I served my first Communion a few months ago.
I've been no great leader in the church-my husband and I simply teach Sunday school. I'm a 33-year-old white woman with three children who usually can be found in the nursery. But my congregation, LaSalle Street Church, gave me a wonderful gift, one more among many-the gift of being a servant at the Lord's Supper. And what a wonderful supper it is.
My first Sunday I was doing fine. Basically my head was filled with whether to move to the left or the right, when to sit, and memorizing my line, "Christ's body broken for you . . . Christ's body broken for you . . . Christ's body broken for you . . ." I didn't want to mess up.
But as I stepped forward to offer the bread to the first believer, one of our pastors, I felt I could empathize with John the Baptist: I had no business being here. But for God's grace, that's right.
And that was only the beginning. Person after person, believer after believer, my sisters, my brothers, a man with several days' ...1