My daughter, Eva, is six. Earlier this year, she asked when she would be able to take communion. I figured if she was interested, we were well on our way to having her receive, so the two of us began a series of conversations about what communion means. I started by just asking her: “Eva, why do we take communion?” Without hesitation, she replied, “Because Jesus took just a little bit of bread and fish and made enough, and it was amazing.” And I had to pause for a second, because I thought…she’s not wrong.
Those of us who are more familiar with this ritual of coming forward to the table to receive the bread and the wine would probably tell you that a lot is going on here. We are remembering how Jesus ate and drank with his friends the night before he died. We are remembering him exactly as he asked us to remember him, by sharing a meal, all of us coming hungry and thirsty to a table that satisfies a hunger and a thirst far more profound than just our physical need. The bread is broken like his body was broken. The wine is poured out like his blood spilled from his hands and side. At this point all sorts of theological concepts come to the fore—points the learned have debated for centuries, not always with their best manners—the main point being that Christ is present, though we can’t agree on how, or when, or where.
But none of this is going to be evident to a six year old. No wonder the miracle of the fishes and loaves seems the obvious connection to my daughter. It’s so beautifully simple: people were hungry, and Jesus made enough. And it was amazing.
Maybe she sees herself in the story. In the Gospel of John, a little child offers the bread and fish, and that is the version in her children’s Bible. Imagine essentially offering up your lunch box to a grownup and his cranky grownup friends and watching as your sandwich and juice box feed the entire school. That’s your lunch that they’re eating! What if you hadn’t spoken up? What if you had wanted to hoard your Little Debbies and just eat them in peace over there in the corner?
This is the place that I learned something from my daughter’s views on communion. Share, we tell our children time and again. Share, take turns, spread the love. We say these things to our children when they are red in the face, fists balled up, completely unable to see past their own needs and frustrations. How often have I come to this table similarly preoccupied? It seems to me that what happens at the core of the miracle of the loaves and the fish—this incredible, selfless sharing-- is at the core of the miracle in which we’re about to partake. And I should take a deep breath, because there is enough to go around.
Abundance waits for us at this table. This is the table of the bread that never ends, enough for person after person after person, with leftovers besides. So, yes, I told my daughter. You are exactly right. And you are ready. Come take your place at the table where there is enough, and it is amazing.
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