Saltines and grape juice
An ode to the incarcerated
Author’s note: This is one I’ve been wanting to write for some time, so it’s a little long. I also make some stark generalizations throughout. I’m holding up two groups of people in comparison to each other - the incarcerated and the non-incarcerated. In no way am I saying one group of folks is ‘better’ than the other. I’m also not saying that my generalizations match the personal experience of every single person in each group (hence why they’re generalizations). So please, now that we’re square on that, read and enjoy!
As a soon-to-be (God willing) pastor in the church, I’ve grown quite fond of church people. This year, being my internship year, I serve a small congregation of lovely folks. They were the first parish in the state of Nevada who became ‘RIC’ (Reconciling in Christ) meaning they put on their front door a sign that essentially says that queer folks are every bit as honored there as everyone else. From baptism to communion to marriage and to ordination - no matter who you are, we all live under the same eternally loving and accepting gaze of our gracious God. All are included. In fact, all are NEEDED.
And their partisan politics aren’t just left-leaning. What’s so very cool about this parish is that we have Dems, Repubs, and Mods sitting next to each other in the pews (well, chairs), zooming in from home, standing in line for communion together, and toasting each other with bad church coffee after service.
So, again... Lovely people. I’m endlessly blessed that they called me as their vicar (intern pastor).
THE OTHER HALF of my internship is serving as a chaplain two days a week at our local jail/detention center. Pr. Sarah, my supervisor at the parish, is also the head chaplain there. I meet with people who are incarcerated and talk to them about God, life, etc. I sit with them after a loved one dies and they can’t go to their service. I acknowledge them in the halls when they’re on their way to social programs, court, or to their various jobs in the jail. I pray with them as they await their trials where many of them are then transferred to state prison or released back into the harsh/blessed realities of their various lives.
But mostly, I listen. I let them gush about whatever it is they need to gush about. Unlike the many social workers in the jail (God bless them - seriously), I’m not there to analyze them. I’m not there to prescribe anything. I’m merely there to be present for them. A visit with the chaplain is about the only opportunity for them to be in a space like this where they aren’t being examined or observed.
What I want to talk about today is my favorite part of my job. And that is, assisting with communion (aka ‘Eucharist’ - think about the part of the church service where you eat and drink the bread and wine) - particularly in the detention center. My supervisor and I serve communion at least once a week there (until I’m ordained, I’m not allowed to say the ‘institutional narrative’ which is the blessing where the priest/pastor holds up the bread and then the wine during the Eucharistic prayer, so she has to do that part) and I’ve observed some fascinating differences between hosting communion in the jail during the week and in the parish on Sundays.
When I offer the bread and wine to people in the parish, I’m offering it to people like me… People whose life - though rife with plenty of suffering - is pretty good in a lot of ways. Many of them have good jobs. Happy families. Many are fairly healthy. They’re not in jail or prison. Many of them have been given a theology of grace where they believe that God loves them.
To us unincarcerated folks, communion can easily slip into part of our weekly routine. It’s just something we do as church-going people. Which is beautiful, and I’m not bagging on this.
But when I serve communion in the detention center, the holy meal takes on an entirely new level of deep.
Here’s how it looks...
The chaplain’s office is in the area where the detention center offers social service programs (like anger management, sobriety, etc.). I usually work on the days that the women are in there (men and women cannot be mixed). Throughout their day, they get several breaks where they can all sit out in the common area and chat, etc. This is when I announce... “If anyone would like to receive communion, FOLLOW ME.” And I walk into one of the open conference rooms where we’ve set out the elements - grape juice and saltine crackers individually wrapped in cellophane. Chairs are in the round.
A strong handful of regulars jump up straight away. “YES - THANK YOU.” Immediately, they turn and invite their newly incarcerated peers.
Some of them have the usual questions and concerns...
“But what if I’m not confirmed/baptized?”
“But what if I’m queer?”
“But what if I’m not a Christian?”
“What if I don’t believe?”
“What if my spirituality is native (etc.)?”
I have one response that goes something like this...
You’re just as loved by God as any of us, so, please... Come on in. Even if you don’t say a word in there. Even if you don’t feel called to eat and drink. Receive the blessing of the unchangeable words of God while sitting with your companions.
My tradition doesn’t see communion/Eucharist as something that anyone needs to work their way up to. Whether or not we receive communion doesn’t depend on our behavior, lifestyle, or beliefs. It rests on God’s Word about us. All we can do is be willing to physically receive God’s promise to all of us (yes, all). The promise that we are beloved children of God and cannot mess up enough to change God’s mind about us. Anyhow...
So they come in and I invite them to take a breath and rest in some silence as Pr. Sarah and I pour the juice, etc. I hand out bulletins and we all recite some prayers and blessings together. We say the Lord’s prayer together. We confess our sin together. Those voices in unison, saying the same words the church has been saying for thousands of years never fails to give me the holy shivers.
But then, when Pastor Sarah holds up the cup and plate, the spiritual energy of the room shifts into a new realm. It goes from just below the surface of normal reality to, like, twenty leagues deep. Tears always flow. I’ve seen people break down, face in hands. I’ve seen them kneel on the ground. I’ve seen them lay down on the floor prostrate (no, we do not ask them to do this).
And when we call them up to receive the Lord’s body and blood, broken and poured out, the real magic happens. As they come up one at a time and I say to them, “Body/blood of Christ, given/shed for you,” I always emphasize the “for you” part while looking into their eyes. Yes, this is a communal thing, but this eucharistic moment is FOR THEM. I want each one of them to feel like the only one in the world to hear these words.
Generally speaking, this hits home far more deeply behind bars than it does in the outside world. While taking the Eucharist, tears stream down cheeks and snot drips from noses. Their eyes do this thing where they both sharpen and widen at the same time - like someone who has been unexpectedly proposed to by the love of their life. But it’s even better - the very ground of their being has loved them even in the lowest moment of their life. When they’ve done and/or been accused of the unspeakable or unmentionable, some for the umpteenth time. Though this promise is universal, in this moment, they know that God looks into their own individual red, tired, weary eyes that God crafted out of the dust with Her breath.
The incarcerated do not take the Eucharist for granted. At all. They bring me to a level of reverence that I’ve never experienced before in even the biggest of cathedrals.
They turn that small conference room in the jail
as we munch on saltines and drink grape juice
under the spastic glow of fluorescent lights
and runny noses are blown into single-ply toilet paper
into the holiest place in all the world.
Yes, Eucharist is lovely if you believe that you’re good. If you have a stable life and you just always know that God loves you. This is beautiful, it really is. I’m right there with you.
But when you’re serving or looking at time in jail or prison... When you have literally come to the end of your #bestself... When you’ve lost everything you have - your job, your home, your spouse, your friends, your comforts, your children...
And you hear that God’s body and blood have been broken and poured out FOR YOU...
Wow... This is where Jesus really shows up. As he said, he truly comes for those who need a physician, not those who are “well” (btw, we all need a damn physician, amiright?).
If you want to know where the church (by the way, ‘church’ is people, not buildings) is growing... Look elsewhere. Yes, the wealthy megachurches are deconstructing like crazy but at the foot of the cross, grace abounds. These are the holiest of places. And I’m so blessed to be a part of this ministry.
These inmates have shown me that we meet Jesus, not in some ascended place of disembodied glory, but as we fall to our hands and knees on the ground.
I’m blessed that they, the incarcerated, allow me to walk with them temporarily along the way.
Amen.