We Mind Our Memories With Love

"Examine me, O God, and know my mind; probe me and know my thoughts …." – Psalm 139

This past week my wife and I took a trip, returning to Montana in order to attend our church’s annual clergy conference at Camp Marshall, located on the beautiful shores of Flathead Lake. I estimated the drive would take longer than I would want to do in one day in the car (I still quantify distances by travel time rather than miles), so we made a relatively leisurely trip from our home in the Skagit Valley (pronounced Ska-jit), stopping in Spokane to visit a long-time friend (who is now in memory care).

Memory. What is it? How does it work? How can life-long friends who have known each other for some six decades suddenly become strangers? 

I often joke about my own memory lapses. Who hasn’t gotten to mid-morning and forgotten what they’d just had for breakfast? Who hasn’t stopped in the middle of a flight of stairs and wondered where they were headed, whether they were on their way up or down, or what they were going to do when they got to where they were going? We all experience memory lapses. 

We can joke about it, because we’ve all experienced it to one degree or another. Wait, didn’t I just say that? I often quip that I haven’t gained weight, but rather that my brain is full and has simply added extra storage space to my gut. 

Seriously though, I find that I struggle more to find words that were once right at my fingertips. I’ll stop typing, trying to find the word I was looking for; it is frustrating, because I know it’s a word that was always immediately at hand, but now I’ve got to go looking for it. Don’t tell anyone, but it is embarrassing for a wordsmith to use a search engine to find another word for “joke” (quip) or “writer” (wordsmith). 

In normal conversation, I don’t mind repeating myself on occasion, and I know I’ve got verbal tics that make their way into conversations, sermons, and columns. But as a writer, I don’t like to see the same words used multiple times in a paragraph, so I’m constantly trying to change things up. It was once a snap. Now it's more slow [sic] (bad grammar here is intentional. I couldn’t think of a metaphorical antonym for “snap”).

I have to remind myself that the brain is an organ, while cognition, memory, reason, and other such things are related to how the brain works, functions, or malfunctions. Remind; What a wonderful way of saying “to bring to mind again.” When we’re young, the processes are quick and nimble. As we age, our cognitive skills slow down. I was never much of a multi-tasker, but today I can forget many things at once!

I suspect some of the issues we face as we age have to do with organic deterioration. I’m no expert, but I suspect the brain atrophies over time, as does the rest of the body. We do what we can do to keep our minds active, and that’s all we can do. Some are better than others at eating right, exercising regularly, reading and doing puzzles. But when the brain breaks down and stops working properly, there’s not much we can do except to thank God we have people and places that can help us make it through those dark days.

I don’t know what pathology lies behind our life-long friend’s inability to recognize those she loves (loved?) and who love her. There is a definite grief and sadness that attends that reality. It’s a death her body hasn’t caught up to yet, but we have, so we grieve. 

The psalmist tells us we are conceived in the mind of God, and in our declining days, God continues to carry us in, to, and through dark places. We don’t know where our journey will take us, but we can find peace in the loving hands of the One whose journey will never end. Perhaps life as we know it is simply the first leg of that long journey we have with God, whose memory is perfect. That’s something I hope to never forget here in this, our valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Searching for God: Oh!

Search for the Lord and his strength; continually seek his face. Psalm 105

My wife and I took a run up to Bellingham the other day. We didn’t have anything in particular we needed to find or get. We just wanted to get out of the house, and it was a nice enough day so that we could enjoy the scenic trip. We did have one unfamiliar destination in mind, and since we are likewise unfamiliar with the City of Subdued Excitement, I punched the destination into my phone’s GPS to ensure we’d get there.

Weather in western Washington is mild this time of year, so the Orange Cone season has already begun. They sprang up simultaneously with the local daffodils and will be with us until they blend in with the fallen leaves of autumn. Fortunately we only had a small stretch of freeway to contend with where two northbound lanes smooshed into one. 

Most people did a nice job of merging. I gave a “late-to-merge” driver space in which to pull in, but she refused the grace of the space I’d offered, choosing, instead, to exercise some form of NASCAR wig-wag (the ziggy, zaggy thing racers do to keep their tires hot when driving under Caution).

I just did an eye-roll and kept my focus on the road ahead. There are some people and situations for which Thoughts and Prayers are the only proper response for a person in my profession (keeping fingers tightly curled around the steering wheel).

The rest of our trip was uneventful. We missed the driveway to the store to which we’d been aiming, but that’s only because I was paying more attention to my GPS guide, and less to the actual world through which I was traveling. Hey, it happens. I have no doubt that I am more than six degrees separated from both Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett combined. Heck, I can even get lost in a good book!

A few weeks ago Barb and I flew back to Indiana for a family visit. I was sure glad to have GPS whenever we drove around the area as my sense of direction was always 180 degrees off. I thought north was south and east was west. Part of the problem was the lack of hills or mountains with which to help orient this visitor. 

We were in Amish country, so not only did I not know in what direction my nose was ever facing, I couldn’t always tell what century I was in, either, as I drove cautiously around all the horse-and-buggies amongst which we shared the roads.

It never bothers me to not know where I am or where I’m going. It is useful having a gadget to help me find my way around, but it was more helpful having our hosts do most of the driving. They knew where they were; they knew the roads and the routes and the best way to get places. When faced with the south end of northbound horses, they knew what rules to apply and how to safely avoid spooking the buggy-pullers.

The GPS gave me SOME comfort in my travels, but my hosts enabled me to relax; I knew I was safe and secure and in good hands. With them, I was able to focus less on the road and more on the world. Over the course of two weeks, I was able to find my bearings and get from one place to another whenever I struck out on my own, but I was most comfortable when I was in the hands of trusted friends. 

The psalmist invites us to “search for the Lord and his strength; continually seek his face.” 

We won’t find the face of God in the “great by-and-by in the sky way up high.” No, our task is to find the face of God in the people around us. The psalmist isn’t inviting us to go on a quest as much as he (or she) is inviting us to see our Lord in the faces of those with whom we share the road in our travels (yes, including zig-zaggers and sundry horse-drawn souls).

Perhaps we are called to look for AND to be the face of God wherever we are, for God is always with us here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Angels Also Come With Baggage

Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths. Psalm 25

I don’t have a fear of flying, but I do have airport-a-phobia. I only fly commercially once every three to five years, so every time I fly, I find the systems and processes to be completely altered. I was pleased to discover how well organized Sea-Tac had become since our last visit there. People weren’t queued up in front of airline counters; we got to go directly to a kiosk to grab our boarding passes and baggage tags. Of course, that’s when things went south. Artificial Intelligence doesn’t mix well with what passes for organic intelligence (if one dares call what I exercise “intelligence”).

Since I hadn’t booked our luggage ahead of time, I had to purchase tags at the kiosk. It printed my receipts and two baggage tags. Sadly, I had only glanced at my receipts and they registered in my brain as boarding passes. They looked like boarding passes, but in clear fine print they said (I paraphrase): “Nope, not a boarding pass.” Oops.

We went to the self-service baggage station (where we found our first queue), and as we stood there creeping along at about six inches per minute, my better half mentioned our boarding passes weren’t boarding passes. I stood there in complete silence as I read the receipt top to bottom and confirmed that she was, as usual, correct. Apparently I had missed a step at the kiosk (which no doubt burbled electronic chuckles when we left). 

I was at a loss for what to do (having committed myself to playing the old, befuddled duffer at the airport in order to garner sympathy from roaming gnomes). A woman in line behind us offered to take one of us to a kiosk to get our passes, so the smarter one went with her while I shuffled our bags forward, as well as the unofficially unattended bag of our Samaritan helper. It didn’t take them long to procure our boarding passes; finally, all was right with the universe.

I am often amazed by the kindness of strangers. We did not ask one another what our beliefs were. We were strangers, traveling in a strange land (which is what airports are to infrequent flyers). The kiosk was efficient in taking money for our baggage claims, but it failed to take us back to the electronic path I needed for obtaining boarding passes. I have no doubt it was programmed to deal with idiots, but it had never met the likes of me!

But a woman, traveling alone and overhearing a conversation between traveling neophytes stepped up to the challenge. She not only took time out to help my wife collect the documents we needed to move forward, she trusted a complete stranger to watch over her own trunk and keep it safe. 

And here’s the kicker: As I struggled to move our two bags-to-be-checked forward, along with two awkward carry-ons, the couple behind me helped push the stranger’s suitcase forward as well.

While we often hear reports of disorderly travelers causing chaos in the skies, or lines stretching for blocks, the truth is that most travelers subconsciously realize they are part of a community, moving about to unite with friends or family, enjoying vacations, attending to crises or sundry business matters. We may feel, at times, like cattle snaking our way through various queues, but those have made our safety, security, and processing, for the most part, much faster and smoother.

Yes, there are dipsticks we meet along the way, so I make sure I keep my oil of kindness topped off before doing anything. There are dipsticks, to be sure, but they are outnumbered by far by an army of angels who see the face of God in those with whom they travel. Those angels have always been a blessing – an incarnation of God that is every bit as real as what we see in Jesus of Nazareth. That’s not surprising since each person is created in God’s image!

I am thankful for all the angels who have ministered to me over the years around the world and here, in this our valley. It seems we are united by the baggage we carry.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Tulips and Junk Drawers

“Don’t shine so that others can see you. Shine, so that through you, others can see Him.” C.S. Lewis

The sky is a bright hue of blue; the air is crisp and clean; the sun is shining everywhere; our tulips can now be seen!

Tulips. In February! Since temperatures dipped into the twenties last night (and may dip lower over the next few nights) I worry that the tulips’ premature arrival may result in their untimely demise. And yet … plants have survived much of the past billion years anyway, so maybe I don’t need to fret.

One of the things I notice about retirement, especially as a retired cleric, is that the rhythms of the church year have begun to fade. Oh sure, I’m in church regularly and do my part to keep the kingdom of God from falling apart at the seams (which is what I presume people mean when they tell me I keep them in stitches), but the daily routine of planning services, reading and studying scriptures, wrestling with angels and demons, visiting the sick and shut-ins, and all the rest has removed from me my sense of sacred time.

I have a clock that hangs on the wall above and behind my computer monitor that tells me the time AND the day of the week. My church calendar tells me we have just begun Lent, and I attended the Ash Wednesday service (so I wouldn’t have to repent for missing it), but I’m just not “feeling” it this year. In some ways I feel like I’m a trusty tool that has been moved from the tool chest and dropped into the junk drawer. Available if needed, but no longer essential.

I’m not telling you this as a moribund  soul looking for sympathy. No, quite the opposite. I expect I’ve got a few decades left under the hood. The gears in the old brain box still have most of their teeth, and I stay active enough to keep them more lubricated than gunky.

No, I’m just reflecting on the nature of mortal flesh – mine, to be more precise – and coming to grips with what it means. More than that, I’m learning how to get my eyes out of the rearview mirror and back onto the road where they belong. The sideview mirror reminds me that what is past is closer than what I think, but wisdom tells me I need to be looking forward. 

Lent isn’t about ashes and penitence. It’s about adjusting our focus. Too often we look at the past, and forget we cannot change it. We may wish we had done some things differently. We may regret some poor decisions, but there’s also a lot to celebrate. Each day is built upon a foundation of what came before it. We live; we learn, we adjust, adapt, and overcome. That’s all positive no matter how you cut it!

All calendars are arbitrary; time is a human invention. While we may use words to describe our lives in terms of past, present, and future, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and seasons, the only real time we have is now. “Now is the day of salvation,” says the Bible. God’s time is always “now” time. The biblical word is Kairos.

Were you bad yesterday? That’s OK. Now you’re clean. Will you make mistakes or do bad things tomorrow? I hope not, but that’s OK because now you’re clean. For God, it is always now, and for God, we always live in the now. Even when you put your paper down and think about what I just said, you’ll be thinking about that now, not before, and not later – now.

It doesn’t matter whether I am in the tool box or in the junk drawer, I am here now when needed. I am ready now, when needed. The tulips aren’t early. They’re poking their stems and leaves out now, and when the time comes, they’ll blossom and bloom just as they always have – in the fullness of time – Kairos.

I think I’m finally beginning to figure out that God isn’t like the objects in my sideview mirror. God isn’t near; God is now, and that’s an important distinction for me to remember here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Flashes of Insight - Flashes of God

Transfiguration

Sermon delivered to St. Paul’s (Mount Vernon, WA) 2/19/2023

Give ear O heavens, and I will speak. Let the earth hear the words of my mouth, for I will proclaim the Name of the Lord, and ascribe greatness to our God!

During the season of Epiphany, we hear the voice of God two times.

The first time we hear God’s voice is at Jesus’ baptism. Jesus rises up out of the waters of baptism and we hear a voice from heaven: “You are my beloved Son; in you I am well pleased.”

What God said to Jesus, Fr. Paul reminded us at the beginning of the season, God says to each of us, as well. “In you I am well pleased. And in you. And you. And you!”

What God says to Jesus, God says to each of us.

Some years ago I did a funeral for a woman who had no church home; her family chose to hold the service at the funeral home, and the director there asked if I would come and do the service. Each of the woman’s grandchildren took a few minutes to talk about their relationship with Granny, and each shared a secret there that they had never shared before.

Their Grandma would take them each out to lunch every now and then – one at a time – and she would pull them in close and in a conspiratorial whisper she’d say, “I’ve got a secret, and you can’t tell anybody. Promise me.”

Each grandchild would lean in close and promise, “I won’t say anything, Grandma. I promise.”

Grandma would then lean in even closer and, in a very low voice, she’d say, “You know, I love all of my grandchildren. I love all of you equally. You know that, don’t you?”

Each grandchild would nod, “Yes, Grandma. I know that.”

Then Granny would add, “But here’s my secret. I love you all equally, but you’re my favorite.”

None of the grandchildren ever broke their promise while she was alive, but as they shared their stories, they discovered that what she said to one, she had said to each: “You’re my favorite.”

When they were done sharing this very special secret for the first time, and it was my turn to speak, I confessed, “If I had known her, I suspect I would have been her favorite priest.”

Granny wasn’t playing games. She meant what she said to each child. She loved each of them as her favorite, so they never had to compete for her love. They knew they had it from the get-go.

That’s a God-shot. I heard their story and I knew: That’s how God is. God is like Granny!

God says to Jesus: You’re my favorite. And God says to each and every one of us: You’re my favorite. And you. And you. And we know it.

We may look at Jesus and say, “yes, but he was perfect. He was sinless.”

That’s all true. But God doesn’t look at what we say or do (at least, not in that sense). God looks at who we are. You and I were created in the image of God. We may look a little worse for wear; we may stand before God a bit broken, chipped, or smudged, (maybe even downright smashed) but God says, “That’s OK. I don’t see them as they look, but as they are; my kids. Each (wink) is my favorite.”

That’s the heart of God, isn’t it? That’s the heart of a loving Grandma. That special love for you, and you, and you, and you.

That’s what God had to say at the front end of the Epiphany season. Here on the back end, on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear the voice of God again in a couple of stories.

The first one is the story of Moses being invited to spend a week with God on Mt Sinai, and he ends up staying there for 40 days. What’s that all about?

Generally we focus on Moses. Moses goes to talk to God there on the Mountain, and God gives him the tablets of the Law. Every time I hear that story, I can’t help but hear in my mind the crashing of thunder, and the flashing of lightning. Can you hear it, too? Can you see it, too? The Bible tells us the mountain was positively volcanic with smoke and fire. The children of Israel were down in the valley, and they looked up, and they could see the red glow of the flames, the dark, black smoke billowing up, the roaring thunder.

How could Moses live through that? How could Joshua live through that? How could anyone live through that?

When I think of that scene, I can’t help but think about my father. I always considered him as a disciplinarian, although for the life of me I don’t remember him ever laying a hand on me. I’m sure he did when I was very young. But I don’t think he had to. On those very, very rare occasions when I might have been ever-so-slightly out of line, my Dad would disappear and in his place an army Drill Instructor would materialize. If we had stood nose to nose, I have no doubt I would have melted into nothingness like the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I didn’t see it often, but when D.I. Fred showed up, it was time to straighten up and fly right!

I remember one time I had gotten into some sort of mischief at school. I don’t remember now what it was, but my Dad said to me, “Keith, you will do nothing to bring dishonor to the Axberg name. The name is rare and precious, and if you ever do anything to tarnish it, you’ll regret it. And if you ever go to jail for anything, don’t look to me to bail you out.”

I don’t know if he meant it, but I’ll tell you one thing. I was never going to risk trying to find out.

Now, I know my Dad may seem like a bit of a tyrant or ogre (the way I’m describing him here), but for the most part we got along just fine, and I knew down here (in my heart) that he didn’t just mean well. It was his way of saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to make bad choices.”

That’s God up there on the Mountain, talking to Moses. “Come on up. I’ve got a gift for you and the kids down in the valley. This whole situation is new for you and for them. I’ve got you covered. On days when you don’t see me, on days when you don’t feel my presence, follow these and you will do just fine.”

Forget that rough and tough exterior. Inside, God knows we’re going to goof up. 

“Don’t do it.” We’ve been warned. And maybe there is a side of us that is scared to death that God means it. But if we go behind the special effects, it’s clear what God is saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to make bad choices.”

That’s the heart of God, isn’t it? That’s the heart of a loving Pappa. That special love for you, and you, and you, and you.

We get to see the heart of God again in the Gospel. It’s the story of the Transfiguration. Have you ever wondered what that’s all about?

The Season of Epiphany is about revealing the heart of God to the world. 

For many, God is scary. I can’t help but think of Michelangelo's painting of God reaching out to Adam. Adam is all laid back and lazy, barely lifting a finger to reach God, and God is looking down at Adam, with furrowed, scowling brow and staring, glaring eyes. God looks like he’d rather toss Adam into the bowels of hell than give him life.

That’s the image so many of us grew up with: God as judge and jury, ready to pounce on each and every infraction of the rules. 

But when we look at the life of Jesus in the Gospels – God incarnate – we see him feeding the hungry, hugging the untouchables, healing the sick, or raising the dead. We see Jesus giving people second chances, third chances … as many chances as they need to change. 

And that’s a miracle! Jesus, Peter, James, and John went up onto a high mountain, and when they got to the top, Jesus was changed right before their very eyes. Metamorphosis - Transfiguration. 

Have you ever seen something far off and wondered what it is? You can do a couple of things. You can try to get to it, or you can grab your binoculars and try to bring it closer to you. Jesus became the binoculars or the telescope through which Peter, James, and Jon could look through and see the glory of God. And what exactly is the glory of God? What did they see?

The glory of God is God’s mercy! 

For just a moment, the disciples got to see God’s mercy. Peter, of course, wants to capture the moment. Let’s put up some tents and camp out. That’s the word that’s been translated “booths.” When God brought Israel out of bondage in Egypt, they camped out in the wilderness.

But Jesus said, "Peter, you ol’ boy scout, we’re not camping out here. This is a mountain top. People don’t live on the top of the mountain, but down in the valleys. The mercy of God goes with us down into the valley. That’s where we find people oppressed. That’s where we find people suffering. That’s where we’ll find people homeless. That’s where we’ll find people hungry, and lonely. That's where we'll find people sick, and in prison, and those out of their minds, heads filled with anger, fear, worries, or feeling of inadequacy. That’s where we will find injustice that needs to be challenged."

The mercy of God cannot be captured or caged or kept in a castle behind a moat, or within the confines of this church building.

The mercy of God cannot stay here (in the heart). God has declared the mercy of God shall be let loose. "The mercy of God shall die at the hands of evil and wicked people," (we'll get to that during Holy Week), but it will NOT be extinguished. The mercy of God will flare up again (we call that "resurrection," and we'll get to that when we get to Easter), but the mercy of God will flare up again and you will carry that flame down into the valleys and into the world.

And that is the miracle of the Transfiguration. It isn’t that Jesus was changed, but we got to see the light of God’s countenance in Jesus, and Jesus says, “It’s in you, too. Don’t stand still. Don’t be afraid. Even if others don’t see it, the light of God’s mercy burns brightly in you, too. And in you. And in you. And in you.”

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Fr. Keith+

God Helping

If the Lord had not come to my help, I should soon have dwelt in the land of silence. Psalm 94

The lights are on, but nobody’s home. That’s me at the moment. Thoughts, ideas, themes, issues, problems, solutions – they’re all running through my mind at near-light-speed – so fast I can’t grab ahold of even one of those ideas, one of those images, anything at all. I want sticky tape on my hands, but they’d been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray instead.

Many of the things I’d like to talk about – write about – lie outside the carton in which this column is  usually located. That’s as it should be. I am not a political pundit or expert on societal matters. I’ve got my opinions, of course, and I can assure you they are all well thought out, cogent, and would be most persuasive if presented (at least they convince ME that I’m right), but my role is not to debate current events or pretend seven hundred words on any topic will change the opinion of any reader.

And yet. And yet.

Should I remain silent in the face of evil? Should I remain silent in the face of mass shootings that take place daily? Should I remain silent in the pool of the commingling blood of thirty thousand gun deaths in our nation each year? Yes, mass shootings get all the publicity. If it bleeds it leads, as they say. But how about the nearly twenty thousand suicides? Should I remain silent to the cries of those whose only solution to the hell they’re in is to kill themselves?

Should I remain silent to the ongoing violence suffered by people of color – at the hands of those whose job is to protect and to serve – regardless of color? It does not matter that most cops are good people doing good work most of the time for most of their communities, including communities of color. But should I remain silent when accountability appears to be the exception rather than the rule? 

Should I remain silent when the rights of half our population are brazenly taken away by the capricious decision of six people – out of 330 million? A body of nine is supposed to take care of us against the overreaching whims of executive and legislative branches of government, but who’s got our backs against those nine? Should I remain silent, or whistle my way through the graveyard?

Elie Wiesel, the Romanian-born American writer and survivor of the Nazi death camps says, “Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy … sensitivities become irrelevant.”

“Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” 

A priest was upset by some situation a few years ago and, in addressing the matter in her sermon uttered an expletive. While I have sometimes been less than pristine in my own preaching and teaching it, none-the-less, caught me off-guard. I reflected on the preacher’s choice and asked myself, “What’s worse: a bad word or the deaths of all those children? Which is the real obscenity?”

I can assure you, I don’t have all the answers. Human beings are complex creatures quite capable of taking any solution to any problem and either making them too complex to work, or giving them enough loopholes to drive an eighteen wheeler through. “In chaos there is profit,” declared the Tony Curtis character in Operation Petticoat. 

Heck, God gave Moses Ten Commandments, expanded them to 613 laws (Mitzvot) by the time the folks got to the Promised Land. Jesus tried to simplify things, cutting them to two: Love God, Love Neighbor & Self. At the very least he knew that hate doesn’t work. Getting even doesn’t work. Getting ahead doesn’t work. Being a doormat doesn’t work. Neither does silence.

Love requires that I speak out. Love requires that I listen. Humility requires we acknowledge that we can’t do it alone, but we can, God helping, do better together.

Now, back to my original question: what have I got to say about faith and life today? That’s a real puzzler here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Intinction: To Sip or to Dip. That is the Question

I would like to offer some thoughts on the practice of Intinction in the Episcopal Church – thoughts that arise from nearly sixty years of worship in Episcopal churches from coast to coast, and from nearly forty years of practice as an ordained priest in the Episcopal Church, leading people in their worship and celebrating the Eucharist in congregations both tiny and large.

Intinction is a term we use for the process of dipping communion bread into the wine. For most of Christian history (in the Western tradition), people have taken Holy Communion (also known as the Mass, the Lord’s Supper, the Divine Liturgy, or the Eucharist – among others) by receiving the bread first (in the hand or upon the tongue), followed by wine sipped from the Common Cup (Chalice). Over the past century or so, as the public has become more aware of things like germs, bacteria, and viruses, the practice of “intinction” has crept into religious life as a (theoretically) “safer” (more hygienic) option.

Setting public health matters aside for a moment, let’s talk about Communion. When Jesus instituted the Last Supper, he identified two specific things he wanted his followers to continue: Eat this Bread, and Drink this Cup. In Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians, he reminds the church there to continue the practice that he (Paul) had received (and has passed along to them), which was to eat this bread and drink this cup. In the New Testament, it is clear that there are two substances to be received (bread and wine) and two actions to be undertaken (eat and drink). Those were Jesus’ instructions, and so that is what the Church has done for the past twenty centuries.

Over time, questions about certain details have arisen about how we “do” communion. Bread and wine are reserved and taken to the sick and shut-ins, for instance. The Church has recognized that Christ is really present in those elements as they are distributed by the laity or clergy. 

Christ is really present. That’s important to remember. “Where two or three are gathered together in my Name, I am there,” said Jesus. Communion isn’t just the bread and wine, it is the Body gathered, breaking, praying, and sharing. Communion is our being together “in Christ.” 

A person who may only receive the bread (or wine) is presumed to have benefited from having received both. For instance an alcoholic may choose to forgo the wine, and one with Crohn’s disease may forgo eating the bread, and one on a ventilator may forgo receiving either kind; each will still have received communion “in full.”

Practices have varied over the years. In some places the faithful receive only the bread, while the priest receives both. In our Episcopal (or Anglican) tradition, we receive in both kinds. The bread is most often placed in the open palm of the recipient, while the wine is distributed from a common cup we call the chalice. The person with the chalice wipes the cup after each person drinks from it, using a fair white cloth called a purificator (that which purifies). They wipe the rim both inside and out. Studies have shown that silver has some antiseptic properties, and a properly used purificator does an excellent job of cleaning the cup.

Intinction was rarely, if ever, used until the public became more aware of sanitation and hygiene. Personal intuition suggests that intinction (dipping the bread into the wine) is simply more sanitary than drinking from a common cup. Obviously a purificator can’t get “all” the germs, so dipping has just GOT to be safer. But, alas, such is not the case, primarily because of, well, people. Hands and fingertips tend to be much more dangerous (from a hygienic perspective) than the mouth. Leaving toileting habits aside, our hands are in constant contact with things other hands have touched. No matter how “clean” one may feel they are, they simply aren’t.

Secondly, while an individual may be careful in how they dip the bread ever so slightly into the wine, the same cannot be said for everyone. 

There are some who barely touch the wine with their bread, and there are those who do a deep dive as if looking for an oyster that’s promised a pearl of great price. Some are careful to avoid touching the rim of the chalice, where others use the rim as a steadying platform from which to do their dip. Scientific studies have confirmed that intinction is the least sanitary option for consuming communion wine. So while intinction has become very common, especially during the recent pandemic, it is not hygienic and is being increasingly discouraged by those responsible for guiding our liturgical life.. 

This, of course, grates against our American ethos of the individual getting to choose to do it their way like Frank Sinatra and, if challenged, threatening to let their boots do the walking like Frank’s daughter, Nancy (Sheesh, if I ain’t dating myself here)! “You can’t be the boss of me” is America’s true National Anthem.

While Episcopalians, like most Americans, try to avoid being legalistic or slavish to the letter of the law, we do have practices that serve to unite us in our worship. We are guided by the Pauline dictum that all should be done “decently and in order.” Chaos is antithetical to the love of God in Christ, so we have practices which have stood the test of time in helping us worship God in Spirit and in the beauty of holiness. 

We serve bread and wine, each in a distinct manner, not because them’s the rules, but because we are followers of Jesus who gave us this very special sacrament to unite us to him and to one another. We eat the bread and we drink the wine because those are the two actions that Jesus prescribed. 

We may dunk our donuts into our coffee and we may dunk our Oreos into our milk, and all food and drink will make its way over our tongues, down our throats and into our digestive tracts, but Jesus wasn’t interested in any of that. Jesus reminds us in other places that it’s not what goes in that defiles us, but what comes out. 

A question one may want to ask is, what is coming out of our hearts if Jesus tells his followers to eat and drink, but we decide we know better? Isn’t our goal to unite with Jesus – with one another? If my dipping poses a danger to my brethren in a way that eating and drinking don’t, how does that unite? How does that show love? If I refuse to follow Jesus’ simplest instructions regarding the way I receive (or distribute) Communion, what does that say about my relationship with him? 

Will we go to hell if we intinct? Of course not. Our task, as lovers of the Lover is to show the world our love for God and one another by dining with each in the manner that was prescribed, not childishly, but thoughtfully, prayerfully, meditatively, carefully, and lovingly. 

A person may decline the cup as he or she wishes. The Chalice bearer will never ask "Why?” The Minister will never ask those who decline the Bread “Why?” If one chooses not to receive the bread because of health or sin, the priest will offer the person a blessing. If one chooses to decline drinking from the common cup, the chalice bearer will simply pause and lift the cup as a sign of blessing (a practice from which toasting at weddings and special meals comes).

That’s the wonderful thing about God’s grace as we practice it in the Episcopal Church. We have our practices (rites and ceremonies) and people are invited to participate as fully as they are able. Most may, few must, and all will be blessed. There will be times and situations where intinction may be preferable, but for now, knowing that Covid is an airborne problem and not one of touch, it’s time to return to the ancient, historic manner of receiving Holy Communion in a manner Jesus prescribed - He who is the Great Physician.

The Rev. Keith Axberg, Retired