Ever noticed anything interesting about the Last Supper? No, I don’t mean the slightly odd idea that everyday bread and wine can somehow become/represent divine flesh and blood. I’m pretty sure you spotted that already. And, no, I don’t mean the curious, if slightly under-appreciated, fact that it doesn’t actually take place in 1 of our 4 Gospels. Even if you hadn’t already spotted that, a brief glimpse at John would confirm that the Last Supper, or at least the “take, eat, this is my body” bit, only occurs in the Synoptics. What I mean is this: it’s the Last SUPPER. Not the Last Breakfast. Not the Last Lunch. Not the Last Brunch, Snack, or Afternoon Tea. It’s the Last SUPPER! So how come, 3 days running this week, I had to drag myself out of bed so early in the morning in order to celebrate it?
And, while we’re on the subject, how come I have had to say so much? As I recall, at the Last Supper, Jesus pretty much hogged the conversation. The disciples were merely the supporting cast, sotto voce. Why is it that this week, having drug myself out of bed at an hour that only larks and worms could possibly enjoy (the former, perhaps, more than the latter), I have been thrust into the vocal limelight? After dinner (or supper) speaking is one thing. Before breakfast, however, is entirely different!
Day 15 (Monday)
This one was easy. St Peter’s regular 6.00pm Eucharist. Of course, it meant cutting short work yet again, but that’s becoming commonplace enough in this bizarre attempt to take communion every day or, at least, for as many days as possible in the course of a year. Almost as commonplace as arriving breathless at church. Still, we both made it in time and, just like a couple of times before, it was cosy with just the 2 of us in the congregation. With so small a gathering, I read the lesson, and my wife read the Prayers of (both) the People.
Day 16 (Tuesday)
Another 6.00pm St Peter’s service, only this time with reserve Sacrament dished out by Deacon Scott. This time I was prepared. I say this because last Friday, when Deacon Gordon did the Reserve Sacrament honors, and I was last in line for the un-washed down wafer, I wasn’t. In fact, I was caught completely unawares. I didn’t realize that, when there’s just a deacon presiding (not that the word “just” implies lack of respect for the deaconate), the last person to receive the host is meant to play deacon to the deacon. By that I mean, you’re meant to take the Ciborium (that's the wafer-plate to you and me) from the deacon, pluck out a random wafer, and lay it in his or her outstretched paw while self-consciously muttering “the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven”. Did you know that? Maybe you did, and I’m just the liturgical equivalent of the village idiot. Anyway, I didn’t – at least not last Friday – and Deacon Gordon had to prompt me.
This evening, though, I was ready. This time there were 4 of us (a 100% increase on yesterday!) queuing up at the holy food trough, and yours truly was once again last in line. But, like the old pro I am, I had been silently practicing my lines: “The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven… the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven… the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven.” When my turn came, therefore, and as soon as Scott had said the magic words and slipped me the wafer, I nonchalantly reached forward, took hold of the Ciborium, and deftly selected an unleavened slice of Jesus. The words, however, didn’t come out quite as planned. As I’ve mentioned before, when the Body of Christ, as happens with Reserve Sacrament, is unaccompanied by a palate-cleansing slurp of the Blood of Christ from the Cup of Salvation, the Bread of Heaven has a tendency to adhere to roof of one’s mouth. As a result, when I reverentially placed the Host in Scott’s outstretched hands, what I actually said was “the Boshy of Chrish, cher Breah of Heafeh”.
Oh, well. Paul reckoned that speaking in tongues was a gift of the Spirit.
Day 17 (Wednesday)
Normally, Wednesdays are a shoe-in. At least, when I’m in Chicago. 7.15pm, Contemplative Eucharist at St Peter’s. Tonight, however, I have to be downtown by 7.30pm to attend my wife’s nephew’s and Godson’s (the two are, as they say, one) art exhibition. So, 7.15pm is a non-starter. Hence the alarm sounding at 6.00am so that I can wake up, hit snooze 3 times eventually get up, walk dog, tidy kitchen, glug tea, shower and drive up to the 7.30am service at Atonement. Atonement is, as I’ve mentioned before, a lovely church with lovely and welcoming people (6 of them this morning in the congregation which, with the 2 of us, brought the number up to 8). So lovely and welcoming are they that I was, at 7.29 and a half a.m., invited to read the lesson. Now, I often read the lesson at St Peter’s. But that is at the 11.00 am Sunday service. Ungluing my tongue at approx 7.36am is a different matter altogether. Still, given that this was only the 4th or 5th time we’ve attended Atonement’s morning service, this was a warm and gracious offer. So, how could I refuse, no matter how bleary-headed I felt, somehow to muddle through the Acts of the Apostles? I couldn’t.
Father John David was kind, and even suggested that my English accent added hugely to the reading. I suspect that the accent was the only thing that helped.
Day 18 (Thursday)
No service at St Peter’s on Thursday. So, Atonement, 7.30am. Again. Alarm going off at 6.00am. Again. 8 of us in the congregation. Again. 2 on Monday, 4 on Tuesday, 8 on Wednesday, 8 on Thursday. Do people get more religious as the week progresses? Does the urge to take Eucharist plateau mid-week? I’m going to have to keep my eye on this one.
Day 19 (Friday)
I could have slept in. I didn’t need to get up at 6.00am. St Peter’s has it’s weekly Friday service at 12.15pm. But…but…but, my wife had to be downtown at 1.00pm. That meant she, at least, couldn’t make the 12.15pm Messiah nosebag. She needed instead, if she were to stay current with the Daily Bread quest, a breakfast chow-down on God. So, in the spirit of solidarity, this morning I also arose at the sort of hour when the snail was feeling decidedly rough and the lark was still coughing horribly, carried out my morning snooze-button, dog-walking, kitchen-tidying, tea-glugging, and showering chores, and drove once more up to Atonement.
7 of us in the congregation today (maybe the midweek plateau theory has something going for it?). At least I didn’t have to read. This morning’s lesson was long. If I had had to read it, I might have fallen asleep!
Day 20 (Saturday)
Ah! St Peter’s, 10.00am. Saturday. No alarm clock. I could sleep in. Rest. Relax. Except, at 5.55am, I was wide awake. Whatever happened to the idea of Supper? Only 5 of us in the congregation. And I was asked to read. Again. Not that I mind reading. It’s just that….zzzzzzzzzz.
Day 21 (Sunday)
Easy….like Sunday morning. And, yes, I was reading. Again. Like Snoopy said,
“It's suppertime.
Yeah, it's suppertime.
Oh, it's sup-sup suppertime very best time of day.”
Why, though, even on a Sunday, does it always have to be so early?
Like so many days this week, I’m just saying.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Day 10-14
Personally, I blame God. After all, He made days. Granted, that was a long time ago (way back in Genesis 1:3-5, to be precise), but technology has moved on since then. It may be time for Him to update the design...or at least provide us with a day-extension app. 24 hours just doesn’t kick it anymore. Is this Evolution, or merely a problem with Intelligent Design?
It’s difficult to say. What’s easy to say, though, is that finding the extra time in the day to take my Daily Eucharistic Bread has been hard enough. Finding the extra extra time to blog about it has been even harder. Hence why, despite having managed by (if Job will forgive me) the skin of my teeth to go more or less 5 for 5 on daily Eucharist since Tuesday, I’m fallen hopelessly behind with the blog.
So…time permitting, let’s try to do some catching up.
Day 10 (Wednesday).
Nothing tricky with this one. Every Wednesday evening at 7.15pm, St Peter’s holds its weekly Contemplative Eucharist. As luck would have it, this is right after St Peter’s weekly Wednesday Evening Forum. Since, as luck would have it (and for reasons that still puzzle me), I regularly lead that forum, I am therefore admirably placed to get on line to put on the Eucharistic nosebag.
The Contemplative Eucharist is undeniably pretty. Candles. Subdued lighting. A soft, gentle, and reflective modern liturgy. As well as Scripture, it includes a meditative reading from a Christian writer: either ancient or modern. Undeniably, as I say, pretty. And it draws a decent crowd – many of whom either don’t or can’t attend the more regular High Church Sunday service. I usually duck out of it. Maybe that’s because it’s a little too soft and gentle for me. Maybe it’s because, when it comes to being reflective, my thoughts revolve around how little time there is to get done all the things I need to do. Or maybe it’s because God’s 24 hour day design just doesn’t work anymore, and as soon as the forum is over I have to scuttle home and get dinner on if there’s any chance we’ll get to bed at a decent hour. Whatever: I normally duck it. But tonight, of course, I couldn’t. Not if I was going to get my Daily Bread. And get it I did. Except that was all I got. The priest is still out of town. Tonight’s service, therefore, was celebrated by Deacon Nancy. Nancy is wonderful, selfless, loving and giving. Nancy has all the qualities a good deacon should have. Including the inability to make the Holy Spirit dance the fandango over the bread and wine. So, for the second day running, it was reserve sacrament body of Christ and not a drop of blood of Christ to wash it down. Oh, well: it still counts.
Day 11 (Thursday).
This is the one day a week that St Peter’s doesn’t offer Eucharist. Thus, I was rousted from not particularly holy dreams when the little hand was still stubbornly pointed towards the 6 in an effort to be up, dressed and ready to drive the 15-20 minutes north to Atonement in order to catch their early bird special service. Once again, I was impressed with the turn-out. Including the two of us, I counted 14 people all composed, intent, and ready in the congregation…and this at an hour when all I’m usually capable of doing is scratching my backside and preparing to take the dog out for his morning walk. It must be an Atonement thing. Still, it’s impressive.
What’s less impressive, though, is the drive home. The pre-Eucharist commute north up Lakeshore Drive is pre-rush hour. The return leg south, however, is decidedly rush. In Chicago, 45 minutes can make a big difference. I reckon Peter lived in Chicago and had to commute Lakeshore Drive during rush hour to get to his fishing business. How else could he have got the idea that, with the Lord, one day is as a thousand years? 25 minutes to eat my Daily Bread: 2 hours eaten out of the day. God really needs to reconsider this 24 hour thing.
Day 12 (Friday)
On Friday’s St Peter’s has a Reserve Sacrament service at 12.15 p.m. Nothing hard here. No early alarm clocks. No rush hour traffic. No dinner to prepare. This one should be easy. And, in part it was. Except for the business telephone call that had to be cut short. Except for the 1.00 p.m. business meeting downtown that had to be got to. Apart from the need to get through a day’s work in time for getting ready to meet friends and go to the theater that evening. Apart from…apart from…apart from the shortage of hours in the day.
Apart from these problems, I made it. Deacon Gordon was once again presiding. God, though also in attendance together with the 5 of us in the congregation, was once again represented not only without wine but in the shape and texture of an increasingly stale Body of Christ. Perhaps I should be grateful. After all, it’s important to reflect on the corporeality of Our Lord; the divine mystery of which is infinitely easier to comprehend when His trans- or con- substantiated Body
happens to be sticking to the roof of one’s mouth. (Like I said before, if you’re Christian Militia, my number is unlisted!) Roll on Sunday.
Day 13 (Saturday)
10.00 a.m. Eucharist at St Peter’s. Just like yesterday, should’ve been easy. Just like yesterday, should’ve been simple. Just like yesterday, should’ve been should’ve been. But, just like yesterday, wasn’t. Just like yesterday, had to cut things short before, had to rush to things after, had to…had to…had to. But, it got done. But, just like yesterday, just like Wednesday, just like Tuesday, our beloved priest was still away. So…yup, once again the Sacrament was Reserve. And, unlike wine (which I didn’t, of course, have), the Reserve appellation is not always a good thing. Jesus knew what he was talking about when, according to Matthew, he talked about salt losing its flavour. When it comes to Reserve Sacrament, maybe it would be better if, as Peter said, a thousand years were like one day.
Day 14 (Sunday)
Ah! That’s more like it. If only every day could be like Sunday. Except for the need, Pentateuchal injuctions against it nothwithstanding, to catch up on work. Except for the need to try and get a jump on the week ahead. Except for the need to find time in all of this to do Sunday chores…to meet up with friends visiting from out of town…to phone relatives…to find time to fix dinner…to catch up on blogs…to find time to relax…to find time to find time to have a word with God about why He, in His infinite wisdom, designed, way back in Genesis 1:3-5, a day with only 24 hours in it!
Say what you like about Evolution. Just don’t get me started on Intelligent Design. (P.S. My number is still unlisted!)
It’s difficult to say. What’s easy to say, though, is that finding the extra time in the day to take my Daily Eucharistic Bread has been hard enough. Finding the extra extra time to blog about it has been even harder. Hence why, despite having managed by (if Job will forgive me) the skin of my teeth to go more or less 5 for 5 on daily Eucharist since Tuesday, I’m fallen hopelessly behind with the blog.
So…time permitting, let’s try to do some catching up.
Day 10 (Wednesday).
Nothing tricky with this one. Every Wednesday evening at 7.15pm, St Peter’s holds its weekly Contemplative Eucharist. As luck would have it, this is right after St Peter’s weekly Wednesday Evening Forum. Since, as luck would have it (and for reasons that still puzzle me), I regularly lead that forum, I am therefore admirably placed to get on line to put on the Eucharistic nosebag.
The Contemplative Eucharist is undeniably pretty. Candles. Subdued lighting. A soft, gentle, and reflective modern liturgy. As well as Scripture, it includes a meditative reading from a Christian writer: either ancient or modern. Undeniably, as I say, pretty. And it draws a decent crowd – many of whom either don’t or can’t attend the more regular High Church Sunday service. I usually duck out of it. Maybe that’s because it’s a little too soft and gentle for me. Maybe it’s because, when it comes to being reflective, my thoughts revolve around how little time there is to get done all the things I need to do. Or maybe it’s because God’s 24 hour day design just doesn’t work anymore, and as soon as the forum is over I have to scuttle home and get dinner on if there’s any chance we’ll get to bed at a decent hour. Whatever: I normally duck it. But tonight, of course, I couldn’t. Not if I was going to get my Daily Bread. And get it I did. Except that was all I got. The priest is still out of town. Tonight’s service, therefore, was celebrated by Deacon Nancy. Nancy is wonderful, selfless, loving and giving. Nancy has all the qualities a good deacon should have. Including the inability to make the Holy Spirit dance the fandango over the bread and wine. So, for the second day running, it was reserve sacrament body of Christ and not a drop of blood of Christ to wash it down. Oh, well: it still counts.
Day 11 (Thursday).
This is the one day a week that St Peter’s doesn’t offer Eucharist. Thus, I was rousted from not particularly holy dreams when the little hand was still stubbornly pointed towards the 6 in an effort to be up, dressed and ready to drive the 15-20 minutes north to Atonement in order to catch their early bird special service. Once again, I was impressed with the turn-out. Including the two of us, I counted 14 people all composed, intent, and ready in the congregation…and this at an hour when all I’m usually capable of doing is scratching my backside and preparing to take the dog out for his morning walk. It must be an Atonement thing. Still, it’s impressive.
What’s less impressive, though, is the drive home. The pre-Eucharist commute north up Lakeshore Drive is pre-rush hour. The return leg south, however, is decidedly rush. In Chicago, 45 minutes can make a big difference. I reckon Peter lived in Chicago and had to commute Lakeshore Drive during rush hour to get to his fishing business. How else could he have got the idea that, with the Lord, one day is as a thousand years? 25 minutes to eat my Daily Bread: 2 hours eaten out of the day. God really needs to reconsider this 24 hour thing.
Day 12 (Friday)
On Friday’s St Peter’s has a Reserve Sacrament service at 12.15 p.m. Nothing hard here. No early alarm clocks. No rush hour traffic. No dinner to prepare. This one should be easy. And, in part it was. Except for the business telephone call that had to be cut short. Except for the 1.00 p.m. business meeting downtown that had to be got to. Apart from the need to get through a day’s work in time for getting ready to meet friends and go to the theater that evening. Apart from…apart from…apart from the shortage of hours in the day.
Apart from these problems, I made it. Deacon Gordon was once again presiding. God, though also in attendance together with the 5 of us in the congregation, was once again represented not only without wine but in the shape and texture of an increasingly stale Body of Christ. Perhaps I should be grateful. After all, it’s important to reflect on the corporeality of Our Lord; the divine mystery of which is infinitely easier to comprehend when His trans- or con- substantiated Body
happens to be sticking to the roof of one’s mouth. (Like I said before, if you’re Christian Militia, my number is unlisted!) Roll on Sunday.
Day 13 (Saturday)
10.00 a.m. Eucharist at St Peter’s. Just like yesterday, should’ve been easy. Just like yesterday, should’ve been simple. Just like yesterday, should’ve been should’ve been. But, just like yesterday, wasn’t. Just like yesterday, had to cut things short before, had to rush to things after, had to…had to…had to. But, it got done. But, just like yesterday, just like Wednesday, just like Tuesday, our beloved priest was still away. So…yup, once again the Sacrament was Reserve. And, unlike wine (which I didn’t, of course, have), the Reserve appellation is not always a good thing. Jesus knew what he was talking about when, according to Matthew, he talked about salt losing its flavour. When it comes to Reserve Sacrament, maybe it would be better if, as Peter said, a thousand years were like one day.
Day 14 (Sunday)
Ah! That’s more like it. If only every day could be like Sunday. Except for the need, Pentateuchal injuctions against it nothwithstanding, to catch up on work. Except for the need to try and get a jump on the week ahead. Except for the need to find time in all of this to do Sunday chores…to meet up with friends visiting from out of town…to phone relatives…to find time to fix dinner…to catch up on blogs…to find time to relax…to find time to find time to have a word with God about why He, in His infinite wisdom, designed, way back in Genesis 1:3-5, a day with only 24 hours in it!
Say what you like about Evolution. Just don’t get me started on Intelligent Design. (P.S. My number is still unlisted!)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Day 9
Call me picky. Call me old fashioned. Call me, if you prefer, an old lush. But I do like a sip of wine with dinner. Water, somehow, just doesn’t cut it. Coke, Pepsi, Sprite…all too sweet: they just don’t compliment the food. Not, I hasten to add, that I’m a wine snob. Pretty much anything red (or reddish) will do. Nine years of living in Italy with an ever-declining bank balance taught me that the cheap stuff could be perfectly palatable. Especially with the addition of an ice-cube or two to take the edge off. Here in Chicago, the House Wine of choice is supplied in either 4 liter jugs courtesy of my good friend Carlo Rossi (the burgundy is usually best) or else by Chuck of 2 buck fame (though, thanks to Illinois taxes, he’s 3 buck here). Anyway, my point is this. I do like a sip of wine with dinner.
Which is why this evening’s Eucharist at St Peter’s wasn’t quite the same.
I made it there in good time (more or less). But, because our wonderful priest was out of town, the service was being presided over by our equally wonderful Deacon Gordon. In fact, Gordon had caught wind of our idiotic project to see how practicable/possible it was for two ordinary people to receive Eucharist every day for a year, and had very decently volunteered to come in especially for us. In fact, in fact, we were the only two in the congregation; which, if nothing else, made the passing of the peace a relatively speedy (not to say domestic) process.
The importance of the deaconate, and the debt that those called to it are owed by all of us who simply plop our backsides on the pew on a regular (or, indeed, irregular) basis, cannot be overstated. I am constantly in awe of those individuals whose calling is to stand and serve. To be so selfless, so happily subordinate, so willingly underappreciated…I couldn’t do it to please a dying grandmother! But, all this comes with a downside: a deacon isn’t allowed to do the sacramental Presto Change-o routine over the elements and turn it into God stuff. (If there are any Roman Catholics reading this, I’m sorry to break it to you that my personal Christian Batmobile is parked at Canterbury; if there are any Christian Militia reading this, my number is unlisted.)
So, here’s the long and the short of it: I got my daily bread. But it was reserve sacrament. No sip of wine. Was I happy? Yes. Was I grateful? Yes; both to God and to Deacon Gordon. Did I have a sip of un-Godly Carlo Rossi when I got back home? You bet your daily bread!
Day 9. 6 ½ out of 9
Which is why this evening’s Eucharist at St Peter’s wasn’t quite the same.
I made it there in good time (more or less). But, because our wonderful priest was out of town, the service was being presided over by our equally wonderful Deacon Gordon. In fact, Gordon had caught wind of our idiotic project to see how practicable/possible it was for two ordinary people to receive Eucharist every day for a year, and had very decently volunteered to come in especially for us. In fact, in fact, we were the only two in the congregation; which, if nothing else, made the passing of the peace a relatively speedy (not to say domestic) process.
The importance of the deaconate, and the debt that those called to it are owed by all of us who simply plop our backsides on the pew on a regular (or, indeed, irregular) basis, cannot be overstated. I am constantly in awe of those individuals whose calling is to stand and serve. To be so selfless, so happily subordinate, so willingly underappreciated…I couldn’t do it to please a dying grandmother! But, all this comes with a downside: a deacon isn’t allowed to do the sacramental Presto Change-o routine over the elements and turn it into God stuff. (If there are any Roman Catholics reading this, I’m sorry to break it to you that my personal Christian Batmobile is parked at Canterbury; if there are any Christian Militia reading this, my number is unlisted.)
So, here’s the long and the short of it: I got my daily bread. But it was reserve sacrament. No sip of wine. Was I happy? Yes. Was I grateful? Yes; both to God and to Deacon Gordon. Did I have a sip of un-Godly Carlo Rossi when I got back home? You bet your daily bread!
Day 9. 6 ½ out of 9
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Day 8
Bethlehem was, in many ways a good choice. Much better than, say, Saigon. Not that I’ve anything against Saigon – or, if you prefer (which most of the inhabitants don’t), Ho Chi Minh City. It’s a lovely place. No, what I mean is this: when God decided to become the Word made flesh and dwell amongst us, He did well in deciding to be born in Bethlehem. Rather than Saigon.
If, of course, He actually made a decision. Decision implies an act of choosing, a weighing up of pros and cons, a consideration of available options. Does a God who has at His disposal not only an infinite number of options, but also an omnipotent ability to create and control those very options have any need to make a decision at all? Did He, perhaps, give Gabriel the news that the Annunciation gig was scheduled for Bethlehem simply by closing His eyes and jabbing a random finger at a map of the world? If so, it could equally well have been Saigon.
Either way, we have much for which to be grateful. For one thing, the choice of Bethlehem made it a good deal easier for Jesus to fulfil the Scriptures. For another, it significantly reduced the commute time for the Flight into, to say nothing of back from, Egypt. For yet another, it meant we, kneeling here at the communion rail in the early years of the 21st century, are spared the tiresome need to remember that the politically correct name for the birthplace of our Lord is not Saigon but Ho Chi Minh City.
I thought about these things today as, only a few seconds late as a result of having had to pause en route while my wife disentangled herself from an itinerant bicyclist, I scuttled down the alley in order to attend the 6.00pm Eucharist at St Peter’s. Because, by choosing (or whatever) Bethlehem in favor of, say, Saigon, God had ensured that His Son was born into, brought up in, and able, therefore, to celebrate His last supper as part of a wheat, rather than a rice, culture. Had it been otherwise, He could not have taken bread, given thanks for it, and broken it. Had it been otherwise, we would not be praying to Our Father for our Daily Bread; we would be praying to Him for our Daily Rice. Had it been otherwise, this evening’s communion wafer would’ve been a grain of rice – and, therefore, extremely hard to divide among the six of us in the congregation.
Yes, all things considered, Bethlehem was a good choice. Mind you, I’m quite partial to a drop of sake.
Day 8: 5 ½ out of 8
If, of course, He actually made a decision. Decision implies an act of choosing, a weighing up of pros and cons, a consideration of available options. Does a God who has at His disposal not only an infinite number of options, but also an omnipotent ability to create and control those very options have any need to make a decision at all? Did He, perhaps, give Gabriel the news that the Annunciation gig was scheduled for Bethlehem simply by closing His eyes and jabbing a random finger at a map of the world? If so, it could equally well have been Saigon.
Either way, we have much for which to be grateful. For one thing, the choice of Bethlehem made it a good deal easier for Jesus to fulfil the Scriptures. For another, it significantly reduced the commute time for the Flight into, to say nothing of back from, Egypt. For yet another, it meant we, kneeling here at the communion rail in the early years of the 21st century, are spared the tiresome need to remember that the politically correct name for the birthplace of our Lord is not Saigon but Ho Chi Minh City.
I thought about these things today as, only a few seconds late as a result of having had to pause en route while my wife disentangled herself from an itinerant bicyclist, I scuttled down the alley in order to attend the 6.00pm Eucharist at St Peter’s. Because, by choosing (or whatever) Bethlehem in favor of, say, Saigon, God had ensured that His Son was born into, brought up in, and able, therefore, to celebrate His last supper as part of a wheat, rather than a rice, culture. Had it been otherwise, He could not have taken bread, given thanks for it, and broken it. Had it been otherwise, we would not be praying to Our Father for our Daily Bread; we would be praying to Him for our Daily Rice. Had it been otherwise, this evening’s communion wafer would’ve been a grain of rice – and, therefore, extremely hard to divide among the six of us in the congregation.
Yes, all things considered, Bethlehem was a good choice. Mind you, I’m quite partial to a drop of sake.
Day 8: 5 ½ out of 8
Monday, April 12, 2010
Day 7
SUNDAY. Back in Chicago. At least in body. Arrived back in town at 1.15 am this morning, and then had to reverse the rental cargo van down the alley, unload it, and try and find somewhere to park the wretched thing…hence in bed shortly after 2.00 am, but back nonetheless. Up at 7.40 am to feed parking meter (one step ahead of the uniformed guy with the parking ticket), back home for quick cup of tea, return to parked van and drove same back to Enterprise (one step ahead of having to pay for an extra day’s rental). A brisk walk back home, shower, change, collect dog from dog-sitter, and scurry over for 11.00 am Eucharist at St. Peter’s. Couldn’t have been easier. I even managed to stay awake through the service.
Day 7. 4 ½ out of 7.
Day 7. 4 ½ out of 7.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Day 6
The Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel is, in many ways, well-located. Short travel time to downtown Cinci; good connections to north/south Interstates; within easy reach, should time permit (which, alas, mine didn’t) during your stay, of an eye-opening visit to the Creation Museum in Petersburg, KY; and, of course, enviably close to the airport. In addition, the rooms are extremely comfortable, the staff are gracious, and the bar food is excellent (the wings and calamari are the pick of the litter). Oh, and the rates are pretty much unbeatable. Yes, in many ways the Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel has much to recommend it. Much, that is, unless you’re looking for Eucharist on a Saturday morning.
The Cincinnati Convention Center is, in many ways, equally well-situated. Access is easy. The staff are courteous and helpful. If you’re a Bengals fan, the stadium is admirably close by. If you’re a Reds fan, you’re only a short and picturesque stroll away. If you want to gaze at the majesty of the Ohio River, or reflect on the wonders of human engineering that bridge it so impressively, you couldn’t be in a better spot. True, the concrete flooring of the exhibition halls are about as forgiving on the feet as…well…concrete flooring, but that’s the nature of the beast. Yes, in many ways the Cincinnati Convention Center has much to recommend it. Much, that is, unless you’re looking for Eucharist on a Saturday morning.
The sad truth is that, when it comes to trying to find a mouthful of leavened or unleavened Saviour washed down with a splash of Chateau Messiah, the Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel and the Cincinnati Convention Center both…what’s the word I’m looking for?…Oh, yes. Suck.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not dissing Cincinnati. It’s a beautiful city – in that “Surprise! Here I am!” kind of way. It’s got lovely people, great restaurants, a fine art museum, views to die for, and you can feel like you’re in the South without actually having to go to the bother and inconvenience of leaving the North. Yes, in many, many ways Cincinnati has much, very much, to recommend it. Just don’t go there looking for Eucharist on a Saturday morning…or midday…or evening. Because, when it comes to Saturday Eucharist, Cincinnati and its environs are a bread and wine-free zone! Which is a…what’s the word I’m looking for?...Oh, yes. Bummer!
A good friend of mine who shall remain nameless (although he’s actually called Levi), suggested that at times like these I should consider by-passing the church and adopting the uber-Protestant option of a DIY consecration. I thought of that this morning as we were packing up the van before our last day at the MidWest Christian Homeschool Convention and the subsequent drive back to Sweet Home Chicago. The wine wasn’t a problem. There was, in our room, half a glass or so of Italian Vino Rosso Multo Ordinario left over from the night before that could have been pressed into service. The available bread, however, was less helpful. Among the many things that recommend the Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel (indeed, as far as I am aware, recommend the entire Doubletree chain), is the fact that upon check-in you are presented with, in addition roomkeys and a warm and welcoming smile, an equally warm and welcoming complimentary chocolate chip cookie. A nice touch, I think you’ll agree, and there was, as luck would have it, at least a third of said cookie resting on the nightstand beside the potential DIY blood of Christ. It was, in short, a moment of decision.
And how bad, I reflected, could it be? Could I, unaided by ordained clergy, call down the Holy Spirit to perform the self-help option? Thomas Cranmer might not have approved. Martin Luther and John Calvin would have been yelling excommunicable support. Henry VIII couldn’t have cared less. And (whisper it quietly) I suspected that God probably had better things to worry about.
However, despite all these thoughts, I couldn’t do it. Blame foolish superstition. Blame my liturgically-based Church of England background. Blame the fact that, for reasons I cannot explain, the idea of (slightly stale) chocolate chip cookie Jesus just didn’t sit entirely comfortably with my idea of an exalted Godhead. Most of all, though, (and perhaps it’s just me) blame it on the fact that Doubletree hotel chocolate chip cookies – warm, welcoming, and delicious as they are – have a unfortunate tendency to go through my digestive system like a rat through a drainpipe. The results are, much like Eucharist, frequently moving…but not in the way I was looking for this Saturday morning.
So, Day 6 ends. No Eucharist today. 3 ½ out of 6.
The Cincinnati Convention Center is, in many ways, equally well-situated. Access is easy. The staff are courteous and helpful. If you’re a Bengals fan, the stadium is admirably close by. If you’re a Reds fan, you’re only a short and picturesque stroll away. If you want to gaze at the majesty of the Ohio River, or reflect on the wonders of human engineering that bridge it so impressively, you couldn’t be in a better spot. True, the concrete flooring of the exhibition halls are about as forgiving on the feet as…well…concrete flooring, but that’s the nature of the beast. Yes, in many ways the Cincinnati Convention Center has much to recommend it. Much, that is, unless you’re looking for Eucharist on a Saturday morning.
The sad truth is that, when it comes to trying to find a mouthful of leavened or unleavened Saviour washed down with a splash of Chateau Messiah, the Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel and the Cincinnati Convention Center both…what’s the word I’m looking for?…Oh, yes. Suck.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not dissing Cincinnati. It’s a beautiful city – in that “Surprise! Here I am!” kind of way. It’s got lovely people, great restaurants, a fine art museum, views to die for, and you can feel like you’re in the South without actually having to go to the bother and inconvenience of leaving the North. Yes, in many, many ways Cincinnati has much, very much, to recommend it. Just don’t go there looking for Eucharist on a Saturday morning…or midday…or evening. Because, when it comes to Saturday Eucharist, Cincinnati and its environs are a bread and wine-free zone! Which is a…what’s the word I’m looking for?...Oh, yes. Bummer!
A good friend of mine who shall remain nameless (although he’s actually called Levi), suggested that at times like these I should consider by-passing the church and adopting the uber-Protestant option of a DIY consecration. I thought of that this morning as we were packing up the van before our last day at the MidWest Christian Homeschool Convention and the subsequent drive back to Sweet Home Chicago. The wine wasn’t a problem. There was, in our room, half a glass or so of Italian Vino Rosso Multo Ordinario left over from the night before that could have been pressed into service. The available bread, however, was less helpful. Among the many things that recommend the Cincinnati/Kentucky airport Doubletree hotel (indeed, as far as I am aware, recommend the entire Doubletree chain), is the fact that upon check-in you are presented with, in addition roomkeys and a warm and welcoming smile, an equally warm and welcoming complimentary chocolate chip cookie. A nice touch, I think you’ll agree, and there was, as luck would have it, at least a third of said cookie resting on the nightstand beside the potential DIY blood of Christ. It was, in short, a moment of decision.
And how bad, I reflected, could it be? Could I, unaided by ordained clergy, call down the Holy Spirit to perform the self-help option? Thomas Cranmer might not have approved. Martin Luther and John Calvin would have been yelling excommunicable support. Henry VIII couldn’t have cared less. And (whisper it quietly) I suspected that God probably had better things to worry about.
However, despite all these thoughts, I couldn’t do it. Blame foolish superstition. Blame my liturgically-based Church of England background. Blame the fact that, for reasons I cannot explain, the idea of (slightly stale) chocolate chip cookie Jesus just didn’t sit entirely comfortably with my idea of an exalted Godhead. Most of all, though, (and perhaps it’s just me) blame it on the fact that Doubletree hotel chocolate chip cookies – warm, welcoming, and delicious as they are – have a unfortunate tendency to go through my digestive system like a rat through a drainpipe. The results are, much like Eucharist, frequently moving…but not in the way I was looking for this Saturday morning.
So, Day 6 ends. No Eucharist today. 3 ½ out of 6.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Day 5
It’s relatively hard, for most people, to be at a Christian Homeschooling conference in middle America without thinking about Jesus. It’s hard, mainly, because pretty much everybody there is either talking about Him, reading about Him, living about Him, wearing t-shirts about Him, or selling about Him. In many ways, He’s kind of hard to ignore. After all, He founded, or at least made possible, a religion.
On the other hand, most people find it relatively easy to be at a Christian Homeschooling conference in middle America without thinking about Malcolm McLaren. After all, he’s kind of easy to ignore. He founded, or at least made possible, punk rock.
Which is, when you think about it, slightly odd. Jesus died more than 2,000 years ago. Malcolm McLaren died only yesterday. I can’t remember when I first heard about Jesus’ death. But I know for certain when I heard about Malcolm McLaren’s death: it was this morning at about 9.27 a.m. as we were driving from Cincinnati/Kentucky airport hotel to the Convention Center to exhibit at our 2nd day at the MidWest Christian Homeschooling Conference. It was like (depending on your age/outlook/groovethang) the death of JFK/Marilyn Monroe/Elvis/John Lennon/Michael Jackson.
Either way, they both shook things up.
Despite that, I suspect (but cannot prove), that most of the 8,000+ attendees and several hundred exhibitors had never even heard of Malcolm McLaren. I also suspect that, even if they had, when it comes to a mental coin-flip between Jesus and Malcolm McLaren, most of them would have erred on the side of the former over the latter. I also, also suspect (but cannot prove) that I may have been alone in that place on vacillating in thought between the two.
I suspect that, in life, they wouldn’t have liked each other. I hope that (but cannot prove), in death, they’re finding common ground. It’s hard to know for sure.
What is, however, easy to know for sure is that I didn’t get Eucharist today. We couldn’t both be off the booth, so we had to split our resources. I stayed at the Convention Centre. My wife went to the cathedral for midday Eucharist.
Does that, like my vacillating thoughts today, count as half?
On the other hand, most people find it relatively easy to be at a Christian Homeschooling conference in middle America without thinking about Malcolm McLaren. After all, he’s kind of easy to ignore. He founded, or at least made possible, punk rock.
Which is, when you think about it, slightly odd. Jesus died more than 2,000 years ago. Malcolm McLaren died only yesterday. I can’t remember when I first heard about Jesus’ death. But I know for certain when I heard about Malcolm McLaren’s death: it was this morning at about 9.27 a.m. as we were driving from Cincinnati/Kentucky airport hotel to the Convention Center to exhibit at our 2nd day at the MidWest Christian Homeschooling Conference. It was like (depending on your age/outlook/groovethang) the death of JFK/Marilyn Monroe/Elvis/John Lennon/Michael Jackson.
Either way, they both shook things up.
Despite that, I suspect (but cannot prove), that most of the 8,000+ attendees and several hundred exhibitors had never even heard of Malcolm McLaren. I also suspect that, even if they had, when it comes to a mental coin-flip between Jesus and Malcolm McLaren, most of them would have erred on the side of the former over the latter. I also, also suspect (but cannot prove) that I may have been alone in that place on vacillating in thought between the two.
I suspect that, in life, they wouldn’t have liked each other. I hope that (but cannot prove), in death, they’re finding common ground. It’s hard to know for sure.
What is, however, easy to know for sure is that I didn’t get Eucharist today. We couldn’t both be off the booth, so we had to split our resources. I stayed at the Convention Centre. My wife went to the cathedral for midday Eucharist.
Does that, like my vacillating thoughts today, count as half?
Friday, April 9, 2010
Day 4
(Blog written from Cincinnati/Kentucky airport hotel. All other inns in town full: standing room only at the manger.)
Me, King Solomon, and Tiger Woods. We’ve got a lot in common. Not, of course, that I’m Jewish. Or black. Or suggested cutting a baby in half to settle a maternity dispute. Or shot 4 under par at Augusta. Nor (to the best of my recollection) have had a publicized affair with a porn star or attempted to please a bevy of foreign wives by building High Places to Moloch and Ashtoreth. No. What we have in common goes deeper. We have been through the furnace. Our souls have been tried. And we are, in consequence, sadder, wiser and (possibly) better men.
If you don’t believe me, just compare the Solomon who wrote Ecclesiastes with the Solomon who wrote The Song of Solomon. One minute it’s all hair like flocks of goats and teeth like flocks of sheep, and the next it’s What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun? Or just compare the Tiger who shot 2 eagles at Augusta today with the Tiger who shot…or, on second thoughts, forget about Tiger.
Anyhow, my point is this. Tonight, as I sat in the hotel bar (after a white-knuckle drive in the rental cargo van from the Convention Center to arrive 2 minutes and 20 seconds before they stopped serving food) I watched Tiger on TV, reflected on my day, and thought of Ecclesiastes. And this is what I thought: Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity…What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?
And I thought something else. And what I thought was this: if you’re looking for Thursday morning Eucharist in Wilmington, OH; or if you’re looking for Thursday evening Eucharist anywhere vaguely close to the Convention Center in Cincinnati, OH; or if you’re even prepared to pretend to be a Lutheran or RC looking, in either place, or anywhere practicable between either place, for either…FORGET IT!
In the immortal words of Charlotte Bronte in Jane Eyre: “Reader, I blew it!” No Eucharist today.
I have seen all the works under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. I’m right there with Solomon and Tiger.
Maybe God will give me a mulligan.
Day 4: 3 out of 4.
Me, King Solomon, and Tiger Woods. We’ve got a lot in common. Not, of course, that I’m Jewish. Or black. Or suggested cutting a baby in half to settle a maternity dispute. Or shot 4 under par at Augusta. Nor (to the best of my recollection) have had a publicized affair with a porn star or attempted to please a bevy of foreign wives by building High Places to Moloch and Ashtoreth. No. What we have in common goes deeper. We have been through the furnace. Our souls have been tried. And we are, in consequence, sadder, wiser and (possibly) better men.
If you don’t believe me, just compare the Solomon who wrote Ecclesiastes with the Solomon who wrote The Song of Solomon. One minute it’s all hair like flocks of goats and teeth like flocks of sheep, and the next it’s What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun? Or just compare the Tiger who shot 2 eagles at Augusta today with the Tiger who shot…or, on second thoughts, forget about Tiger.
Anyhow, my point is this. Tonight, as I sat in the hotel bar (after a white-knuckle drive in the rental cargo van from the Convention Center to arrive 2 minutes and 20 seconds before they stopped serving food) I watched Tiger on TV, reflected on my day, and thought of Ecclesiastes. And this is what I thought: Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity…What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?
And I thought something else. And what I thought was this: if you’re looking for Thursday morning Eucharist in Wilmington, OH; or if you’re looking for Thursday evening Eucharist anywhere vaguely close to the Convention Center in Cincinnati, OH; or if you’re even prepared to pretend to be a Lutheran or RC looking, in either place, or anywhere practicable between either place, for either…FORGET IT!
In the immortal words of Charlotte Bronte in Jane Eyre: “Reader, I blew it!” No Eucharist today.
I have seen all the works under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. I’m right there with Solomon and Tiger.
Maybe God will give me a mulligan.
Day 4: 3 out of 4.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Day 3
(Blog written perched on the edge of a hotel bed somewhere in the middle of Ohio.)
The observant (no pun intended) among you my have noticed something from my last blog post. No? Look at the time stamp. 5.56pm. The Eucharist at St Peter’s starts at 6.00pm. 4 minutes from posting to bowing is cutting it pretty close. Fortunately, St Peter’s is not far from our apartment, and it required only a modest amount of frantic sprinting for me to cover the distance from front door to pew in order to make it on time.
So why so close? Well, shortly before 5.00pm a friend came round and I got distracted. This was not, I hasten to add, his fault – Richard is a dear and valued friend and a more perfect guest is hard to imagine. The problem was mine. In the act of closing my laptop I managed to crash the system. Rebooting took time. Hence the last minute, Jesse Owens style dash to the church.
I suspect the Disciples experience similar problems. There they were, all ready to settle down with their papyrus diaries to write up Jesus’ latest sayings, when suddenly the house is full of sinners, tax collectors and prostitutes. Wonderful people, of course, and just the sort of folks you want to rub shoulders with if you’re planning to get into the Kingdom of Heaven, but they can be distracting. Not that I’m suggesting that my good friend Richard is a sinner, or tax collector or…well, you get the picture. The point is this: you can miss conference calls, you can reschedule dog sitters, but the real world can still get in the way.
The good news is, we made it. Including Richard, and our sainted organist and choirmaster, Br. Nathanael, there were 4 of us in the congregation. 5 including Robert who turned up (a little early for him) just as the elements were being blessed.
So, Day 2 closed 2 for 2. But what of Day 3?
Day 3 presented certain challenges. Principal among these was the need to be behind the wheel of rental cargo van for 9 hours and 42 minutes en route to Cincinnati via Battle Creek, MI; thus putting a crimp in our ability to attend St Peter’s Wednesday 7.15pm Contemplative Eucharist. However, the Church of the Atonement (a mere tire-spinning drive away at the top of Lakeshore Drive) holds a 7.30 a.m. Eucharist. And so it was that my alarm rousted me from hoggish slumber this morning at an hour slightly in advance of what I might have wished in order for us to present ourselves for an unaccustomedly early encounter with our edible and imbibable God.
Atonement is a beautiful church, and the service was impressively well-attended: at least 10 and possibly 12 laity! Our friend Will was there, and he gave us a tour of the church followed by coffee with other welcoming and wonderfully hospitable early-bird parishioners in the kitchen.
So, Day 3 closes 3 for 3. As for tomorrow, who knows? Not me, that’s for sure.
The observant (no pun intended) among you my have noticed something from my last blog post. No? Look at the time stamp. 5.56pm. The Eucharist at St Peter’s starts at 6.00pm. 4 minutes from posting to bowing is cutting it pretty close. Fortunately, St Peter’s is not far from our apartment, and it required only a modest amount of frantic sprinting for me to cover the distance from front door to pew in order to make it on time.
So why so close? Well, shortly before 5.00pm a friend came round and I got distracted. This was not, I hasten to add, his fault – Richard is a dear and valued friend and a more perfect guest is hard to imagine. The problem was mine. In the act of closing my laptop I managed to crash the system. Rebooting took time. Hence the last minute, Jesse Owens style dash to the church.
I suspect the Disciples experience similar problems. There they were, all ready to settle down with their papyrus diaries to write up Jesus’ latest sayings, when suddenly the house is full of sinners, tax collectors and prostitutes. Wonderful people, of course, and just the sort of folks you want to rub shoulders with if you’re planning to get into the Kingdom of Heaven, but they can be distracting. Not that I’m suggesting that my good friend Richard is a sinner, or tax collector or…well, you get the picture. The point is this: you can miss conference calls, you can reschedule dog sitters, but the real world can still get in the way.
The good news is, we made it. Including Richard, and our sainted organist and choirmaster, Br. Nathanael, there were 4 of us in the congregation. 5 including Robert who turned up (a little early for him) just as the elements were being blessed.
So, Day 2 closed 2 for 2. But what of Day 3?
Day 3 presented certain challenges. Principal among these was the need to be behind the wheel of rental cargo van for 9 hours and 42 minutes en route to Cincinnati via Battle Creek, MI; thus putting a crimp in our ability to attend St Peter’s Wednesday 7.15pm Contemplative Eucharist. However, the Church of the Atonement (a mere tire-spinning drive away at the top of Lakeshore Drive) holds a 7.30 a.m. Eucharist. And so it was that my alarm rousted me from hoggish slumber this morning at an hour slightly in advance of what I might have wished in order for us to present ourselves for an unaccustomedly early encounter with our edible and imbibable God.
Atonement is a beautiful church, and the service was impressively well-attended: at least 10 and possibly 12 laity! Our friend Will was there, and he gave us a tour of the church followed by coffee with other welcoming and wonderfully hospitable early-bird parishioners in the kitchen.
So, Day 3 closes 3 for 3. As for tomorrow, who knows? Not me, that’s for sure.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Day 2
OK. Day 1 was a breeze. 5.50pm, brushed hair, grabbed house keys, and strolled across to St Peter’s, our parish church, in good time for the 6.00pm Eucharist. Of course, it wasn’t such a breeze for our wonderful priest who had to curtail a planned post-Holy Week day off in order to indulge (no pun intended) our eccentric project. Still, it was cosy in the chapel with just the 3 of us. With his normal outstanding sense of timing, Robert appeared just in time for the actual bread and wine. Having partaken, he immediately left, but his presence swelled our lay congregation, at least temporarily, to 3.
Today, though, like a foretaste of things to come, a few minor problems have presented themselves. Although St Peter’s has its regular 6.00pm Eucharist this evening and (hair brushing and house key grabbing nothwithstanding) things should once again be pretty simple, there is the small matter of the 6.00pm conference call . Also, since we’re on the road ealy tomorrow heading to a meeting in Battle Creek, MI and then after that straight on to Cincinatti, OH for 3 days, there’s the small matter of the dog sitter who’s meant to be coming to pick up the dog some time between 6.00 and 6.30pm. Hmm. Well, I guess conference calls can be missed or joined in later, and dog sitters can be called and asked if they can reschedule a pick up time, but already I’m beginning to sense that this daily bread stuff isn’t going to be as easy as we first thought.
And from tomorrow morning we’re on the road. That’s when things will really start to get interesting.
So far, though, 1 for 1.
Today, though, like a foretaste of things to come, a few minor problems have presented themselves. Although St Peter’s has its regular 6.00pm Eucharist this evening and (hair brushing and house key grabbing nothwithstanding) things should once again be pretty simple, there is the small matter of the 6.00pm conference call . Also, since we’re on the road ealy tomorrow heading to a meeting in Battle Creek, MI and then after that straight on to Cincinatti, OH for 3 days, there’s the small matter of the dog sitter who’s meant to be coming to pick up the dog some time between 6.00 and 6.30pm. Hmm. Well, I guess conference calls can be missed or joined in later, and dog sitters can be called and asked if they can reschedule a pick up time, but already I’m beginning to sense that this daily bread stuff isn’t going to be as easy as we first thought.
And from tomorrow morning we’re on the road. That’s when things will really start to get interesting.
So far, though, 1 for 1.
Monday, April 5, 2010
DAY 1.
The Lord’s Prayer contains the line, “Give us this day our daily bread.” But, is it feasible? I don’t mean, is it feasible for God to give us bread on a daily basis. Given His other recorded miracles, that shouldn’t be beyond Him. No, what I mean is this: is it feasible for 2 average people to receive our daily bread in the form of the Eucharist every day?
We’re going to find out. Here’s the deal. Every day for the next 365 days my wife and I are going to try and receive the Eucharist. Including when we’re travelling – which we do a lot for our work.
And we’re starting today. In fact, we’re starting right now. Day 1.
Wish us luck!
We’re going to find out. Here’s the deal. Every day for the next 365 days my wife and I are going to try and receive the Eucharist. Including when we’re travelling – which we do a lot for our work.
And we’re starting today. In fact, we’re starting right now. Day 1.
Wish us luck!
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