From: Megan Pinckard
It’s hard to think of giving when you’re hungry. I’m shuffling in scuffed boots, staring down at my interlaced fingers. Have I given enough for Lent? What right do I have to say that I’ve made a sacrifice? Here I step forward to take Communion, when the Israelites used to wait in line to offer what little they possessed, praying for favor. The psalmist asked God, “Declare me innocent from hidden faults.” How dare he? How dare he pray forgiveness over what he hadn’t, what he couldn’t, sacrifice for? I smell fresh bread and think of the priests with their fair share of the sacrifice. I think of my high priest: “Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.”
My stomach rumbles. I am ready to receive my share. It’s his share of the sacrifice. Him. I take my bit of bread, dip it in the wine, and remember. It’s Lent because he’s given himself to me.
I’m the assistant book buyer at the World’s Only Curious George Store in Harvard Square. In my spare time, I write, guzzle tea, and house sit for too many succulents.