Refusing the Eucharist

They have a Methodist service every Tuesday at St. Catherines.  Other denominations have other days, but Tuesday is ours.  Since it's near the first of the month, the pastor had communion for the group that was there.  I refused. Normally, I'll take communion when it's offered, but with spring making the trees bud, I've been having a terrible allergy attack today and yesterday, so I figured I should refuse.

I refused to take communion on all occasions for many years.  It bothered my wife to no end.  "Why can't you be normal?"  She'd ask.  That's a good question, actually.  I wish I had an answer.

David Elliot and Minka Sprague would try to bring the cup to me in case the problem was that I didn't want to walk down to the front of the church, but I'd cross my chest and refuse.  David's spent the better part of fifty years trying to save me.  He's still trying.  He's taught me a lot about not giving up.

My problem with communion began when I started to seriously consider what the eucharist suggested and what it represented, and what sort of man I was.  A man, who I never knew, who owed me not even a kind glance, sacrificed his body and his life for my sake.  Even if Jesus wasn't real.  Even if Jesus was just some misguided soul who believed he was the son of God, the idea that anyone, divine or not, would suffer on my behalf made me feel extremely unworthy and ungrateful.  The idea that he might actually be the personification of God made it so much worse.

"This is my body, broken and whipped.  Pierced by a spear and nailed to a cross, a cruel Roman Cross,  to die--for you"

"This is my blood, spilled on the ground and pulled from my body by inconceivably cruel people--for you."

Not for me.  Not for me.  Not for ME! I'm sorry.  I'm not worthy.  Not for me.  Please, not for me.

Break your body and spill your blood for these people I love; I will too, but not for me.  Please!  Not for me.

I take communion now.  It still bothers me more than you can imagine, but I began to consider that my master has commanded me to do this, and I should make some effort at obedience,  so I do it, but always with regret.  Maybe the humility that comes from regularly facing my own unworthiness is good for me.  I try not to question it.

"This is my body.  I chose to break it for you."

"This is my blood.  I chose to spill it for you."

"Eat this, drink this, in remembrance of me.  In remembrance of what I chose to do--for you."

Being a Christian shouldn't be easy.  You have to make hard choices.  This is one.

Angela's Eyes

Most men have a pretty clearly defined "type" when it comes to women that stays with them the rest of their life.  I think what happens is they imprint on somebody when they're young, and it stays locked in that way for good.  In my case, it was Angela Cartwright from Lost In Space.  She had brown hair and brown eyes, and that pattern was set for me for the rest of my life.

Cartwright is eleven years older than I am, but through the miracle of television syndication, I was convinced she was only two years older.  I had all sorts of plans of exploring the galaxy with her and the robot by my side on the Jupiter two.  By the time I actually met Angela, she had mostly white hair, but that doesn't matter.  The pattern was set.

After Angela went off the air and I moved into middle school, I graduated to Valerie Bertinelli.  It broke my heart when she ran off with that guitar player.  It's ok, though; by then, I'd moved on to Susanna Hoffs, the Egyptian lead singer of The Bangles, who coincidentally had a hit song called "Walk Like An Egyptian."  Funny how that works.

By the time Hoffs came along, I was getting ready for college and began noticing that there were all these girls in the real world that fit that model.  By the time I got to Millsaps, there was no secret that there were a set of girls who had me on a short leash and I followed them around and did whatever they said, and it worked out ok for everybody.  Except for one outlier who was blonde, you could line them up with Angela Cartwright and Susanna Hoffs and call them sisters because they all looked so much alike.  

There were five Chi-O's, two KD's, one independent, and one Tri Delta.  Some people are sinking in their chairs reading this right now, hoping I won't mention their names.  I won't.  If you were there in those days, I don't have to because you already know them.  One dyes her hair blonde now if that's any help.  (I hate it. Don't tell her I said that.)

What's cool is that, even though I was completely at the mercy of these girls, and they knew it, and EVERYBODY knew it, it was never a problem.  Nobody ever stepped out of bounds.  Nobody ever tried to press the advantage and use my devotion for anything other than what was good for everybody.  They were, exactly what their mothers raised them to be: ladies.  

When I got out of college, life became considerably more difficult, and there were some new girls who would use my nature against me.  I've written about that before.  I don't like to write about it.  Life in your twenties can be brutal, so I hold no grudges.

I think about these things when I see younger guys now, guys I know who are just starting out.  Men are ruled by their heart.  It will ever be so.  At the last theater lunch, I mentioned some friends who are a couple years older than I and who have always had a special fondness for each other.  Apparently, nobody had told the kids they were an item, so there was some satisfaction when I confirmed that they had "shipped" them correctly.  I don't know how you could have missed it.  

Later today, after I do my exercises and other work for the day, an old friend will come to visit his wife, who lives in the hall near me.  She, too, once had raven hair and chocolate eyes.  In his heart, I'm sure she still does.  Sometimes, when people get older, their mind begins to leave them.  I hate it when that happens.  A gentleman's heart is constant, though.  He'll be coming here every day to remind her of who she is from now on, long after I've moved back to Jackson.  I understand that on a deep level.  A man is ruled by his heart.  There's a reason for that.