This is My Body, Broken
Cara Howard
W
e sat on plastic chairs arranged in a circle: ten middle-aged, suburban, female disciples. Our small group leader stood in the center and led us in communion. After reading from the guide provided for her, she moved down the line, stopping to offer the elements to each person. When she reached my seat and lowered the small woven basket, I expected to find a wafer or a loaf of bread from which to tear off a chunk. Instead, I lifted out what looked like a single-serve coffee creamer or a pod for a Keurig machine. A disposable cup held both body and blood in two sealed sections: individual portions in an all-in-one package. The Bible verse in cursive script on the top of the peel-away lid read: “This is My body, broken for you.” At least I think it did. The paper had gotten wet, causing the red ink to bleed.
52
I scanned the faces of my fellow Bible study members. If others were surprised by this prepackaged communion, they didn’t show it. Once everyone had been served, we were invited to “take and eat” the bread, but I couldn’t figure out how to free the circular wafer. I inserted the end of my just-clipped fingernail between the layers but couldn’t get them to separate. Looking down at my boots, I crossed my arms and bit the inside of my cheek until the moment passed. I thought about how many times I’d been a part of this ritual, how sacred it had felt to reenact the Last Supper, reflecting on the magnitude of Christ’s loving sacrifice for us. My mind flashed to other forms of bread I’d been given over the years: bakery loaves, Matzah pieces, grocery-store saltines, cross-imprinted crackers. Now, I held in my hand the embodiment of my growing disillusionment