This morning in church, I was sitting there waiting for the communion, which we do every Sunday at Grace Chicago. It occurred to me that communion has long been a ritual fraught with anxiety for me. I dunno how many of you have been taught to approach the communion ritual with a certain kind of introspective care, but that's one lesson that I've never forgotten.

You'll recall, Gentle Reader, the passages in the NT about folks turning communion into Drunken Loutfest '73, and about how folks even got physically sick and died as a result of celebrating communion like Oktoberfest.

I spent a lot of moments earlier in my life highly nervous about whether or not I could in good conscience take the bread and wine. I know that has something to do with my OCD issues, but what it's left me with is a habit of reflecting on my attitude toward God in those moments before communion. And these days, I'm testing out different attitudes.

It will likely come as no surprise to you that I spend a lot of my time angry with God. As I sat there today, though, I asked the question: can I approach the table, eat the bread and drink the wine, all the while feeling anger?

The answer for me was that there is no emotion that the God who made me is not big enough to get his arms around, and even in that anger I can step up and identify myself with God, if he can identify me with himself.

So the moral of the story is that regardless of my state of mind, the communion table is a return to roots, deeper than a stray thought, beyond circumstances, and able to withstand even an angry heart. Unlike the terror of my youth in xianity, I don't see too many situations now where I would abstain from the table.