THE VESSELS DON'T MATTER
I once saw the elements for Holy Communion (bread and wine) being served in a chipped bowl and a plastic juice glass.
It was startling because Christians hold Holy Communion in such high esteem it always seems the elements ought to be served in silver or gold vessels or at least in fine pottery. But in this case, at the launching of a canoe trip, the crew didn't need silver. They just wanted to experience the sensation of God before embarking on their adventure.
It's strange how we treat our sacred moments and objects. I've known people who clung to confirmation crosses, then held them tightly in their old hands as they slipped into paradise.
I've known others who saved all their relics from lives of faith and then when they passed on, insensitive family members threw everything into boxes and auctioned them off for pennies.
There are some relics that ought to carry a deep meaning throughout a person's life. Most of you don't remember your baptism because you were infants. But there has to be something that carries the weight of the day.
For instance, you might own a baptismal gown that you wore on the day of your inclusion. You might have a little hat or a towel used to pat away the excess water. You might have the fragment of a candle or even photos of relatives gently holding you. Did Grandpa sing a song to you? Did Grandmother read a verse or cook a favorite dish? What memories can you preserve from your sacred moments that might soothe your raging soul later in life?
It's time to ask those who might remember, and to emtomb those memories in some convenient place. If we are fortunate enough to have memories at all, they should become sacred to us.
I remember a baptism in a prison yard. I was there to do a story about the work of prison chaplains. Fifteen inmates were going to be baptised and nobody, not family nor friends, had come to watch.
The inmates filed into a small chapel where people from a prison ministry were waiting. We sang hymns and listened to a woman with a stunning voice sing "Just As I Am Without One Plea."
The preacher prayed and then a dozen guards entered the room and stood in the back. As the inmates filed out the guards positioned themselves around the men. The rest of us followed into the yard.
It was dust and concrete, shuffling feet and clanging doors. There was nothing soft about this baptism, nothing elegant or refined. The baptismal candidates lined up beside a large corrugated steel horse trough, like those you can find on any farm in the Midwest. They stood with their heads down, hands together.
Then one man after another stepped over the edge of the tank and was lowered into the cold water. When they were raised from the icy grip of the trough, some of the men hollered. A few stood astonished and shivering. Others were frozen in tears of remorse and relief.
Can you imagine what it would be like to have that memory? There you are with the greatest gift of grace you ever received dripping from your clothes and body and you realize it was given to you in a prison yard. You will remember that forever.
But the truth is, the vessels - the cracked plates, the scratched juice glasses and the horse troughs - that carry the sacraments to us are not important. What's important is the power of the divine, the ability of God to crack through the human crust and bless us with supreme grace. That's all we should remember - the sensation of spiritual power.
Clark D. Morphew
Posted 3-6-02