Gatekeeping Communion

Finding God in the Bread, The Wine, and the Chickpea Stew

Communion was always an anomaly to me as a child. I loved and hated it. The gleaming gold plates holding matzo crumbs passed back and forth between pews. My sister and I in our Sunday dresses, scuffed white Mary Janes testing how high our feet could go without kicking the Bibles shelved in front of us. Werther’s butterscotch wrappers crinkled beneath tiny, sweaty hands. Communion was always the first of the month and it meant that we got out a half-hour later than normal. Nana always had hard candy in her patine leather purse, and we ate them even though they smelled like Menthols and Dawn dish soap.

I had always thought the ceremony of communion was beautiful; the unveiling of the neat rows of shimmering grape juice cups, in particular. The clinking of metal. The way the corner spotlight shone on the Cross that graced the highest tier. The sacred was so tangible you could eat it. Blood and wine and bread and body sounded just like every fantasy novel I had ever read played out in real-time; but I wasn’t allowed to partake as a child because “I didn’t fully understand what it meant to feel shame for my sins and to be absolved of them” before I was allowed access to the stale matzo cracker crumbs already fingered by half of the congregation. I must know what sin is and that it owned me, before Christ claimed me with his gruesome death while his Father looked away.

It also meant service was going to run an extra half hour to 45 minutes and we would probably hit the MacDonalds drive-thru on the way home in Nana’s Chevy Malibu with the red leather bench seats which was LIFE GIVING during yet another reprise of, “He Lives,” on the organ.

Decades later, when chickpea stew gave me the same feeling of awe and holiness, I had to question whether all spiritualized ceremonies were crocks OR that everything has spiritual meaning.

I’m still deciding, though I’m leaning toward the latter.

The gatekeeping of communion was the first indoctrination of earning my worth; my status as a believer. I knew then, in my white stockings and my paisley Peter Pan collar, that there was something that was no good inside of me; unclean. Something other. That, somehow this grace covered in bread and blood was handed out freely to everyone else, but it was something I would have to earn by being a good girl and following the rules.

Good girl and obedient girl were synonymous. It is one who conforms and wears cardigans. Pronounces “Gentile” not “Genital” in Sunday school for a laugh ( I will go to my grave swearing that it was accidental, and that in the second grade I had no concept of what genitals even were, but my Sunday School Teacher would have a different take). What I had learned from this messaging was simply this: if I wanted to pass the shiny plate with the blood and body inside and be included in this sacred ceremony of faith, I had best learn to hide my strength, my occasionally irreverent humor, my wit- the things that made me, me.

Decades later when R’s cousin was married in a cold and beautiful Catholic church, the cantor sang the communion song that just so happened to be in first person, from Christ’s perspective.

“If you eat my body and you drink my blood…” rang out onto the marbled floor and myself, R, his sister, and her husband could not control the fits of giggles that sent us careening toward the kneeling bench to hide our reddened faces.

I’m not sure I would have been able to verbalize then what struck such a funny chord; but at the root of it, communion, for me, was never transubstantiation. It’s not about eating the flesh of Jesus rolled into a wafer, dipped into a communal goblet of grape juice. By definition, communion is, “the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, especially when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level.” Communion is not about whether or not you’ve been a good girl and thusly, earned your spot in the line.

How we were holding hands, stifling giggles, and pointing fingers at each other; this was communion. How, after the tears from the laughter settled we were all so moved at being under one roof, for one purpose we cried at the benediction. This was communion. How we showed up, together, for others, and still continue to to this day, is communion.

Throughout my entire childhood I believed that if I wanted a seat at the table, I had to be who they were. Who they wanted me to be. And so, I was. I got so good at it you would never know that I wasn’t that girl at all. I forgot, myself. Until years later, the costume I had thought for sure would grow with my own changing tore in two, and I was left to face the truth of who I actually was:

Someone worthy of communion after all.

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I’m not saying that after the making of this stew, you also might experience a sacred moment that helps you realize how perfect holy the ordinary can be. I’m not saying you won’t, either.

Recipe: Chickpea Stew (Adapted from Alison Roman’s, “The Stew”)

Ingredients

• ¼ cup cooking oil ( I like extra virgin olive oil the best)

• 2-3 garlic cloves, chopped

• 1 large white onion, chopped

• 1 (2-inch) piece fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped

• sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

• 1 ½ teaspoons ground turmeric, plus more for serving

• 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes, plus more for serving

• 3 cups cooked chickpeas or 2 (15-ounce) cans, drained and rinsed

• 2 (15-ounce) cans full-fat coconut milk*

• 2 cups chicken stock (preferably homemade)

• 1 bunch of organic kale ( other greens can be substituted in a pinch, but I really prefer the texture of the kale in this)

• 1 cup of fresh mint and cilantro leaves, for serving

• full-fat greek yogurt or dairy-free yogurt, or creme fresh if you’re feeling fancy for serving (optional)

Saute the onions, garlic, and fresh ginger in olive oil until translucent. Add the red pepper flakes, tumeric, salt, and pepper and stir. Add chickpeas and cook on medium heat for 3-5 minutes, until they smell a little toasty. Add the chicken stock (I make my own, but boxed is fine), coconut milk, and kale. Cook until kale softens. Serve with fresh herbs and a dollop of yogurt, sour cream or creme fresh.