| Feb. 26th, 2009 @ 04:06 am Jesus tastes like pita bread |
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Despite the fact that I am firmly on the side of the heathens, I accompanied my mother to Ash Wednesday service today. Worthless Brother has been causing her worlds of emotional, psychological and financial pain, so I didn't feel like I could refuse her when she asked. My mom only recently started attending church again -- we were a fairly secular family through a good part of my formative years -- and her previous experience was with the CoC, which is probably the most boring church in existence. (If there was anything entertaining about church at all, believe me, the CoC found a way to suck the joy right out of it.) Now, however, she's going to a United Methodist church and all the "high church" bells and whistles just fascinate her. (It's quite amusing, actually. She called me up one night all breathless with excitement because they had a church mixer where WINE was served. "These people actually drink!" were her words.)
Anyway, this was her first Ash Wednesday service at the new church, and since I actually have more experience with "high church" stuff than she does -- I went to an Episcopalean school -- she wanted moral support and, like I said, who was I to refuse?
Except, this meant she expected me to take communion with her. The problem with that is, I've never taken communion before. Because I'm not baptised. CoC is one of the "dunking" churches, and frankly, even if I had ever felt the 'call to serve Jesus', there was no way I was letting Brother Osborn hold me under water. Nothing doing. (Also, I figured that if Dante's Inferno really does exist, maybe I could still squeeze into Limbo with the Virtuous Pagans.)
So, my plan was to just sit in the pew and wait for my mom to do the Communion -- Pray -- Ashes thing, but... that's not what happened. An usher came to conduct our row out and up, and between him and my mother's pleading glance, I rolled my eyes and resigned myself to my fate; which I rather hoped wouldn't entail me vanishing in a gout of celestial fire when I touched the chalice, you know? So we make our way up to the priests/ministers/whatever-the-Methodists-call-them, and one of them is standing there with a big, spongey round of flat bread. It's the kind that makes really good gyros when it's grilled with olive oil, but rather lacks something when it's plain. So this old guy rips me off a sizable chunk of This-Is-My-Body, hands it to me, I go to the next guy, dunk it in the wine and put it in my mouth. Where it SITS because, well, it's large. And kind of gummy. And suddenly I'm seized with a certain quandary that I'm sure every Catholic or High-Church Protestant soul has experienced at least once in their church-going lives:
Does one chew Jesus?
My natural inclination was probably not so there was an uncomfortable minute or so where the Communion Host just sort of wallowed in my mouth, swelling and getting gummier by the second. My options were dwindling to Chew or Spit Out, and I was simply not willing to offer that sort of insult. It was beginning to look like a stand-off, but when we went to the kneeling bench before getting our noggins smeared, I managed to sort of tongue-mash the Host into a swallowable consistency and coax it down my throat. I'm not sure either of us was exactly happy about it, but while pretending to pray for forgiveness, I had the "Look, this is for my mom, okay? I'm following that whole 'Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother' thing, so give me a break, please?" chat, and that seemed to do the trick. Down it went, and the rest of the service passed without incident, fortunately.
Which meant I could come home and study for my math test. Which I'm still avoiding doing lo these many hours later. Which is why I'm posting this. Just so you know.
Obviously I didn't give up procrastination for Lent. |
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