I suspect many children have the same experiences of communion sacrament in church that I did. First, I was in awe of the somber tone in which it was explained, full of seriousness and warning, grace and blessing. At an early age, I heard it so often that I could have given the preparatory remarks myself, and often did in reenactments with my stuffed animals. But that awe was quickly overshadowed by my senses: the bread tasted so good; the grape juice was sweet and sharp, and there was too little of it to satisfy my desire, but just enough to wash down that flakey quarter-inch of flat bread.
I discovered that many adults didn’t know what I knew—the bread was often pie dough, homemade or from the store, rolled out flat, scored, baked, and broken along the scores. Pie dough has no leaven. But I knew because I had haunted my grandma, the pastor’s wife, when she cleaned the silver communion dishes afterwards. With Grandpa’s solemn words still echoing in my ears, I would follow her to the church kitchens where she would let me taste a few more pieces and drink the leftover juice. She would tell me how she made the bread, and even then, I understood that neither the bread nor juice were in themselves sacred, but the remembering was, and the state of my heart was. To complete the sacrament in pretense was sin—but to snack on the leftovers in the kitchen was just pie dough, grape juice, and Grandma. Still, I wasn’t going to tell anyone, rather suspecting that they wouldn’t approve. (Also, there was more for me.)
As I got older, I spent more time on my heart and less on the delight of the tastes of communion—a healthy re-emphasis, I think. Communion is, after all, about remembrance and the state of our own hearts. We are so quick to forget what great things have been done for us. But it was, I think, a neglect to relegate the delight of my senses to the foolish ordering of a childish heart.
I am reminded of Jesus’ first miracle: the water into wine. In communion, the wine (or juice) is a symbol of the glorious and divine blood spilled cruelly, willingly, and lovingly on our behalf. This blood is like no other; this blood is the only blood that can save. God the Father will only accept this perfect and innocent blood of His Son as payment for our sins. It is no wonder then, that the first miracle was water into wine, and not just any wine: the BEST. No one had tasted such wine.
So it is, then, that all of our senses play a part in our understanding of grace. Isn’t this what the beauty of art does? My childhood tastebuds were delighted by small morsels of communion goodness—not mere dry cracker and diluted juice—so that I sought out more. Those tiny bites were not enough. A moving song, excellent craftsmanship, a word fitly written all drive me to want more of the same. Should not my tastes of the Savior drive me to want Him more?
Jesus could have made the water into a mediocre, passable or even identical-to-the-previous wine, but I wonder if we would be talking about that event today if He had. Part of its very miracle was that it was delightful; better; good. The very taste buds of those guests told them that what they were experiencing was a goodness they had not previously known; the bodies that God had created informed them, in even a minute way, of the touch of the Creator. Every time we experience the loveliness of an artistic expression, we are experiencing the touch of the One Who First Created.
We do not worship the art; the wine, the bread. Isn’t it utter foolishness to worship the gifts more the Giver? Isn’t it a type of idolatry? We are easily distracted, easily confused. But as we hear beautiful music, we hear the distant chords of Heaven, the call of grace. As we smell pine in the winter and lilacs in the spring, we marvel that even in cursed earth, God can make such beauty; in sinful souls, he grows roses. As we hold hands, sculpt clay, write, marvel at rainbows and combine all our senses in a good meal or a walk on a sunny day, we are exercising the grace that doesn’t just give us life, but gives it in full measures of delight. When we confess our sinful hearts and taste sweet communion bread and juice, we discover that our God is not just great and holy, but good. Unhindered communion with Him is sweet. So, I suspect that the beauty of art, no matter who the artist is, serves to remind us of this good God.
In an effort to be a little more pandemic-conscious, a friend’s church tried an individual pre-packaged communion. They remarked that the bread was stale and the juice was sour—and they went back to pie crust and grape juice. Taste mattered. Though we might not say it aloud, we often act as though the bread and juice should taste of bitter herbs; as if we are not quite allowed to enjoy the taste, aroma, and texture. But may I suggest that communion bread and wine should taste good? It should be an unexpectedly flakey bite; the juice should be sweet, yet tangy. Every child, upon first tasting, should innocently say, “This is good! Can I have more?” Because that’s the point. There IS more—so much more! Our senses are the first place we experience common grace—the goodness of God. In fact, we will never know a day without it. It should never be dry, tasteless, or diluted. Such grace leads us to more—to the Giver and Creator.
On the first of every month, our church takes communion together. It is somber and silent, and may include tears, but oh, it tastes good.
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