Guest commentary by William McConnell
It was a normal weekend in the life of a denominational “road warrior” in the days before COVID-19. A Friday flight to Memphis, a city I’ve visited but don’t know well; hotel, email, voicemail and social media check-ins; Google search for a barbecue restaurant (I do know that much about Memphis); dinner and return to the hotel; and a restful sleep (road warriors learn to sleep anywhere on a moment’s notice).
Saturday morning — situation normal. Find the church where presbytery will meet, set up the display table, join the presbytery members for worship and Communion, make a presentation to the presbytery, attend the presbytery business meeting and join in honoring a soon-to-be-retired pastor whose contributions to the church writ large have been substantial and, finally, make plans for dinner. Later, a lovely dinner with a pastor and her family complete some funny Presbyterian connections between this family, a high school friend we have in common and myself, involving funny stories and far too many serendipities.
Sunday morning — still blissfully normal. Choose an appropriate bow tie, attend worship in the church where presbytery had been held, celebrate communion with a different set of Christians at the same Lord’s Table as yesterday and, since it was snowing lightly, think through flight arrangements to make sure there would be no trouble making it to the airport on time.
Just as I thought normal would continue, I felt a tug at my arm. The benediction and charge had been pronounced and the organist was playing a well-prepared and beautiful postlude. Before I grasped completely what was happening, my friend the pastor was insistently pulling me toward the Communion table. Hesitation was not in the equation. There, standing quietly at the table was a rather disheveled man whose home, by all indications, was the street. A person with the leathery skin of someone who had spent inordinate amounts of time outside in all sorts of weather, and whose access to facilities for a good bath were decidedly limited. He had come to the table as he was and was asking to be fed. Jesus, is that you?
As my friend spoke the man’s name and offered him bread – This is the bread of life, given for you – and as she asked me to offer him the cup – This is the cup of salvation, poured out for you – I knew Christ was present with us.
After receiving the sacrament, the man answered my friend’s pastoral questions about himself and his family, obviously growing from a personal connection between the pastor and this beloved child of God. We prayed with him, naming needs that my friend knew from this and previous conversations. I then watched as he exited the sanctuary and was invited by members of this wealthy and well-groomed congregation to join them for a monthly after-church lunch. I don’t know if he stayed, but I know he was invited. Jesus, is that you?
Broken bread and poured wine. Common elements set aside for uncommon use. I’ve celebrated the Eucharist many times – twice that weekend – but that moment at the table after worship had officially concluded was no ordinary Lord’s Supper. It was a profoundly holy meal hopefully followed by a hot and satisfying earthly feast. It was an unexpectedly Holy Communion.
When were you hungry and we gave you food to eat? … When you did it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it unto me. (Matthew 25:39-40)
Jesus, I think that was you.
WILLIAM McCONNELL works in Louisville as a mission engagement advisor in the Presbyterian Mission Agency. He is a lifelong Presbyterian, church musician and bowtie aficionado.
