Cookies for Communion

For months, maybe even close to a year, Theo has been fascinated by communion time at church. That makes sense - it's dynamic, kinetic - any on-looker can tell there is something different going on. There is walking and pouring and cracker breaking and singing. It is also conveniently right before lunch time, and little growling tummies (and big ones, if we're honest) join in the holy chorus. "I'm hungry," he often whispers, as he squirms in his seat, waiting to be done.

Those growling melodies are a helpful analogy. "Just like your body needs food and water to live and be strong, our souls need Jesus, body and blood, to live also," we often tell him.

Our souls growl, too. It sounds less like a broken garbage disposal (which is my best descriptor for a serious stomach growl) and more like a heavy sigh at the brokenness of the world; the discontentment with life even when things are going pretty well, but especially when they aren't; the longing for better love, even when you know you're loved, but especially when you don't; the disappointment in bodies that fail and relationships that fade; the frustration of always battling the same imperfections; the need for assurance that everything will be alright, will be made right.

Delightfully, Theo has absorbed all of the motions and words that get said as the wine gets poured and bread broken. Months ago I noticed him at the playground, holding up his ritz cracker snack to the sky, reciting, "the body of Christ, broken for you," cracking his salty snack in half, and proceeding to hand it out random kids and pigeons at the park. It was sweet...and salty. I didn't realize what he was doing initially, his words at the time still had a little bit of that toddler lisp left in them. When asked, he replied, "everyone needs some crackers." He doesn't know how right he was. (Apparently he's been doing it at preschool this week too?! Can't wait for our next parent-teacher conference...)

He still has some learning to do about communion. I'll admit it must look a little bizarre without context - some guy up front holds up a cracker like he's worshiping the cracker god, breaks it, then a bunch of adults and some kids go eat one and drink from a germ infested cup and then sit down. We're glad he's got some developing context and age appropriate sense of holiness.

The other night, after dutifully eating a respectable amount of dinner, he earned his chocolate chip cookie dessert. We were cleaning up dishes already as he got his prized treat. Sitting tall in his booster seat, he held it up to the sky, as far as his little 3.8 year old arms would reach, "the body of Christ, broken for you. Take and eat in...Christ died....thanksgiving." His voiced trailed off towards the end in part because he couldn't remember some of the words, and in part because he was really excited to get that cookie into his mouth. It was the holiest of unholy communions.

He finished with a grin. Cookie crumbs on the floor from his less than perfect breaking of it and traces of chocolate around his mouth where his tongue can't reach. "All done!" he proclaimed. All done, indeed. I doubt that the church at large will move towards serving cookies for communion (but really, who would complain about it?!), but what a sweet picture of the grace that is offered. Jesus' body isn't the broccoli your parents make you eat, or the pizza that is delicious but makes you feel bad later. It's the joy of a single chocolate chip cookie, completing a meal, ending a day, satisfying not just hunger, but providing more than enough.

I'm hungry. Everyone needs some crackers. Cookie communion. All done.

Would that our hungry souls mirror this sense of need, community, sweetness, satisfaction.

"Taste and see that the Lord is good." (Ps 34:8) Even as good as a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, we'll find, even better.