Trickster Reverence

The organist had been my high school English teacher. She had prepared, I believe, one of Bach’s works for our communion. Seldom did I manage to return to my home town church, but when I did, I sat with Jim and Flo Ann. They had been my spiritual mentors as a child. She rose to help serve, leaving me to sit beside her husband. He was the silliest man I knew and she matched him in a myriad of ways. Flo Ann had likely baked the bread and shopped for the Welch’s grape juice. The sweet spirit of the church had never waned for me nor had the humor.
Deacon Ott did not recognize me as he passed the bread to Jim and me. When Ott passed our pew with the little cups of grape juice and overlooked us, Jim raised one eyebrow at me. I reached for the cracked rubber slot where the cups go after drinking. Taking the cue, he did likewise, taking up a pretend cup of pretend juice. After a silly grin, he turned sideways, where I also held a cup up. We toasted without words. It was a child’s tea party, but much more. It was a symbol twice removed magnifying the joy of community and the sharing of spirit.