Now I'm learning to act on it.
He pulls on his collar, then replies that these are ancient traditions established in the centuries after Jesus.
I tell him exactly--the rules are man-made; Jesus invited everyone to the table. In fact, his only two commands are: (1) hold God at the center of your actions, (2) do unto others as you’d do unto yourself.
He agrees.
I judge people less by what they say and more by what they do; the Bible is full of words, and we can question what was truly said, but one action is undeniable--Jesus Christ prays. Again and again, he makes space for himself, and turns to God. If there's anything to take from the Bible, it's not doctrine but the practice of prayer. Jesus teaches you to pray. To speak with God. Anytime, anywhere. That is communion.
He says that one day a Baptist preacher came into his church and asked if he could take communion, but he had to say no because you have to be Catholic. He adds that "one day, when I become Catholic, it'll mean that much more..."
And I reply: I respect you a lot, but I don’t plan to. Becoming Catholic is like putting on a hat, and I won't wear one. Whether you're Catholic or Baptist, Muslim or Hindu, scientist or cynic, we all share one Earth, one sun, and one God. But get one thing clear: My relationship with God is my own.
He nods, says very well, and we part ways.