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Spilling God's Blood
My son was only four years old when I took him to his first communion. We
had discussed the meanings of communnion, and I felt like he really had a
grasp for what I told him (his teachers at the preschool thought he was
exceptionally advanced for being only four.) It was Maunday-Thursday, an
especially sensitive time of the year for Christians. We walked into the
darkened basement of the church. Huge shadows danced on the walls as the
candles burned, first dim, then bright, then dim again. We shared the love
feast, something I had dreamed of doing with my children since before I got
married. Seth and I were the only ones there that night. Our third baby was
due any day, so Laurie and two year old Jenna had stayed home. It was a
special moment, just for little Seth and I. We ate our sandwiches and
pickles in silence. Every once in awhile I would look at him from the corner
of my eye. He had the most interesting look on his face. I had been sixteen
at my first communion, so I was curious to see how he would react, beingr
only four. He looked interested. His eyes curiously moved over the other
people, first those around us, then gently further back until he had taken
note of everyone else in the room. He looked nothing but in complete wonder
at it all.
When it came time for the footwashing I still had not decided what to do. I
wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet. I had considered and prayed about
it at great lengths, but had felt no certain peace about it. I hastily
decided to let him choose. I could tell he was contemplating his decision as
we walked back into the room full of barefooted men. I sat down on the vacant
cold metal chair and began removing my shoes. He remained standing next to
me. I offered him a look of "don't you want to sit down?" and he responded
with a curious shake of his head. I remained seated as he stood by my side,
both of us watching and waiting; I humbling myself in the sight of God's
awesome presence, and he, still watching with growing curiosity, taking it
all in. My turn came and I continued to pray as an old man from the
congregation, arthritic pain visible in his every movement, gently caressed
my feet with warm water from the pan. I prayed and felt more humble than I
had ever felt at any other point in my life. The man finished, stood very
slowly, gave me a strong hug, and whispered "Thank you." I was truly amazed
at this testament of faith. Here I was, being served, and he was thanking
me for allowing him to be of service. I looked down at Seth to see if he had
heard. He had: I could see it in the bewildered look that moved across his
face. I knew I would have more explaining to do when we got home. I took the
pan of water and, still praying, moved to another man about my age. I watched
Seth as I washed the man's feet. I prayed for the man with my eyes wide open,
as cascades of water fell around his ankles and made rivers between his toes.
Seth was still observing every movement. I finished and we returned to the
outer room of the basement.
The others were singing hymns as we entered, and I could hear Seth's soprano
voice immediately join in, humming the tune to songs of which he only knew
the melody. We returned to our seats, almost as the pastor began the third
part of the service-the actual breaking and partaking of Jesus. Seth was still
observing. It was past his bedtime, but I had not seen him even once rub his
eyes as if he were tired. My hands trembled as I took a portion of the bread
and held it out to my son's tiny outstretched hands. The pastor quoted the
Bible and said those words that set time in momentary slow motion. I watched
as my fingers and Seth's each pulled downward against the loaf. The bread tore
slowly, then suddenly became two separate pieces. I could feel a tear in the
corner of my eye: this was the first time I had broken bread with my son. The
tear rolled slowly down my cheek as the cups were passed and the pastor
prepared us for the next portion of the communion. Seth took his cup and sat
it gently on the table in front of him. He regarded it as if it were the most
sacred thing on earth. I turned back toward the part of the room from which
the pastor was speaking and wasn't aware that anything had occurred until I
heard Seth's horrified gasp. I felt him tugging on my shirt sleeve as I turned
toward him and saw the crimson stain on the crisp white table cloth. He had
a look of utter horror on his face. His eyes welled up with tears as he looked
up at me. "Daddy. I spilled God's blood." I pulled him toward me and embraced
him hard, not becasue he was in trouble for spilling the cup, but because in
that instant I knew I had never loved him more. As I hugged him I considered
what he had said. "I spilled God's blood." When I dropped the daddy and put
it into that personal context, its meaning hit me like a load of bricks. "I
spilled God's blood." There was so much truth to that. Just by being born, by
being one of the millions of sinners Jesus had died for, I had, in effect,
spilled God's blood. I could feel the shame as it ran like His blood across
my body. Was I really worth a sacrifice as great as this? As I looked back
toward my son, drying his big tears on my shirt, the answer was clear asear
glass. Yes, I was worth the sacrifice. I was worth every penny God paid
through His Son. I don't recall the exact moment the tears began, but soon
I found myself on my knees, sobbing like a little boy. I cried as I never had
before. I knelt and praised God for everything I had never acknowledged in my
life. I cried the tears that had needed to flow for many years. I cried. I
cried in the midst of all the people who knew and respected me. I cried in the
presence of my wonderful Savior. And I praised Him for the miracles He
provided, including the one standing with his hand on my shoulder, next to
me. After a few moments I stood back up. The service was over, and many of the
others had already left. Seth was still standing next to me. I felt his tiny
hand fall into mine and I clutched it tightly. We left the building and went
out into the chilly April evening. Seth didn't say a word the whole way home.
He had a lot on his mind, so I decided to wait to talk with him about it
until morning. He still had much to learn...and so did I.
Nicholas Ford-November 27, 1996
 
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