On many nights here the dinner hour and the worship hour we’ve scheduled blur together, the dinner table becoming the communion table.
Just like it was in the ancient church. Just like it should be, I think.
Because the mountain village where we’re working this week is so remote, we’re not lodging or eating in the city below as many volunteer teams do. We’re here in the village, housed and fed by the same people we’re serving.
I can’t really describe how it feels (humbling? unnerving? indicting?) to be fed by people for whom the sound of an empty belly is as present a daily reality as the barking of the wild dogs at night. I eye my portions, trying to imagine what they look like through Mayan eyes. I clean my plate because, well, there are children starving in Guatemala.
Every meal time I feel like the categories we’ve brought with us as do-gooders from the States are upended. I mean… we’re there to serve but then there at the table we discover we’re the ones being served. It’s at the table I realize how fluid is the distinction between who’s the servant and who’s the served. It’s when that same dinner table transitions to the communion table that I realize this fluidity is exactly how it should be.
In his book Life Together, Bonhoeffer, says:
‘Christian community at the table signifies our obligation. It is our daily bread that we eat, not my own. We share our bread. Thus we are firmly bound to one another not only in Spirit, but with our whole physical being. The one bread that is given to our community unites us in a firm covenant. Now no one must hunger as long as the other has bread…as long as we eat our bread together, we will have enough even with the smallest amount. Hunger begins only when people desire to keep their own bread for themselves. Could not the story of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000 with two fish and five loaves of bread also have this meaning?’