Category Archives: Personal

The tiny bread, the tiny cup

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I might have mentioned, I suppose, in the previous post on Take This Bread, that Sara Miles sees communion as a sacrament, while we Anabaptists see it as an ordinance, a memorial with a strong emphasis on the horizontal relationship implied in community. Either way, all’s well and good, I think;  strange how these differences were, at one time in history, so very important, even enough to provoke martyrdom, but seem unimportant now (while we argue about other things).

Which reminds me of a moment in This Hidden Thing. I do hope it won’t seem too indulgent of me to offer one small glimpse…. In this scene the protagonist Maria is elderly (this is decades back) and not so well any more and she’s leaning against her uncle Peter’s “old, spongy sofa,” waiting for him to make coffee, and since she’s brought him some homemade bread, she’s thinking about that, and it’s reminded her of communion they had on Sunday, the “tiny square of bread, the tiny cup” and “the humility that filled the sanctuary, everyone quietly accepting their share…”

The portions were entirely too small for the spiritual hunger and thirst of her old age, she sometimes thought, tastes so brief they were scarcely comprehended, but once inside her mouth they seemed to swell in their indefinable way; then they were enough. Once she’d thought, well, no wonder, it was his body and blood after all. She’d pushed the heretical notion away, remembering that for Mennonites there was nothing literal in those words; symbols didn’t abandon their ordinary substance on account of a presiding minister’s words; that was one of the things the Reformation squabbled over, wasn’t it, and weren’t the Catholics damned, to a soul?

“Well,” she thinks immediately, “I don’t know.”

Maria loved the convenience of “I don’t know,” the prerogative the church had given women: silence, no theological finesse or bold statements required. It made them lazy perhaps, but maybe not. She, at least, felt she could rest in the truth and squalor she’d cobbled together from what she’d heard and read and imagined. She could always say, as Mary must have, sitting at Jesus’ feet, I don’t know, my Lord, what do you mean?….

…But here it was again. Pasty bread: flesh. The onslaught of juice in her mouth: a taste of blood. Hadn’t he said, Eat me, drink me?…. [S]he liked the subversion of believing it, exactly that way….

I’m resonating with Maria here, letting the bread be what it is, whether sacrament or memorial…. (And if it seems odd that I’d resonate with a character I’ve created, instead of the other way around, maybe I’ll have to weigh in on that relationship some time. In another post!)

My story of human agency

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In his fine analysis of material things and human agency in Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry into the Value of Work (which I talked about here), Matthew B. Crawford says:

It is characteristic of the spirited man [sic] that he takes an expansive view of the boundary of his own stuff–he tends to act as though any material things he uses are in some sense properly his, while he is using them–and when he finds himself in public spaces that seem contrived to break the connection between his will and his environment, as though he had no hands, this brings out a certain hostility in him.

Crawford continues about the “angry feeling” that bubbles up in such a person as he finds himself “waving his hands under the faucet, trying to elicit a few seconds of water from it in a futile rain dance of guessed-at mudras.” This is “a kind of infantilization at work, and offends the spirited personality,” he says, and an example of consumerist material culture “disburdening” us of direct responsibility.

I remember thinking (briefly) as I read this that the man in the public washroom was perhaps a little too spirited, too easily offended, but I did appreciate Crawford’s point, and his book (and tried not to be too spirited myself about his general use of non-inclusive language throughout).

Then, last week, using a public washroom in the Toronto airport I had my own Crawfordian moments re. the connection between will and environment, except that in my case, instead of futility, the technology worked far too well. One of my earrings fell into the toilet.

Had it not been properly fastened? (I’d dressed before four that morning, to catch a very early flight out of Winnipeg — “Who booked this flight?” H. was heard to mutter as we headed for the airport.) Or, had it come loose in that “please use caution…contents may shift” business of flying?

At any rate, there was the earring, in the toilet rather than on my earlobe, and in the instant I comprehended it, I also knew I would reach into the toilet to retrieve it (I liked the sterling silver loop with its sheaves-of-wheat pattern!). As I moved to do so, there was an immediate, swift gush of water, a flush that seemed to chortle as it swept the earring irretrievably and forever away. Ahh…the automatic sensor! Grrr… (As though I had no hands! — I now regretted my hasty judgment of Crawford’s illustration as churlish and trifling.)

Well, nothing to do but move to the sink for the next stage of my ablutions. I put my purse down. Still stunned by surprise and loss, I suppose, I did so carelessly. The next thing I realized (I was removing the other earring) was that my purse had slipped into the sink, and adding insult to injury, was now getting a brisk morning shower under the tap!

None of this was terribly serious, even the earring. It wasn’t a Crown jewel after all. Back home, I told my husband the story, and that was the end of it. Until several days later, that is, when H. asked, “Did you keep the other earring?” This led me to speculate that the episode had given him an idea for my Christmas gift, to which I added agency of my own by reminding him that a local department store is closing and selling everything, including jewelry, at significant discounts.

And the moral of the story? Human agency is alive and well in our household, and all’s well that ends well. I now possess an early Christmas present of 10K white gold earrings (pictured accross from the widowed one, right) — alive and well, I say, even if it means shopping, which of course was exactly the point Crawford was not making! (Now if only someone would start selling earrings in threes.)