Never been quite sure just what it meant,
precisely what I was affirming my belief in,
as I entered the Credal home stretch
and headed, breathless, for the life everlasting.
Then came Corona’s necessary distancing,
and I sat computer-side – oatcake, fruit juice,
votive candle – seeking my solitary way
through The Lord’s Supper, a virtual (virtuous?)
liturgy led by my friendly pastor on the screen.
In a way it seemed quite personal, intimate,
almost one-on-one. No elders bearing elements,
no distracting neighbors in the pews, no need
to fuss with masks, gloves and sanitizer.
But where to find the Church,
to know and feel that certain common touch,
that actual live and life-giving Communion?
Unless that is precisely what they meant,
those four old enigmatic words,
“The Communion of Saints.”
Unless, across the centuries – those cruel seasons
of isolation, imprisonment and worse –
those inspired divines were all along insisting
that whenever we take this loaf and cup,
we show not only the Lord’s death, but we unite
with such a company of witnessing believers,
such an eternal host of family and friends,
that space and time dissolve here,
and the feast embraces everyone and everywhere.
