Communion for Dummies

Lately, at church, Dan and I have found ourselves being asked to participate in a more adult capacity. When we were in our post-college twenties, people left us alone, probably figuring we were career-fast-track DINKs (Double Income No Kids). But once we hit our thirties, the calls started rolling in.

"Can you lead a small group?"

"Can you at least be in a small group?"

"Can you cook sausages for the youth breakfast?"

"Can you help at the food bank?"

"Can you serve on the mission/leadership/you-fill-in-the-blank board?"

Once my husband was asked, "Don't you want to pray about it first?" to which he replied, "No" and hung up the phone. (The following Sunday, not wanting the poor caller to think we were upset or offended by her request, I explained to her that my husband was a man of mostly one word answers, and we were flattered she even thought of us.)

I don't know what happened when Dan and I reached our thirties. We are still DINKs, still in the midst of a wild, fast-paced lifestyle, consisting mostly of watching Battlestar Galactica on the weekends. Maybe people think if you haven't had kids by the time you hit thirty, it is because you want to devote all of your time to church work.

Anyway, our church wants to bestow upon us more adult responsibility, but we are just not ready for it. We discovered this after we finally gave in and agreed to serve communion.

Baptists like their communion to move along. We don't go to the altar pew by pew to dip our bread and kneel and pray. We pass the bread while the minister talks a little bit about the body; then we pass the tiny plastic cups of grape juice (no alcohol - we are Baptists, after all) while the minister talks a little bit about the blood; then we're done. There was a lot of pressure on Dan and me to perform this task like . . . well . . . adults.

The first week, we were stationed at the front of the sanctuary. I could almost see the motors cranking in Dan's engineer brain as he tried to figure out how to get the two of us back up to the front, each of us carrying a plate.

In our attempts to serve communion scientifically, I ended up making a little old lady scoot all the way across an empty pew to pass the heavy plate along when I could have just held it for her.

"Maybe I should have made that little old lady on my pew scoot too," Dan told me later as I lamented my inconsiderate behavior. "Then it would have worked out."

At the next pew, thinking I had learned my lesson, I started to take the plate back from another elderly woman in an attempt to prevent her from having to pass it herself. But Dan gave me a subtle shake of his head indicating that this did not fit into his formula. That little old lady also had to scoot down the pew with a heavy tray of grape juice in her hand.

A few rows later, Dan started to pass the plate but quickly yanked it away as the person attempted to grab a cup ("Give me five . . . Too slow, Joe"). Then Dan gestured to me to pass the plate from the opposite side.

Despite our efforts, Dan still ended up carrying two plates, and I ended up with zero. And we snickered our way through the entire ritual which has to be some sort of heresy. We were pretty certain we would be banished for life from communion service.

But the next month, we were still on the roster.

"We don't know why we keep getting asked to do this," I told the minister before the church service. "We really suck at it." (I realize this is probably not the most reverent phrase to use while speaking to a minister about communion.)

"Maybe you should write a book on how not to serve communion," he said, laughing at my apparent anxiety. "You could call it Communion for Dummies."

Later, when he was making his way up the aisle, he leaned over and said with a smile, "Now don't be nervous about communion, you two."

That was the week Dan was worried about serving the minister and the musicians. He had talked about it all morning, wondering if he should serve them before, during, or after the prayer or if he should serve them before the rest of congregation.

After serving, we are supposed to wait in the middle of the sanctuary until someone (usually the tallest person) nods his/her head. Then we return to the front, the perfect time to serve those behind the pulpit.

But Dan broke away from the rest of us and raced up the aisle toward the musicians and minister. I started off after him whispering, "WAIT!"

I stopped as soon as I realized people were staring at us and, like a good rule-following former preacher's kid, stood patiently until given the signal to return to the front.

Surprisingly, we still weren't fired.

But we were stationed in the back the next time.

This time, Dan forgot to take bread with him into the sanctuary.

“What are you doing?” I called after him, just above a stage whisper.

He stopped at the door and glanced around, trying to figure out what he was forgetting.

"You forgot the bread!" I said. "What are you thinking?"

“I was raised in a small church," he said, snatching the bread tray out of my hands. "We only needed one plate for the whole congregation.”

Dan and I still have not perfected the exact science of serving communion. But for some incomprehensible reason, we keep getting asked back.

In fact, last communion Sunday, the communion coordinator pumped our hands ardently and said, "Boy, am I glad you two are here. Thank you so much."

I almost said, "Are you sure? Have you ever watched us serve communion?"