Communion Matters

I arrived at the church at exactly 6pm, pleased with myself that I was not late, and with the fact that despite the traffic and heavy rain I had managed to get there on time, in one piece, composed. But as it turned out I was late, as the service had already begun. In fact the time had been changed from the regular 6pm start hour to an earlier 5.30pm commencement – on the occasion of the local community’s celebration of the First Holy Communion of the young children of the parish. 

Lovely damsels dressed in white gowns with green garlands in their hair lined the front pews, occupying places of honour for their big day. Boys sat separately in their smart or smart-casual attire, not looking half as celestial as their sister counterparts. Mums and dads, relatives and god parents sat in between and behind them. The rest of the congregation filled the remaining pews in the second half, rear part of the church. I sat outside. No room at the Inn for me, although I had not searched earnestly for a place to sit.

While I tried to follow the service from a position of restricted viewing, I focused on the patterns of the pale white and ochre coloured tiles beneath my feet. I recalled a conversation I had had with my son only a few days earlier about how if you stared at such tiles for long enough you would be able to “see” things. We agreed at the time that this was so and mutually verified each other’s experiences. 

The marble-like tiles showed their faces to me this evening. Lions, gargoyles, monsters; Christ-like visages, Neanderthal men, Homo sapiens apes. Faces, half faces, a solitary, lost eye, with a countenance halved as if having been tortured, spoiled or disfigured in some way. Mutilated, yet a recognisable face. I considered my need to make meaning and order out of such chaotic shapes. Perhaps we all have this need and ‘see’ what we want to see. I have had this experience all of my life. Is it worrying, or is it just evidence of an imagination at play?

At what I thought was the opportune time, I went up to receive Communion myself, as is my custom. Upon reaching the foot of the altar, however, I realised that today the Host was not being distributed to all and sundry, and computing my mistake further, I continued walking to the right nonchalantly, as if to give the impression that I had only come forward to ‘have a closer’ look at the proceedings. Inside I felt red with embarrassment, and maybe one or two parishioners also observed this as I sensed their gaze fixed in my direction, but the moment passed off quickly enough. I returned to my seat, host–less.