How We Receive
FROM THE RECTOR
Seminaries are laboratories for liturgical experimentation. Even though the prayer book and other authorized resources provide fairly narrow parameters within which worship must be conducted, a seminary chapel is a great place—perhaps the only appropriate place—to push those boundaries. Seminarians can try out outlandish homiletical techniques. They can learn which hymns are truly singable and which ones belong only in seminary chapels. They can observe every last minor feast and learn about those saints most of us have never heard of.
When I was in seminary, the student body was split up into study groups, each of which was responsible for leading worship in the seminary chapel for one week of the semester. We provided the preachers, chose the music, and designed the variable components of the liturgy in order to convey a particular theme. When it was our turn, our small group of a dozen or so seminarians put our heads together and tried to come up with a series of services that would leave a lasting impression on the community. I look back and realize the only impression I came away with was a lasting sense of our hubris.
I can remember absolutely nothing about that week of worship except that we were chastised for suggesting to the study body that, in order to experience the sacrifice of Christ more fully, we should all receive our communion wafers broken in two before intincting them in the chalice of wine. Admittedly, it was a bad idea to begin with, but none of us anticipated the reason we were given. We were told that during the AIDS crisis in the 1980s, when scientists had not yet identified how HIV was spread, churches in places like New York told their parishioners to stop drinking from the chalice and told them to intinct their wafer instead. That seemed like a reasonable public health initiative at the time, but the unintended consequence was a lasting stigma against sharing Communion with people whose lifestyle made them statistically more likely to carry HIV. “Never tell people how they are supposed to receive Communion,” we were taught. “Trust them to receive it however they choose.”
Earlier this month at clergy conference, our bishop revealed his annual “liturgical abomination,” a playful title he chooses to convey a bit of silliness when identifying a mistake in worship that he has noticed throughout the diocese. In previous years, he has singled out tiny lavabo bowls and too-tall missal stands. This year, perhaps struggling to find anything worth pointing out, the bishop reminded us that, when we receive Communion, tradition holds that we would receive it in our right hand instead of our left. Why? For a number of reasons, none of which seems particular important to me.
Historically, there have been many value judgments made on the basis of whether something is “dexter” (right) or “sinister” (left). Just ask a left-handed person about the difference between sheep and goats. In the past, I am sure that confirmands were dutifully instructed always to receive the wafer in their “ungloved right hand,” but clearly I have been negligent in my duties as priest and catechist, having never told anyone which hand they should hold out at Communion. I suppose that, for your sake and mine, when the bishop is here, we had better get it right.
Although I have my own well-established habits for receiving Communion, it never occurred to me to consider which hand to put on top. Even though I might obsess about other minute details, that part never mattered to me—until now. What about you? What are the elements of receiving Communion that you notice? Which habits matter to you? Do you prefer to kneel at the altar rail or come to the floor station in front of the pulpit? Do you genuflect when you step into the aisle? Do you cross yourself before receiving? After? Not at all? Do you kneel through the eucharistic prayer? What about for the prayer after Communion? How do you feel about the Prayer of Humble Access? Do you prefer that we maintain a lengthy silence after the bread is broken?
I have strong feeling about nearly everything, but, when it comes to Communion, I feel most strongly the desire to get out of the way and allow you to encounter Jesus Christ in whatever way is most meaningful to you. There are customary methods for showing due reverence to the Real Presence of Christ in the consecrated bread and wine, but I trust you to worship the One who meets you in Communion in ways that deepen your connection with God. If that means putting your ungloved right hand over your left, then do it. God is worthy of any effort we would make on God’s behalf, though I suspect God cares more about what those efforts mean to us.
During the summer of 2021, when Covid cases were on the rise, we stopped allowing people to sip from the chalice. Knowing how frequently communicants’ fingers accidentally dip into the wine, we even stopped allowing people to intinct for themselves. If you wanted the wine, the clergyperson administering the bread would dip it for you before placing it in your hand. That switch made me very uncomfortable, and I resisted it. At the time, I grossly underestimated the importance of making that change for the peace of mind of the whole congregation, and I pushed back hard against the vestry, who had asked for it. Ultimately, after consulting multiple physicians, I relented and accepted their suggestion, and I am glad I did. Thankfully, there have been no widespread Covid outbreaks in our congregation.
This Easter, we went back to unrestricted access to Communion. At first, only a few people sipped from the chalice, and several shared with me that they never plan to receive the wine again. As the months have gone by, more and more seem to be receiving the wine—enough that lately the priest has had to consecrate additional wine several times. While I would not presume to tell you how you are supposed to receive, I would remind you that we believe that we are given the full grace of Holy Communion whether we receive in one kind or both, whether we dip or sip, whether we kneel or stand. And those who cannot join us in person are encouraged to make their Spiritual Communion, seeking the fullness of God’s grace through an encounter with Christ even when the physical elements of bread and wine are not available.
Wherever you are on your pilgrimage of faith, you are welcome in this church, and you are welcome at God’s table. We believe that, and we strive to practice it. We share this holy encounter with each other even though each of us has our own little ways of doing it. In an effort to broaden your worship experience, consider trying out your own liturgical experimentation—perhaps standing this week instead of kneeling, or genuflecting just to feel what it is like to encounter God through another gesture. If it works, try it out for a season, and, if not, you can always go back to what is familiar. For me, I am going to try to remember to put my right hand on top and to search for the significance within it.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner