It's Maundy Thursday. A young dad came to church alone with his two young
children. The littlest girl became “noisy” so he tucked
one child under each arm and left, never to return. I applaud his determination
to worship, but I am surprised at my disappointment that he could not stay.
A two-year-old drops her sippy cup. She cries as it rolls forward down the
slanted floor. Her daddy picks her up to
remove her noise from the service. Four
pews ahead a man reaches for the sippy cup at his feet and passes it back via a
woman two pews between. The dad and his
crying daughter retreat from their exit.
The little girl snuggles into her mother’s lap, content again with the cup.
Later we will partake of THE CUP. Do I want the sacrament as much as that child
wants her cup? Does the grape juice satisfy my
soul like the sippy cup satisfies her thirst?
The youth director is playing the role of Jesus in
the stop-motion scenes unfolding on the stage.
A college girl holds his baby while he performs. The baby cries and the young woman makes her way
up the slanted floor into the lobby behind us.
Moments later, I still here the baby's distant cry.
They catch my attention tonight—those crying babies. Something in my heart takes notice. Oddly, it is their leaving which gives me pause. The criers removed, as if they don’t belong. The one emotion, perfectly suited for Maundy Thursday, carried away. Our
grief. Our fear. Our sorrow. Longing to be heard, but silent.
At the end of the service we take our place in a circle
for communion.
A set of parents with their pregnant, high school daughter
and her younger brothers join us. They awkardly find a place to stand. They are there, but in the background. Though she doesn't partake, the girl's presence seems somehow sacred.
A feeble woman in a wheel chair fumbles the
torn loaf pressed into her hands. Her husband directs her hand as they
dip her nibble of bread in the cup.
Another elderly woman sits in her wheel chair as her
MS-burdened fingers struggle to break off a piece of bread. As if to celebrate her success, she looks up
and smiles as she hands me the loaf. “The body of Christ, broken for you.” Her broken body ministers Christ’s broken body
to my broken body.
The bent-over man slowly pushes his wife’s wheel
chair toward the exit. I retrieve my
coat from the portable coat racks only to catch up to him
as he carefully maneuvers his wife’s wheelchair through the doorway. The
line of people lengthens. We stand
patiently, not unlike a receiving line at the funeral home. The silence lingers and
something within acknowledges that someday she will be gone and we will be the
ones holding up the line.
