Communion tears

I park my car on the service road along the highway between Chapel Hill and Durham, in front of a storage facility and a mechanic shop. I walk to the end of the road and then down a dirt path that cuts through bushes and shrubs, winding around the skeletons of refrigerators and washing machines devoured by vines, until I reach a passageway slashed through the curtain of kudzu. In the middle of the open space, people have set up folding chairs around a folding table, and on the table a banquet—vegetable stew and cornbread, pastries and cakes, coffee and sweet tea.

We sit and eat and talk, feasting on the food and companionship. Soon we quiet our conversation as Carolyn walks to the flimsy table and shifts the spread around in order to clear a spot for the bread and cup. We turn our chairs and attention to her. “My soul is satisfied as with a feast,” she calls to us, “and my mouth praises you, O God, with joyful lips.” The words from Psalm 63 draw us into worship.

We sing a few hymns, and Carolyn preaches on the assigned Bible passage, a short sermon on God’s prodigal love. Then I stand behind the table, reciting the words from 1 Corinthians 11: “On the night when he was betrayed, Jesus took bread.” Steam from the loaf wafts around our circle as I break it in my hands. I step from one person to the next, tearing off pieces, placing them in hands, pausing for a glimpse into each person’s eyes.