The churches I grew up in always had music playing while the congregation came forward to receive communion. Even in the Episcopal parish I attend now, there is typically a hymn or worship song that accompanies the pilgrims to the altar. But on this particular Sunday there is no music to bring the congregants forward. It is eerily quiet, with nothing but the sound of humans echoing around the sanctuary. Muffled voices of priests’ blessings over the bread and the wine are heard as the Eucharist is given, followed by more scuffling feet as the baptized make their way back to their seats.
This silence bothers me. Where is the organ to drown out the sounds of people walking across the room? Where is the hymn to hide the coughs and sneezes brought on by this cold January day? I don’t like the sounds of people, it ruins the aura of a high holy place.
I sit in my pew waiting for the signal that our row can approach the altar. I keep listening to the sounds of movement, sounds typically masked by a guitar or choral singer. I watch a young father bring his three children to the front, hushing his baby who makes small whimpers while they wait for the priest. I watch a couple holding hands and whispering in one another’s ear. I see my friend, who is struggling to decide if he is truly a Christian, walk down the aisle, his feet trudging with a heavier sound than those around him. I listen to the priests giving “this bread and this wine” to the open hands, knowing by heart what they are saying.
Shoes scrape along the floor. Babies coo. A woman sneezes. A college student speaks “amen.” An elderly gentleman plops his pew kneeler on the floor in front of him. His knees crack when he bends in prayer. A married woman’s ring scrapes the wood of the pew in front of me as she walks by. And I am now signaled to approach the altar.
The rubber of my boots squeaks along the floor that is now wet from the snow we have all tracked in. I am surrounded by the sounds of people moving toward and away from the place of Holy Communion. As I listen to the sounds of real people, this altar I am approaching becomes the threshold of humanity and deity – as if this were the Bethlehem where God meets flesh. I bring my sounds with me, and add to the echo of others while the bread breaks in my mouth and my teeth clink against the cup.
After receiving the body and blood of Christ, I go back to my
I have become partial to this silence. I have found comfort in the sounds of humans approaching the altar of God. We walk together, vulnerable in our personal noise, hopeful as we come to Christ. It is the sound of transformation. It is the sound of the Eucharist.
