On Sunday, I went to church for the first time in three months. It was awful. 

But that’s a story for later. 

When I was in college, my roommates and I would hop around the local churches. No real planning in our travels, except when the occasional post-service potluck would force our hand. On the ride home from service, we’d exchange thoughts, critiques and, often, the strange practices we’d witnessed. Once, we’d attended a “communion” or “cleansing” of sorts where a pond was set in front and below the stage that we were then invited to toss rose petals in and speak out our sins, or was it temptations? I can’t remember. The room was so dark all I could focus on was the haphazard scribbles that covered every inch of the metal chairs in front of us. 

Our clever roommate, Marnie,  called our escapades “Cross Examinations.” We thought about starting a blog. I think she might have even made up a logo (Marnie, if you’re reading this, let me know). 

This past Sunday, I went to a satellite location for one of these “Cross Examination” churches. It was the same deal --big shining smiles to usher you in, roaring bass to raise your arms, and two expensive rolling cameras to tie it all together. But none of this is the reason for this post. When the pastor took the stage, he called out to us with an anxiety-inducing inflection to tell us of the day’s message. Then, he dropped to almost a whisper to announce that we’d also be taking communion.

Communion.

The last time I was in this church --well, another campus of this church-- I took communion. 

It must have been junior year 2019, and I was deep in the throes of Anorexia. I had convinced myself and everyone around me that I was fasting on Sundays for “religious reasons.” But I cried when I had to eat the tiny soup cracker and its grape juice counterpart. My day was ruined. My fasting was ruined. My progress was ruined. Still I believed I was doing it for Jesus. 

So here I am, four years later, taking communion at the same church and realizing just how easy it was to convince myself I was happy, I was fine, I wasn’t lost. And just how easy it is to distort the meaning of a body and its blood.