Why Real Presence at Communion Changes Everything

In seminary, I took a class called "History and Theology of the Eucharist" only because it was held on Tuesday afternoon when I was otherwise free and I needed an upper level history elective. I'm really thankful I did. I learned that my assumptions about the meaning of Communion-- that it was a nice way of remembering Jesus' sacrifice on the cross-- did not match the Eucharistic theology of the early church, of John Wesley, or indeed of most of Christendom for most of Christian history. For Methodists, Communion is not just a memorial, a metaphor. It's a sacrament-- Jesus is really present in that bread and cup. Communion really conveys grace; God is at work; it's not a merely human activity. (That memorial theology came from Zwingli during the Protestant Reformation and was really only embraced by the Baptist wing of the ecclesial family tree. From a historical perspective, the burden of proof is on them to explain why this meal in which Jesus says "This is my body" is "just" a symbol, not on the whole rest of the Christian family to explain why Jesus is clearly here.) I think a lot of Methodists don't understand real presence, many of us formed by more  Baptist leaning preaching. We fail to understand our real heritage. We repeat the cliche, a misquote of Augustine-- Communion is an outward and visible sign of an inward, invisible grace. Augustine actually said VISIBLE sign and INVISIBLE grace. All Augustine meant was that the bread and cup are physical manifestations of God's invisible grace. He did not mean that Communion only matters on an inward level. (Augustine got a lot of stuff wrong, at least from a Wesleyan standpoint, but he was right about Communion.) No, Jesus is really there at the table, bigger than our inward thoughts. Jesus is really there, not just in my soul but in the whole communion of saints gathered around the table.
So why does a robustly Wesleyan theology of real presence matter, practically speaking?
(1) Communion puts the role of the pastor in proper perspective.
It was a month or two into my first year of ministry back in Georgia when a wonderful church member invited me to come to an event on a Saturday night and offered to pick me up. I was too inexperienced to consider why that would be a bad idea, and so busy that week by the time Saturday evening rolled around, my sermon still wasn't done. I figured I'd wrap it up after my time with this family was over. Long story short, I got home at about 2 am. The whole thing was my fault and taught me valuable lessons about keeping Saturday nights unscheduled and about how "no thank you" can be a loving, pastoral response. My sermon the next day was terrible-- rambling and unfocused and finally, mercifully, over. But then, thank God, we had Communion. And in spite of my ineptitude, Communion fed everybody, and I could rest secure in that. When the sermon is the climax of every worship service, it communicates that worship is the pastor's show. It perpetuates the misconception that the pastor is the expert. But in a service of Word and Table, properly understood, Jesus is revealed as clearly the true host of the meal, the true bread and wine and source of life, the true Lord of the church, really present.
(2) Communion is real.
I think there's a lot of bad liturgical theology (meaning, understanding of what worship is) out there. We often think about worship as primarily for us. We are there to see our friends, to sing our favorite songs, to hear a message that makes us feel good. The way a lot of people talk about worship exposes this common misconception-- we say "I was fed today" or "I didn't get a lot out of that service." We are often practical atheists, to borrow a Wesleyan term, professing belief in God but acting as though God isn't there. We but often don't think of God as an active presence in the worship service, acting on us. A proper Eucharistic theology opens our eyes. (As Luke puts it, He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.) Communion isn't a memorial we act out. It's the risen Lord Jesus Christ really there, for real! Digesting this truth over time helps us think about and talk about worship as a real encounter with God. Which is crucial in a time of declining worship attendance. If worship is just a human thing, a time of learning or a time of inspiration  I can get that just as well or better on my couch with Spotify, Ted Talks, or a book and a glass of wine. Unchurched generations will not be compelled by worship as another product of inspiration in a market already saturated, nor will the nominal, C&E (Christmas and Easter only) Christians. But worship as an active encounter with the living God... that's unique. That's an extraordinary claim. In my opinion, it's one worth getting out of bed for. It's real. 
(3) Communion teaches us about real faith. 
It takes faith to believe Jesus is really there in a special way. It takes little faith to believe it's just a symbol. It takes faith to believe in a mystery we cannot see or explain. Communion properly understood, therefore, inculcates precisely the same kind of faith we need beyond Sunday morning. I found my own faith grow exponentially the year I shed my quasi-Zwinglianism. I learned to see Jesus not only in bread and wine, but in similarly humble places. A traffic jam on Atlanta's crowded highways leading me to prayer. Shooting the breeze with seminary buddies. Making omelets with the farm fresh eggs gifted to me by parishioners. My own slowly improving preaching, as Sunday morning filled me with an energy I did not understand and could not have come from me. My parishioners-- their sporadic attendance, their rough voices that in my ears sounded like choirs of angels, their patience with their young and over-eager pastor. Belief in the real presence of Christ at the Communion table cultivates a sacramental imagination, teaches us to see Jesus everywhere. 
This is just the beginning of what I want to say about why sacramental theology is so important, about how it has been so transformative in my own spirituality. More to come...

A Magnificat in July

A Magnificat in July, through stifling heat she shouts

About deliverance yet unborn, peering presumptuously
Into faraway days, crowing that she yes she
Will be blessed. She, yes, she is glowing with sweat

And the incarnation, tummy full of nerves and of God.

A bursting taunt from the closet, bellowed behind
Closed doors— that badness and sadness
And untold masses who won’t talk to strangers—
A royal decree already, that they will be soon yielding
To the lightsome liberation with which she yes she
Is pregnant.

Half howling, half singing, fingers drumming on her
Rising stomach, voice lifted up she asks before the
Burning sun—How long, how long, how long
Til the light gets in, til Christmas
Til she gives birth at last to the Holy
Real as when (not as if), real as blood.

If Jesus were born in December-- and here I am speaking in the truth of poetry, not about historical hunches-- Mary probably sang her Magnificat in July. I love the Magnificat, I love that the Episcopal Daily Office has us pray it in evening prayer every other night. It is not just a Christmas text. Every night, we are waiting on God, every night, we are awaiting liberation. 

I am writing this while Facetiming with my sister. My sister is nine years old; in my family we say one of the reasons God gave her to us was to keep us young. When I went to visit my parents and brother and sister last Thanksgiving, I took her on a shopping trip and bought her a pink unicorn journal because she wanted to write like me. Now we are both at our desks, writing, stopping periodically to share about what we are doing and to dance to Taylor Swift songs. 

I am not Roman Catholic enough to call Mary my mother. Nor will I be low church Protestant enough to say Mary is just another one of the faithful. No, today Mary is my big sister, and I am writing in hopes I can be like her when I grow up. 

Roommates in Heaven

Anna Nicole Smith got to heaven and she got left without a roommate and God said Sonny boy here’s looking at you and Jesus said All right Daddy will do.

So Jesus walked in and asked Which bunk? and she said I was planning to stay on my own and Jesus said Silly you can’t do heaven alone.
They went water walking and parable talking.
Demon casting and prayer fasting.
Jesus got some great fashion tips. He threw those crusty old sandals away and hasn’t worn white since Labor Day.
He admired all her (decent) photos.
She read all his books.
I think they like each other.


I was going through old poetry I wrote and found this. I think I wrote it but I don't know for sure, so I can't try to get it published. If it's even good enough for that, I don't know. If anyone thinks they know who wrote it I'd be glad to know. But I'm fairly confident that I wrote this, and I took the liberty of making a few revisions tonight. It sounds like my poetic voice, with short bursts and with careful attention to sound. I also like to try on poetic personas who are different from my usual personality and behavior-- sometimes jubilant, sometimes even whimsical. And moreover, my best poetic muse has always been the Incarnation, the immanence of God with me and with other losers. The great reversal, the lovely surprise of the Christ who hangs around precisely the people religious folks think he would avoid. Reading this poem again made me find that muse. Whether I first wrote it or not, it makes me want to keep writing now. 
It just struck me there's something just right about not knowing if a poem is yours. Real poetry ultimately belongs not to the poet, but to everyone-- like nature, like God.

Liberation AND Salvation

I have been following this story of Glide Memorial UMC in San Francisco. Basically, to boil it way down, it's a big church that does a lot of work with the poor, but they got into some conflict with their bishop and now they aren't getting any appointed clergy. They moved away from some standards of United Methodist polity and refused to accept the leadership of appointed clergy, focusing instead on a non-profit foundation carrying their name. I think there are a lot of issues here, around the role of former clergy, around polity, around finances. Of course I don't know the details about all that logistical stuff so I'm not going to comment on that part of it now. Issues like these are usually much more complex than any article can explain or outsider can fully grasp. 
What I am more interested in are the theological issues this situation has raised. Sadly, this church conflict is now major secular news. This article says, "Glide says the schism has to do with its emphasis on social mission work ahead of the spiritual, where the Bishop feels like God should come first."  
Another article says the chair of their board said, "Our focus is saving lives, not saving souls." That article also says they don't have a cross or altar in their worship space. An open letter from the bishop says they don't have Christian worship, but uplifting, secular concerts. 
Too many liberals and conservatives make these hard and fast lines. It's saving souls, or saving lives. It's mission work, or spiritual work. It's Christian worship, or being welcoming. It's liberation theology (the theology that God has a preferential option for and special love of the poor and needy), or soteriology (the notion that God saves us from sin in Jesus Christ). I refuse to choose. What God has joined together, let none of us separate. We need both. 
I can tell you from experience marginalized people-- with addictions, with problems, with a past-- have a deep sense that they are broken. Most of us middle class people look to our bank accounts, diplomas, and achievements and think we are basically good. We repeat religious language about salvation but we don't really believe it-- we think we can handle our souls like we handle most everything else without needing help or needing God. Most people on the margins know better; they know they are sinners who need a Savior. They cry when they sing "Amazing Grace" because it's real for them. 
A serious liberation theology requires a Savior. Not only because the poor, in their hermeneutical privilege (a $10,000 phrase meaning that the poor are better able to understand Scripture), know they need a Savior. The more aware we become of our privilege, of our subtle prejudices and paternalism that do damage to human beings made in the image of God, the more we know we need a Savior. 
Moreover, it's the bodily resurrection of Jesus that makes liberation possible. Jesus, the innocent victim, oppressed by evil, was murdered and raised by God from the dead. Only the resurrection could be powerful enough to accomplish the defeat of oppression and poverty and suffering. If Jesus never rose, liberation is wishful thinking, and ministry with the poor a futile exercise. 
But I want to say in the same breath that any gospel that is unconcerned about the poor is heresy. If you take the Bible seriously it's clear that the poor are the third sacrament. Jesus says, I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. If we fail to be in community with the poor we fail to encounter Jesus. Neglecting ministry with the poor should be as unthinkable as neglecting Communion, baptism, Scripture, or preaching, and is equally crippling for the life of the church. 
Methodists, in particular, can't bifurcate the gospel into spiritual and social. We began as a movement of mostly the lower classes of laborers in England. Wesley incurred the wrath of many in his time for denouncing slavery. And Wesley also insisted visiting the poor and the sick and the prisoner-- not just almsgiving but visiting-- was a non optional means of grace, a means just as important as prayer and Scripture of going on to perfection.
I really don't know what all is going on at Glide UMC but reading about their story made me think about the sloppy theology on both ends of the spectrum about ministry with the poor. I believe it's time to do serious, practical liberation theology. It's time to follow the Jesus who saves us from sins both personal and corporate, who delivers from both shame and poverty, who came down from heaven to be poor. 

As the Stone Rolls Away from Your Tomb

Resurrection rouses you from familiar darkness

And snatches back the sleep you craved

Sharp rays of light prying open your eyes

Bone on bone, aching, rattling

This ripping, this tearing of flesh

The dizzying turn from down to up--

And this, your only prayer

Burning up your lungs

Stuck like sludge in your throat:

O holy Trauma, delicious Pain

Come inflict yourself upon me

Who am helpless with no help but You...

Do You Want to Be Made Well? A Poem on John 5:1-12

It’s a holiday, his ears filled with the sound

Of faraway jubilation, folks laughing and eating and

Being together. But he’s alone. Not really, but it feels that way

Everyone alone together, some deaf and some dumb and

Some lame and some blind and everybody half dead. It’s the

Fellowship of freaks, and he’s not sure what his ailment is--

Just sick, sick all over. Sick longer than he can remember.

He’s watched baptisms in the frothy waters but

There’s nobody to take him. So when a voice speaks

He’s never heard before, or perhaps once when time began

He startles. It’s a question, a sharp one—do you want to be made

Well?

But he can’t imagine life right side up. He shows off all he knows:

The practiced art of gloom, the well aged excuse. But the voice cries

Get up! Cuts him seamlessly, from yesterday/today, lifts him

Soaring! from the mat soaked with vomit, hurls him from the pillow dark.

Pick up your mat and walk, and he groans with vertigo

Suspended between no and yes, feet planted firmly on the fork,

Party doors swinging open and he rises to the occasion

Walks steadily to the gleaming

Now.

Reboot

It's been almost 4 years since my last blog post. In college, I blogged fairly regularly with poetry and random little essays. It helped me work on developing my voice as a writer and learn to get comfortable writing for an audience. Which I now have to do every week, albeit in a different format, as a preacher. Then after college, I was in seminary and doing tons of academic writing and writing weekly sermons. Then the year after that I was in full time ministry learning two brand new contexts. 
Now, with the end of Annual Conference, begins my second year of full time ministry and my fourth year of pastoral ministry. And I am convinced that for me to sustain this calling I'm going to have to write. Writing and especially writing poetry is the deepest kind of prayer there is for me. In poetry I can say things to God and hear things from God I never could any other way. 
So some of that is just for me and God. But some of it, I can share, and should share, if there's a chance the Holy Spirit might speak in it for someone else, and so I can grow as a writer. I also hope that blogging publicly will hold me accountable to keep taking time to write, instead of letting work take up all my energy and succumbing to the lazy leisure of television and the Internet. Writing is a more difficult but more rewarding Sabbath. 
Back in 2012 when I began I gave this blog I gave it a rather cliched but heartfelt title. It still fits me. I am a wanderer, itinerant like Jesus. As a United Methodist pastor, I have no permanent home but wander to wherever I am sent. As a writer, I wander, exploring truths from different angles, following threads of inspiration, fragments of verse, wherever they take me. As a Christian, I wander, on a journey to grow in grace and become more and more like Jesus each day. 
The path is uncertain, many particulars unknown, and yet I am not lost. God is with me, and so I can wander but never get truly lost. 
Indeed, I suspect the more I wander in my writing, the more I will be found.