It might seem irreverent; what I’m about to share. It isn’t meant to be. It’s meant exactly how you read it.
Somehow, each Sunday morning, as I pick up that teeny tiny square cracker meant to represent the body of Christ, broken for me, and for you, I worry that it can’t possibly be enough to cover my multitude of sins. This cracker, no bigger than my fingernail is meant to represent the body, the body! of the One who died, on purpose, because of His great love for me. And you.
That almost ludicrous-sounding truth sears my brain every single time I pick up that teensy cracker and ponder the entirety that it’s meant to signify.
So, while I’m chewing, I pray, “Please, God, stick in my teeth. Let that little bit that’s still stuck up there in the top right back molar just… stay. I don’t want it to be swallowed down. Let it just stick right there and cover me! Amen.”
As I head into Sunday, that will, again, be my prayer, shot Heavenward, when I partake of communion.
Irreverent? Maybe. Heartfelt? Indeed!