Bread & wine
“We take hold of this symbol of your body, which you sacrificed for us on the cross…”
Unpacking religious baggage; take care ❤️
There is no wafer pinched between my fingertips; my hands are spread over the keyboard. My eyes are not closed in prayer but watching the digital clock at the back of the room tick down. The click track in my ears drowns out all other sounds. My head aches from hunger and my face hurts from smiling, but it’s only forty-five minutes until I’ll be home if I can avoid people on my way out the door. This is a typical Sunday. It is not a typical Sunday–“can you believe we get to do this?” That’s the common refrain after I’m asked to do more, more, more.
I ask a leader if the team has time for communion before the service starts. He kindly says no and suggests I come back for the evening service to receive it. I know the answer hasn’t always been “no,” but I can’t remember the last time I participated in the ritual. There is no way my body will allow me to leave the house again tonight.
It takes six years for me to start testing the limits of this community and ask for dietary restrictions to be accommodated at team dinners. I fear I will be seen as a problem if I ask for special treatment. Is making sure everyone can eat actually special treatment? Will my attitude be corrected or addressed, either by a leader subtly guilting me in a one-on-one meeting or via passive aggressive statements from the pulpit at a women’s leadership night? But after yet another six-hour rehearsal where several of us can’t eat the provided food, I have to try. It gets better after this, but now I wonder at the fact that the people who were most mindful of my requests have also left the church since.
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During the quarantine of 2020, we watch church services at home. Sometimes I am in the background of the pre-recorded service playing keys even though attending a rehearsal and recording without wearing masks terrifies me. I want to be included and when I ask about basic precautions, it is implied I may be lacking some faith in God to protect us.
At home on the couch, I am not exhausted from a stressful morning. When the pastor starts communion, my husband and I grab a leftover pancake and our lukewarm coffee. I like the melody and chord progression I picked for this moment. Though I’m still not really hearing the prayer, I feel at peace and I take of the bread and the cup.
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We are watching a local church service online one Sunday evening months after leaving the church I attended for eight years. The band members quietly take their places and start an overplayed contemporary Christian song from a few years ago, one of the rare church songs that don’t make me feel nauseated these days. I keep joking that if I see an electric guitar on a church stage I’m going to sprint back out those doors. I haven’t convinced myself to walk into a church apart from Christmas and Easter yet. Now I’m one of those people.
The congregation neatly lines up to receive communion. The reverend lets everyone know there is a gluten-free option and points out the designated table. I find this very sweet and say to my husband, “not so hard to be inclusive after all, hm?”
One at a time, each band member receives the communion elements and stops their playing or singing, consumes the bread and wine, and resumes right on beat. Seeing these volunteers allowed a few moments to pause and receive communion unlocks a deep hurt I didn’t know I still held and my own tears shock me. We have watched very few services since.
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Deconstruction is a curse word among some Christians. They say it’s a fancy word cynical ex-Christians use to sound cool. I cannot find any better word to describe what has occurred in my soul since cleaving my identity from that place. All the moments when I ignored my anxious body, downplayed horrific words said to me, explained away suspicious behavior from trusted leaders, distanced myself from friends who left the church, panicked about the path I was on only to walk back on stage with a smile… I pull at the threads of my experience and find it all unraveling in my hands. “God gave you a gift and you must use it for his kingdom,” they said, and I believed my physical, emotional, and spiritual depletion were simply the cost of having a talent.
And much like any complex family, it wasn’t all bad. I have fond and meaningful memories with the people who immediately unfollowed me on Instagram after I told them I was leaving. Over the years they came to my birthday parties, shared wine to celebrate life events, and bonded with me over food. Those relationships had great depths of compassion, though it turned out to be entirely conditional at the end. I suppose they can read all of this for proof that my faith was never that strong and that I am self-serving and destructive. If that’s what they need to believe then that’s okay with me. The freedom of knowing who I am outside of their framework has been more life-giving than living within their bounds ever could have been.
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Falling in line with all the cliches, I left a Christian church and several months later started a yoga teacher training program. It has been a beautiful, expansive experience that has left me more open and vulnerable than ever before. One day we return from lunch and the instructor passes out Andes mints to everyone. We wait to eat them together, opening the wrappers and savoring the chocolate in unison. “It only cost me three dollars to bring all of you that little bit of joy today,” he says, and I tear up a bit. This small moment of care presses on a still-tender part of me.
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“Food is my love language.” Some people who neglect saying “I love you” will cook you a complex, comforting meal. Some people who tell you they love you all the time can’t remember you don’t eat meat.
I feel so sorry for the version of myself that accepted poor treatment from her spiritual leaders and friends for years. I feel compassion for that unguarded girl who was seeking community and acceptance at any cost. I’m so grateful for what I learned and how it will protect me in the future. Love still pours out of me through food and through my words. Love might have been lost when I left that place, but it was never wasted.