To Whom Does God Offer Refuge?

It took me three and a half years, but a few weeks ago I finally started drinking out of the common cup during the Eucharist.

My hesitation was not theological — it was visceral. Frankly, it grossed me out to drink out of a common cup, even though I was reminded time and again that the port wine we used killed germs through its high alcohol content. Having been raised in a tradition in which ushers passed around a metal plate with little cups of grape juice, I was also worried that I would “do it wrong” and somehow mess up the Lord’s Supper, my favorite part of any church service.

Don’t get me wrong: I love a good, meaty, three-point sermon, but I can listen to that sermon — or any, if it’s on the web — in the privacy and comfort of my own home. But by it’s very nature, the Eucharist is meant to be shared with other Christians in the context of worship. It’s meant to be a blessing bestowed and a meal served to the faithful. It’s meant to be a moment when you publicly acknowledge your spiritual hunger. It’s meant to be a joyful family meal and shared among brothers and sisters who probably would never sit down to eat with each other save for Christ’s hospitality.

And for me, drinking out of the common cup has become a visceral reminder that I am part of these people and they are part of me. It is a practice in vulnerability — I am literally taking in the physical sufferings and experiences of whoever drank before me. I’m making myself susceptible to their colds, whatever they ate or drank earlier, their bacteria, etc. And I’m trusting that it will all shake out and be OK somehow because I’m doing this in obedience to Christ.

I’ve thought about this obedience to vulnerability in light of the current conversation our nation has been having about the refugee crisis, in particular since the attacks in Paris this weekend. The fearful calls to close our border have been disheartening, especially as we begin to enter the season of Advent. Jesus, as God incarnate, saw our sin and flaws and darkness — our hostility even — to the Light and still made himself vulnerable to live among us and die at our hand. Through the cross he offered a generous hospitality to us while we were still enemies of God — a feast of himself, for us to taste and see that God is good.

It should not be any different for us as followers of Christ. As any Christian knows, being part of the Body of Christ is often a dangerous proposition. We are in danger of getting hurt any time we come into contact with another person. We will sin against each other, we will experience conflict, and if we’re doing it right, we’ll bear each other’s suffering. We are knit together with people we may not typically associate, people who view the world in ways we may find misguided at best and dangerous at worst. It doesn’t matter — we’re still invited to the same feast and we’re still joined together in the same family, drinking out of the same cup the way family members and close friends do.

Even more so, Jesus identifies specifically with the hungry, the prisoners, and yes, the stranger. He tells his faithful that when we feed and care for and welcome the “least of these” we are doing that to him. Doing this makes us vulnerable — we become more vulnerable financially, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. We do what he did for us and take on the suffering of others, even at risk to ourselves and our own safety. This is what it means to be a follower of Christ.

So when, during the Lord’s Supper I watch all of the church — all different people from different socioeconomic backgrounds, races, and political beliefs — rise and line up to receive the bread and the wine, it’s also a reminder that despite those differences, we are all in a sense refugees and recipients of God’s gracious hospitality. We have fled from the oppression of sin and evil, of the “domain of darkness” to “the kingdom of [God’s] beloved Son.” We are hungry and thirsty spiritually, and Jesus feeds us. We have been naked in our sin and Christ has clothed us in his righteousness. Our hearts and minds are being healed. We were imprisoned by our sin and lusts and fears and not only has Jesus visited us, he has set us free.

This past Sunday I visited a church I do not typically attend, but which has embraced me as a part of their community anyway. I shared a pew with three people I have recently befriended and who bring me great joy and delight as we’ve opened our lives to each other. I shared the common cup, though it was not my primary church, because the welcome I’ve received has made me feel like family. In a way, those friendships are a refuge and feast in and of themselves, a reminder of God’s abundance and hospitality. We are called to offer the same. This is what it means to be a follower of Christ.