some thoughts on crackers and wine

One Sunday, I made challah bread. I make bread all the time, but never with yeast, so this was a new experience for me.

I know yeast is tricky, that water temperature means practically everything when it comes to making bread. So I hoped the water temperature was adequate and that the yeast had enough time to foam in the water and sugar, and then I added the flour, and then kneaded the dough on a floured wooden cutting board. Stuck in the oven for an hour while I talked to Lisa and then braided and baked it.

And there, it was: bread. It only takes a few ingredients and a little time and patience, and then it somehow appears in its fluffy and tasty form.

And then I thought, shouldn't I be serving bread with OUT yeast? Isn't that more appropriate? Does it really matter? Are matzah crackers more suitable for this kind of experience?

I stood in the grocery store nervously looking at the different varieties of grape juice, thinking to myself "If it's supposed to be a representation of Jesus' blood, is it important to get organic?" "Is it sacriligeous to be looking at calorie counts on these things?" "Is it bad that I want to buy the less expensive one?" "Is Welch's okay?"

Or maybe, wine...

Yes. Wine will be better. Trader Joe's it is.

I didn't know how to do the Eucharist "right". I'd been having too many conversations in my head to count about how I was supposed to do this, how I was supposed to lead the drinking of these grapes and the breaking of this challah bread (or the shoulda-been-matzah-crackers).

But I don't think there's one "right" way of doing it. At least that's the truth that is comforting me right now.

When we serve the Eucharist, the crackers and bread are less important than the presence of God's spirit, dwelling within us as we partake together. As we crunch together and drink together.

Together, together, together.

The Eucharist is about many things, togetherness being one of them. I'm fearful of even writing a blog post about the Eucharist because it's such sacred ground. But I also feel equally compelled to write about it because within its sacredness is also ordinary-ness where I find comfort. It's the meal that's offered to the broken and the needy, to those who are unworthy. It's a meal that is holy and mysterious but also simple.

I used to believe that the Eucharist was all about confession...and I used to dread the crackers and the juice. Dreaded drinking it and eating it, dreaded remembering what I had done wrong and who I had been unkind to. Then I stepped into an Anglican church, where the choir wore robes and we turned to face the speaker who read from Scripture. I stepped into a church where incense was burned and wine was served and liturgy was read.

The Eucharist, this church taught me, was for thanksgiving. This bread and wine was a gift.

I realize that I'm walking on choppy waters: there's hundreds of years of church history and great theological teachings and controversy regarding transubstantiation and conversations about how often and when and how and who the bread is broken, etc. etc. But I'm writing because I want to be brave and say that I have my own story with the Eucharist. It's not all written out here, but I carry it with me as I drink the wine and eat the bread. I've learned from different churches, I've seen this gift presented in various ways, and I'm continuously learning what this sacrament means.

I believe in repentance and confession -- but I also believe that the Eucharist is for so much more than this. And I believe that making the challah bread and picking out the wine or grape juice is a process of learning and growing individually and corporately.

Jesus' sacrifice is huge, and I can't fully grasp its significance. But each week I'll understand something a little more, or a little differently -- whether it's matzah, challah bread, or gluten-free rice crackers.

on being brave

Dear Hilary,

You wrote this blog post a while back and it's bringing tears to my eyes as I read it right now. It was called "Dear Hilary, Be Braver".

I've been thinking about being brave and believing the good truth about myself and who I am. I've been pondering it as I drove to a beautiful wedding on a Saturday afternoon, and as I drive to work sometimes before the sun comes up.

Hilary, I don't feel brave.

The truth is that I feel more scared than brave. Scared of my own limits and what I can and can't do. Scared of insecurity and what I say and what I should have said, scared of being alone. I've come to terms with the fear: I'm looking at it directly with both eyes fixed on it, trying to decide what I want to do with the fear. And I turned to your writing for encouragement, because I already knew I could find it there:

"Brave looks like wearing bright blue pants on a Friday night, like eating Ben & Jerry’s from the carton, like whispering to your best friend that you do not know if you can believe that you are worthy. Yes, un-vulnerable, brave is in the work of admitting all the places where you ache. This year, my year of 22, I have learned that to be brave is to walk into a room and, for just a moment, believe that all things work together for the good."

Do you remember that poem we had to read as TGC fellows? The one about courage in the small things by Anne Sexton? 

("It is in the small things we see it.

The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,

wallowing up the sidewalk....")  

I think about that poem all the time. I think about the small things: I wonder what it would be like if I encouraged myself to believe that it is in the small things that I, too, am brave.

Thank you for reminding me that bravery isn't just in the climbing Mt. Everest and acing a job interview: bravery is believing in ourselves and staring at truth that is the aching. Thank you for reminding me that it's brave to recognize our own weakness and love ourselves in spite of it, it's brave to speak a different language even when you make a hundred mistakes, it's brave to ask the hard questions, it's brave to roller blade at lunch with the dorky helmet because you just want to be reminded that exercise is fun again.

Do you think it's possible to change our outlook on being brave? I think the world needs it: we all need more encouragement in the small things, we need to be reminded that they matter. Because it's in those moments (seemingly small) that we see truth: that we are beautiful, that we are capable of more than we think we are, and that rollerblading is in its own dorky fashion, perhaps the funnest way to spend a Monday lunch break. 

It's in the small things, Hilary. Thank you for teaching me that.

Love, Alyssa