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