This task is going to require the appropriate attire. I replace my dress shoes with work boots, my nice pants with torn jeans, and my blouse with a dirty sweatshirt. I head into the backyard with the small parcel in my hand. Wrapped in a folded plastic bag is a loaf of moldy communion bread. It has no keep. After merely five days, the bread is in the early stages of rot. I stare at the disgusting loaf of decomposing yeast and wonder what makes this bread so special.
Each week the rector, in his white robe and priestly garments, lifts the bread up to heaven and breaks it in two while praying reverently. Each week I receive the leftover Eucharist from the rector in order to distribute it at the nursing home where I lead a church service. Each week I end up eating leftover holy bread that is rock hard, stale, and too holy for the trashcan.
But not this week. By the law of tradition, the bread is to be consumed in its entirety. But no matter how holy tradition says this bread might be, consumption is no longer an option. The garbage can, tucked neatly in the corner of my kitchen, awaits this treasure with a hungry mouth.
No one will ever know. This option of easy disposal compels me across the white- tiled floor, and I toss the parcel in the trash. I stare at it there among the rubbish. Before long, my hand reaches down and my two fingers gingerly snatch it out again. This is sacrilegious. In resignation, I decide to burn it in my backyard instead. A difficult task given that there is no dry firewood anywhere around. However, what else can I do?
While I now lead a liturgical church service, it is difficult to understand and revere the traditions involved. I can imagine so many ways that our service could be improved if only we changed things a little bit. But, that’s not the point. Our communion bread is sacred because the church has taught for millennia that it is sacred. Who am I to say
otherwise? So, instead of tossing out the bread with the leftover lasagna, I eat it in as much reverence as I can muster, or if it’s moldy, I attempt to burn it in my backyard.
The yellow leaves have turned an even deeper gold on the trees in my backyard after two straight days of rain, and the fire simply will not start. A steady stream of white smoke emits from the fire pit and the plasticky newspaper advertisers melt rather than catch on fire. The moldy communion bread lies under this mess and is baking—I can smell it mixed with the smoke.
My sister sticks her head out the back door and informs me: “You know, some religions bury holy objects. Maybe you should just bury that bread instead of whatever it is you’re currently trying to do.”
This is a great idea. I just wish she had suggested it sooner. I head over to the shed and pry a small shovel out of my dad’s overstuffed barrel of yard tools. I proceed to dig a hole, retrieve the burnt holy moldy bread from the fire pit, say a quick prayer, and bury it next to the grave of my pet turtle.
With my small sacrilegious ceremony complete I clean up all the while thinking about tradition and pondering the scent of change in the wind.
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