If you knew me, you might have a hard time believing that I was once a regular churchgoer. It isn’t as if I am the devil or anything. I am a pretty moral and law-abiding person who happens to be a non-believer. But I attended church with my mother as a child and our church had such a nice feeling of community that even when I realized that I didn’t believe the stories of the faith, I still enjoyed the feeling of the family.
This, of course, may have been greatly influenced by the fact that for many years the parsonage of our church was like a second home to me. One of my best friends was the minister’s son and I hung out at their house almost more than my own. It was my second home, second family and sometimes a second dinner. And my second mom was the best cook.
It may sound sacrilegious but the best thing that I remember her making was “The Body of Christ.” Communion in my church was an occasional thing, not a weekly one as in some religions and although many churches use a cracker or wafer, at that time the Body of Christ was a piece torn from the most delicious yeasty homemade bread. In retrospect, I suppose the fact that I was that focused on that aspect of the ceremony instead of the religious lesson may have been telling.
After the service, I always looked forward to being able to sneak down to the basement of the church for some leftover bread. We, the older of the kids attending Sunday school, would be in charge of cleaning up the little grape juice cups and could always sneak an extra hunk of bread while polishing off the extra juice. If I learned nothing else in church, I learned that a good piece of bread is worth worshipping.
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