Day 15-21

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.