The Eucharist and Non-Baptized

At a Vespers service on Sunday night, I stuck around for communion after the service had ended. I must admit that I was not delighted about the communion cups that the school uses or the Methodist pastor who was serving, but being forced to attend non-denominational free-Church/Presbyterian services had made me glad for any chance to take the Eucharist. I was a little uncomfortable that several avowedly non-Christian students had also hung around to take communion.

Growing up in the Free Church and then a Southern Baptist Church, the Eucharist was merely symbolic. Anyone who professed a commitment to Christ could take it, regardless of baptism. When I started to attend and Anglican church, I was initially dismayed that, since I hadn't yet been baptized, I could not partake. In retrospect, though, I think the prerequisite of baptism acknowledges the worth of the Eucharist.


Was what these students did wrong, or, perhaps better put, not the best idea? Or was it something beautiful? I suppose it depends on one's view of the sacraments. For that reason I do not take the Eucharist in Catholic masses, though I have often wanted to.


Any ideas?

A poem

Since my year of teaching began, I have all but stopped writing. Which is unfortunate, to say the least. I managed to bang out this poem for Wheaton's yearbook next year, though. It's modeled on Milosz's "Elegy for YZ"

"Elegy for Luke Anderson"

Dear Luke,

At your funeral, I stopped crying
To marvel that a coffin could
Contain so large a man.
You suffered under the weight of caring too much
And I was amazed that a burdened
Man could laugh so beautifully.

You did not question your lot:
The boys whom you tutored in a Chicago
Ghetto whose hallways smelled
Of stale urine—they had it worse.
Once you told me your dream:
To feel that you belonged,

To know that you could be
Someone—a dream postponed by then
For well-meaning discussions with
White-coated men about imbalances
In your bile. Unruly, melancholy,
Witty, brilliant, you threw off authority

Like a Bolshevik—but in love, Luke,
Always in love. To escape your beliefs
You flew South like a bird
At the first sign of frost. There,
In a baptism of rum, a letter you wrote me:
"Too tired to debunk my faith. Relief."

Now your death is for many just the painful reminder
That suffering must be acknowledged,
Like a drought that strikes a fertile valley–
The farmers would love to ignore the heat,
The three rainless months, but hear the crunch
Of burnt grass with each step.

But lives cannot be reduced to lessons,
Or three part sermons, or elegiac poems.
Pray for us now, that we might bless
The banal, rejoice in our stodgy suburban lives.
That we too will one day gather at His feet
And join the chorus of Mercy. Of love. Of relief.