At the following words concerning the bread, the Celebrant is to hold it, or lay a hand upon it; and at the words concerning the cup, to hold or place a hand upon the cup and any other vessel containing wine to be consecrated.

On the night he was betrayed he took bread, said the blessing, broke the bread, and gave it to his friends, and said, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”

After supper, he took the cup of wine, gave thanks, and said, “Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many (all) for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”

(Book of Common Prayer, Holy Eucharist Prayer C)

It’s not enough to say the words. The words, the bread, and the wine come with a touch.  The sound of voice alone won’t be as meaningful as voice and touch. The words aren’t a generic blessing or a general rule of conduct: this prayer is about this particular day, a particular place, and a very particular gathering of people. It’s not a history lesson or a moral position. This is a connection, a touchpoint. Just as surely as Jesus was present to his disciples, Jesus is present to us. He blesses not just the bread the disciples ate and the wine they sipped: he blesses the food and drink we will be given in this time and place. We are blessed and we are fed – our bodies as well as our spirits.

For me, these words mean something like this:

I love you. I leave with you my blessing. See in your every meal my love – not just in the feasts but in the PBJ’s. When you eat, when you give food to others, my love blesses you.

Incarnation on a plate, the love of God in a cup. For these blessings, we are indeed grateful. Amen.

And therefore we praise you, joining with the heavenly chorus, with prophets, apostles, and martyrs, and with all those in every generation who have looked to you in hope, to proclaim with them your glory, in their unending hymn:

Solo singing is very different from choral singing. The musicians take cues from solo singers, bending their talents to fit the style of whoever happens to be singing. If a soloist loses the melody or forgets the lyrics, there isn’t much anyone else can do to help. Responsibility and credit rest on just the one singer.

Choral singing is something else altogether. Every singer bends his or her voice to fit with the other voices. Singers listen to each other to keep a balance between parts and to honor the piece of music being sung. As a group, singers can hold notes much longer than any solo artist – singers just stagger their breathing. There’s a fullness in the sound of choral singing that cannot be duplicated with single voice, and the many voices together create a depth of sound quite different from even the most talented single voice. Low voices and high voices sing together, and no one person has to be able to do it all.

I think prayer is as much like choral singing as it is a solo act. It may seem like we each pray alone, separated from all others. But there’s a whole host of faithful through time and place who pray with us. We may not be able to see them, but the rest of the heavenly choir is always with us. All those who have ever prayed, all those who pray now, and all those who will pray in the coming years belong to the same choir. My strength becomes theirs, their strength becomes mine. Without this heavenly chorus, would I have the strength to pray?

By his blood, he reconciled us. By his wounds, we are healed.

It’s understandable, avoiding the people who’ve hurt us. Who wants to spend time with the ones who teased us, called us names, bruised our egos and perhaps our bodies? It’s why family and high school reunions are about staying disconnected from those who hurt us almost as much as they are about reconnecting with those who love us. Some of us are haunted by the hurts we’ve suffered over the years and have no interest in an encore performance.

But what about the ones we’ve hurt? More specifically, what about the ones I’ve hurt? Facing them is looking in the mirror and seeing my own pettiness and aggression. It’ not a pleasant experience and it takes a great deal of strength to do it willingly. I’d much rather see my good deeds and intentions without the darker aspects that are visible in my true reflection. If I don’t see the harm I’ve done, I can pretend there are no consequences and no reparations necessary. It’s a negative riff on the “ignorance is bliss” theme.

But avoiding and denying the damage I’ve done is a snare for my soul. I’m trapped, repeating the same hurtful mistakes over and over. Only by facing the hurt and the harm, only by admitting my part in it can release me. If I learn the painful lesson that I have done harm, I can choose another action in the future.

I think that’s why the cross is such a powerful truth: I have harmed someone and avoided seeing my own faults. When I see the cross, I can choose another way. But it’s more than that. When I see the Jesus who suffered, I see in him forgiveness I don’t deserve. It’s not just a lesson learned and a pattern broken, its the love of God gazing at me with compassion in his eyes.