This is my Body...

When you have cancer, everyone brings you food. Lots and lots of bubbling, delicious, wonderful, nutritious, warm, tasty food. [And some that is so deliciously not good for us, but we're kind of okay with that.] I *guess* we'll eat it if we *have* to! In the 60ish days since we got our initial diagnosis, we have had someone drop off a meal nearly every other day - I have cooked a little bit, as needed, but not very much, honestly. Probably a good thing, if the days after diagnosis were any indicator - all I remember is forgetting to thaw anything for dinner, and trying to microwave-thaw a steak, sobbing as I broke off pieces of frozen styrofoam, trying to speed up the process as kids cried and tugged at every appendage. Thank you, everyone who has fed us, for preventing this, or worse, from being our nightly spectacle. All of those meals, they feel like love to us. A few weekends ago, as two separate families - one, a friend from high school that I'd only recently reconnected with after a decade apart, the other, a former student from my campus ministry days that I hadn't seen in years - dropped off meals for us back to back, I had the very clear thought: "This is my Body, broken for you." "This is my body, broken for you. Take and eat." These are the words of institution, for the sacrament of Communion in the Christian church. Jesus' words, as he ate the last supper with his disciples, and prepared them for his death to come. Reminding them to remember his death and resurrection, and to cling to its power and humility. Christians believe that in partaking of it, we symbolize (or, depending on your denomination, it is literally) how we are joined with Christ in his death, and thereby also, his resurrection. Christians also say that we, as the universal Church, are called the "Body of Christ" here on earth. Meaning, we're bound to Christ and to one another, resurrected together through his physical death and resurrection, and called to live out his purposes here on earth until He comes again. .... Faith has never been simple for me - I am a cynic and a wrestler, even through years of ministry. Whether the spiritual abuse I've seen, all the questions I have, the scientist or the feminist in me, or my fiercely driven-by-justice personality - my faith has very rarely been easy. I laugh a little bit when others tell me that people turn to faith in hard times because it's the easier path - for me that has never been the case. Crisis leads my husband to cling to Jesus more tightly. It leads me to anger and questions. And then clinging to Jesus - but I get there slower than Jon does. But in the two and a half decades that I've called myself a Christian, I've come to realize that that's okay. A God who cannot handle my questions, my anger, and my doubts, is not particularly worth following. A God who is fully understood by my human mind and intellect, well, that's a rather small God. As I've wrestled and sought answers, and abandoned faith, and then returned to it, I am more convinced than ever before that there has to be a God, and that the Christian God manifest through the person of Jesus, well, that is more persuasive to me than any other - logically, personally, empirically. And yet, these past few years, I've really struggled with Christianity, and in particular, people that call themselves Christians and yet live in ways antithetical to what Jesus proclaimed. Evangelicalism has felt politicized, judgmental, and not Christ-centered. And I have wanted to run as far from this body as I can... which is not far, when still clinging to the God of the Bible, made known through Jesus, who loved his people, his Body, to the point of giving up everything for them/us. ... And yet, as I carried warm food up the stairs to my already packed refrigerator, the thought kept running through my head - this is my Body, broken for you. This is my Body, broken for you. ... The Body of Christ, meaning Christians, we are a messy bunch. We can often be arrogant, self-righteous, judgmental, and hypocritical (among many other positive characteristics like compassion, humility, generosity, hope, and joy, to name a few). We fail, often, to mirror the God that we claim to follow. And yet. And yet, our village - this Body - it is tangibly demonstrating the love of Christ to me, every other day. It is heart-broken and bending over backwards - breaking - for my family, loving us in this our season of pain. And every other day, it shows up at my door proclaiming, "take and eat." This might be sacrilegious, but this regular meal delivery, it's like communion for my body and soul. It reminds me, you are not alone - we love you and are with you. You are not alone, you have a hope that is greater than this any limitation or fear. It bids me "take and eat" because this body of your people, we care about you deeply and will bring you to Christ, through our prayers and our tangible cares, in this season. Our village is being the Body of Christ, broken for us. It bids me take and eat, warm, delicious, nutritious food, and in so doing, remember the goodness and sacrificial love of the Lord. For those who are not Christians, but have loved our family well in the last few weeks - I'm not trying to lump you in with anything that makes you uncomfortable - I'm simply saying that you have loved us in a way that has reflected the truest and deepest love I can imagine, and I am so deeply grateful. ... I remember my first communion, years and years ago. I was 10 years old, and had newly said the sinner's prayer and claimed Christianity as my own. There was cancer involved then too - my mom's second round of breast cancer that time. I had decided to accept Jesus because I was scared of what would happen if she died and I was left behind. While fear is never a good motivator, and there were so many parts of Christianity that I did not understand or grasp at all, it was an authentic decision, and I remember the holy weightiness of that first communion, fully joining in with the Body of Christ for the first time. Now decades later, my faith is far deeper and more certain - my questions, fears and doubts different - refined by years of familiarity and wrestling. But it isn't fear that invites me into the holiness of Communion these days. It's the tangible love of those around me. It's homemade lasagne and baked french toast, it's takeout pizza and steaming hot bowls of pho, it's split pea soup and sourdough bread, edible arrangements and pre-sliced strawberries. It's the tangible love of those around me, who though flawed like me, have loved extravagantly. - KD ...