world; the Spirit ordains both men and women to positions of leadership despite the fact that they do not exactly have the best resumes.
As your new pastor, I have already seen signs that the Spirit is moving in our midst, inspiring new things all around us. New youth are playing our organ. New leaders are working with our youth group. There is a new women’s fellowship. There is a new fundraiser to dig new wells in Africa. There are new plans to reinvigorate our partnership with a church in Mexico. The Holy Spirit inspires new ideas and encourages new activities. Over the next couple of months, you may hear the birds around here and swear that they are chirping, “New! New! New!”
As your new pastor, I would only ask that you join me in asking for the Spirit’s guidance. Let us pray to strike a balance between the old and the new. Let us pray for the power of the Holy Spirit to bring new life and maintain tradition. Let us pray for the wisdom to move forward with the past still present. By the power of the Holy Spirit, may new birds roost in the beautiful old trees, and may every member at New Dublin hear their songs of praise.
1. Barnes, The Pastor as Minor Poet, 26.
2. Ibid., 19.
3. Bell, Love Wins, 61.
4. Berry, “Let the Farm Judge,” 51–53
2
Open Eyes, Open Table
THE TABLE RUNNETH OVER
WHILE PEOPLE IN RURAL Appalachia rarely sing their own praises, the members of New Dublin do take a great deal of pride in their hospitality. They love to tell the story of an interim moderator who served before I arrived. Apparently, this pastor wanted our session to come to his church and show his members how to put on a potluck supper. Ginny and I learned about the New Dublin expertise in this area almost immediately. Before we were even settled into the manse, there was a potluck held in our honor.
Stepping into the fellowship hall that evening, I took in the scene with a sweeping glance. My gaze was drawn to the table in the middle of the room. It was clean and simple, draped neatly with a white cloth and adorned with a small, colorful arrangement of wildflowers. This table seemed to hold great promise of things to come. As the church members arrived, covered dishes piled up around the flower centerpiece: salads, deviled eggs, pastas, breads, and all manner of meats and vegetables. The table became a heavy-laden cornucopia of bright colors.
Likewise, my mind began to fill up with knowledge of the parishioners. I met one member who had adopted four children from Central America and then met one of her grandchildren, drooling happily in a stroller. I hugged a teary-eyed matriarch of the congregation who recently lost her husband. I squatted down to high-five young children and leaned over to hug people in wheelchairs. I discovered that there were multiple men named Jim and several women named Diane. To avoid confusion, a retired professor from a local university graciously gave me photographs of most of the members with their names written on the back. With a knowing nod, Bernadine explained to me that she learned the names of her students with this method. With such thoughtful and kind actions, I felt a deep sense of confirmation. In smile after smile, hug after hug, I felt that this is the place I am supposed to be. At one point, I looked over at Ginny. Through the half circle of chattering people that had formed around her, she smiled and I hoped that she felt the same way.
When the table was finally full with food, everyone in the room turned expectantly towards me. I took a deep breath. Anticipating this moment, I had planned exactly what I wanted to say ahead of time. But I had not foreseen the incredible hospitality of this reception. I was so touched that I abandoned my memorized script, and, quoting from Psalm 23, simply said that “my cup runneth over.” That phrase from the King James Bible was the best way I knew to speak to the wonderful sense of abundance at that table and with these people. That potluck was a holy communion for me, a sacred gathering of food and fellowship that embodied generosity and hospitality.
MY FIRST COMMUNION
In many traditions, the idea of “first communion” refers to the first time one receives the sacrament. This celebration usually takes place after a period of instruction like confirmation or catechism. I am using the designation in this chapter to refer to the first time I officiated the sacrament because my first communion likewise represents the culmination of theological training. It was truly an important step for me, just as meaningful as my first sermon. After all, I was ordained to be a minister of word and sacrament.
Although presiding at the Lord’s Table was the result of years of study and preparation, I think of my first communion as a starting point rather than an end goal. This also relates to my ordination: I am called to serve these people in this place. Just as I felt a strong sense of confirmation at the welcoming potluck, I believe that the congregation’s perception of me changed after my first communion. I think I became less of the “new pastor” and more of “our pastor.” Paradoxically, this shift may well have occurred because of unplanned events rather than my diligent preparations.
In the days leading up to my first communion, we forgot to appoint elders to serve. Not only that, but an hour before the service, we realized that we did not have grape juice! Thankfully, certain elders had arrived early, and they were calmer than their frazzled pastor. Someone went out and bought the grape juice. Another filled the communion trays with bread and then the communion cups with juice. Three others volunteered to be servers. Thanks to their quick and decisive actions, all of the elements were in place about fifteen minutes before the service.
The elders gathered around the Lord’s Table and listened kindly as I nervously instructed them about the logistics of a ritual that they already knew how to perform. I had practiced for hours in the days before my first communion. I wanted to reciprocate the hospitality that I received at that New Dublin table during the potluck by presiding at the Lord’s Table with grace and dignity. So I had memorized all the various parts of the liturgy.
Without any notes, I got off to a great start. I remembered each line of the responsive prayers. I broke the bread and poured the cup with great flourish. After the elders distributed the bread and the cups, I collected their trays like a veteran, neatly stacked them, and launched into the prayer after communion. Despite my gusto for this prayer, I do remembering having an uneasy feeling that something was wrong.
One of the elders interrupted my prayer by whispering urgently, “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew!” When he finally had my attention, he pointed, first to himself, and then down towards the rest of pew to the servers who sat with puzzled looks. Then it dawned on me that I had forgotten to serve the servers! I was able to suspend the prayer abruptly and distribute the elements. Though embarrassed, I was grateful for the elder’s timely interruption. While the liturgy did not flow as smoothly as I had rehearsed all week, I would have deeply regretted leaving anyone out of the Lord’s Supper.
After the service, most people made passing references to my mistake with gentle amusement in their eyes. I was happy to laugh with them. In reference to that memorable beginning of my first Sunday, we joked that at least my microphone had worked correctly. I think that people appreciate the fact that I am not easily ruffled and can make the best out of my slip-ups. Perhaps such blunders are endearing because they show a human side of a pastor. Over the course of my first year, I heard several approving comments relating to the fact that I am not “too big for my britches.” This culture values modesty.
On a deeper level, I had just preached a sermon about hospitality as a spiritual discipline. Just before I forgot to serve the elders, the body of Christ celebrated our belief that Jesus is the Great Host. Since our risen Lord invites us to his table solely by grace, we ate and drank together as sinners—as people who make mistakes. If this is part of the human condition, then maybe such “mistakes” are really more like opportunities to practice the kind of hospitality that Jesus practiced. Maybe we are modeling for one another the belief that there is nothing that can prevent us from coming to the Lord’s Table—nothing that we could do, or not do, to forfeit our savior’s gracious invitation.
Holy Communion is ultimately about the grace of God. We refer to the Lord’s Table, not Andrew’s table nor New Dublin’s table nor even the Presbyterians’ table. It does not matter if you practiced all week to get the Words of Institution