Though I Am Less Than Holy

This part always makes me nervous.

I study them as they descend to the front of the room, eager and belonging, ready to partake of the sacrament most of them enjoy every week. I grew up Baptist, though, and we called it an ordinance, not a sacrament, and there was hardly a discussion of whether or not Jesus was in or above or around the elements because it was just a cracker and some grape juice—just a memorial. Communion rarely felt holy to me growing up; more often it was filled with distraction, and fear, fear that I did not measure up to this practice of worship. I often worried I had left something undone.

Needless to say, I don’t feel like I belong in this Anglican congregation where everyone practices holiness as often as they show up to church, or more often, I realize as I look around the room. I know probably half of these faces from passing them in the hallways and hearing them gushed about by mutual friends. They are leaders at my school, RAs and student group execs, replete with good reputations and large groups of friends.

They are holier than I, I think.

When it’s my turn, I descend the steps with masked timidity, pretending confidence as I approach the priest. I am not confident. I am not even thinking about the sacrament anymore; my thoughts have turned to the collection of bacteria now wriggling on the edge of the two chalices of wine, which are shared by the congregation. I want the wine; I want to look tough enough for the wine. But the thought of all the mouths that sipped before me makes me squeamish.

I have reached the priest now, and he is smiling at me, pressing a fragment of the loaf into my hand as he declares it “The body of Christ, broken for you.” I smile back at him crookedly, distracted by the thought of which direction I must turn to receive the wine.

I go to my left and place the bread on my tongue, chewing frantically, hoping to finish before it’s my turn to drink. I fear momentarily that I will choke, and I think the celebrant catches it in my eyes as he holds the cup for me to sip. I tip it slightly and let the wine coat my lips and tongue before stepping quickly out of line to return to my seat.

When I sit down, I realize I spent the entire experience dwelling on my own uncertainty and worry. I tried to enjoy it, tried to summon all of the pious emotions that seem appropriate for such an occasion—and yet here I am, hardly feeling as though anything wonderful has transpired. Instead, I feel klutzy and unkempt. Less than holy.

I wonder if anyone else can tell. I can vividly picture the looks and whispers directed at me, the sinner, as I glance around and smooth my skirt self-consciously. No one is whispering, of course. But the voices of shame in my head are loud.

Isn’t this supposed to be beautiful, this moment here with Jesus? My whole life, it has been a struggle and I cannot understand why. Why can’t I come to the communion table feeling celebratory and forgiven? Why does such a holy practice arouse every kind of unholiness in me? I ponder these questions for days before the answer comes:

It’s because it’s meant to.

The goal of communion is not to make me feel holier, I realize as I turn over the thoughts in my mind. The very act of eating the bread and drinking the cup reminds me that I have need of a Savior, that I cannot escape my sin of my own accord. Communion brings remembrance of my sin.

And so often, this is where I stay.

I agree with the Psalmist when he says "my sin is always before me." Seldom is my conscience clear. I bear my guilt long after I have professed to give it up to Jesus, declaring a gospel of grace to others while truly believing one of penance for myself. Too often, I live in sackcloth and ashes, a remorseful display of incomplete repentance.

But repentance is twofold.

Communion is meant to draw attention to my unholiness--but the spotlight doesn't stay there. It moves, upward to the cross. Repentance is not simply a continual acknowledgment of my sin; it is an acknowledgment of my sin combined with a turning toward something better.

Jesus is better.

Jesus, the Second Person of the Triune God, the Word by which all life was created, perfect, and matchless, and glorious. Jesus, incarnate and born of a woman, poor, and dusty, and hardworking. Jesus, the Object of eternal praises, the Light of all of heaven. Jesus, the Object of scorn, dark and dead upon the cross. Jesus, passionate, and compassionate, and ready to save me. Jesus, risen victorious from the grave and forever seated at the right hand of God, interceding on my behalf.

Communion was never meant to leave me alone in the remembrance of my sin. Jesus did not say to do this in remembrance of my unholiness; He said to "do this in remembrance of Me."

I've been speaking Christianese from the cradle, and I can rattle off things like "put Jesus at the center" without a second thought. Sometimes, when I'm sleep-deprived and on autopilot, I plaster my behavior and pain, and that of others, with such phrases. But this semester, it's taking on fresh meaning. To engage in mourning my sin alone, without turning toward Jesus to heal me, is yet another form of self-centeredness. I want to live a Jesus-centered life, not a self-centered life.

Many days, I put myself through a kind of purgatory, a practice of keeping myself separate from God until I am cleansed of all unrighteousness. But Jesus has promised to cleanse me, if only I will acknowledge my sin before Him. I am not called to purge myself; I am called to trust Him.

So Sunday comes again, and I follow my brothers and sisters up to partake again, in remembrance of Jesus, who cleanses and calls and communes with me, though I am less than holy.