While visiting Destin, Florida, in our RV, we attended an amazing church – Village Baptist. That Sunday happened to be communion Sunday which we gladly participated in. In fact, the pastor made it clear that one didn’t have to belong to the church to take communion, only to have professed Jesus Christ as Savior, which we both have.
As usual these days, communion was served in the little cups which the church goer is required to peel twice, once for the bread and then again for the juice. Since we’ve had quite a struggle in the past getting the little containers open, Joe decided to open them at the first of the service so we’d be prepared.
But then, where to place the cups during the service? Joe chose to put his on the floor, and I stuck mine in my purse. Thankfully, he’d only peeled the paper from the bread and not the juice or the interior of my purse would’ve been red if it had tipped over.
I know this method of receiving communion came about because of Covid, but I’ll be glad when we go back to the way we used to receive the Lord’s supper. Then I remind myself. It’s not whether Joe attacks the cups with his knife, or if I spill the juice on my white pants. It’s what’s in my heart and the purpose of the ritual. Each time we take communion in church, we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
