Transubstantiation Gone Wrong
In which an impish, six-year-old girl finds solace in the arms of a laughing son of God.
Weavers Bend, West Virginia, 1962
“I heard that’s why the Jews don’t take Communion, anyway, on account of the fact that Catholics drink real blood during their Mass, can you believe it?”
Cade Weaver’s older brother Harris—having apparently become quite the theological expert since entering junior high school—delivered this observation as the Weaver family drove to the Third Sunday Communion Service at the Balm of Gilead First Baptist Church.
Hal Weaver glanced at his children in the DeSoto’s rearview mirror.
“The Jews,” he said with a sigh as he signaled for the turn into the church’s graveled parking lot, “don’t celebrate Communion because it represents the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ the True Messiah, which happens not to be part of their theology. And it’s wine that the Catholics drink, not actual blood—so please take the time to get your facts straight before spreading such wild misinformation.”
Wine? This was news to Cade’s six-year-old-and-yet-to-be-redeemed soul as, up till now, she had naturally assumed that it was that holy Protestant grape juice and unsalted-top soda crackers that universally represented the Body and Blood of The Lord Jesus Christ Shepherd and Guardian of Our Souls, because drinking wine was a sin, wasn’t it? And, therefore, as potentially heretical to partake of as actual blood, wouldn’t it be?
“But, Dad,” Harris continued, “Grandfather Andrew says that the Catholics are Papist Idolaters who should be avoided at all costs if we fear for our Righteous Souls, so…”
“That’s enough, now! Let’s just concentrate on behaving properly at church for a change, shall we?” Hal, one hand on the steering wheel, shook out his starched handkerchief to mop fresh beads of perspiration from his forehead. “And, Cade, if you need to keep yourself otherwise occupied during the sermon, perhaps you could mentally review your spelling words. Or, better yet, plan how to cut that coconut cake your mother set out for Sunday dinner so we might all get the same size piece this time.”
“Can I please say grace at dinner today? I need to remind Jesus about the solo part in our school musical! It’s between me and Suzy Baxter and I just want...”
Cade’s mother Sylgie sighed and closed her eyes, worrying her pocketbook handle as though it had become a strand of rosary beads.
“Daddy! That reminds me!” Cade excitedly rose from her seat and reached to unlock the car door. “Can I please say grace at dinner today? I need to remind Jesus about the solo part in our school musical! It’s between me and Suzy Baxter and I just want . . .”
“Hush, now! I’m sure that Jesus has more to worry about than a prideful request from a vain little girl. Now please settle back into that seat until this car is safely parked and the engine turned off.”
The little voice inside Cade’s head warned that this might not be the time to ask why, then, was it okay for Harris’s football coach to lead his team in a prayer for victory before each game? Wasn’t her request the same? And, since the opposing teams offered the same prayer as well, did it actually mean Jesus loved the winning team the most? This made no sense at all! Plus, at least no one ever got hurt during school plays. So far, anyway.
Hal parked in the shade of looming poplars gone completely still in the late morning heat, and the Weavers made their way along the steamy sidewalk, stopping for the occasional handshake or hug or, in Cade’s case, unwelcome pinch on the cheek.
Cade felt that familiar shiver of trapped fear of any unseen forces larger than herself as her family entered the church and was ushered through the waft of Murphy’s Oil Soap and over-bloomed lilies into the unyielding shelter of the Weaver family pew. The organ’s slide from its muted, meditative prelude into a swelling “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place” announced the beginning of today’s service. Harris discreetly moved to a place away from his sister, where he might better appear to be deep in thought, secretly snoozing between hymns. This left Cade closer to the aisle and free to entertain herself.
Communion, at least, offered a show to watch: a parade of ushers bearing platters of crackers and shot glasses unevenly filled with Welch’s Grape Juice.
Today, though, was Communion Sunday—an interesting enough occurrence to shake Cade away from her usual distractions of either counting how many foot taps could be delivered against the pew in front of her before her offending knee got pinched or trying to time just how long she might hold her breath before actually passing out during the interminable sermon. Communion, at least, offered a show to watch: a parade of ushers bearing platters of crackers and shot glasses unevenly filled with Welch’s Grape Juice, moving laboriously through the congregation to give the sanctified the opportunity to This Do in Remembrance of Me.
“Take the one in the middle!” Cade whispered to her mother when Communion time finally arrived. “It’s the fullest—I’ve been watching!” But Sylgie, closing her eyes after selecting the closest glass, was intent on letting the Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ Propitiation for Our Sins soda cracker melt on her tongue and so paid her daughter no mind.
Chastened, Cade turned her attention to the choir loft where, just as the Feast of Jesus Christ Glory of Thy People Israel had been delivered through its ranks, the singers resumed what surely must be the ninety-ninth verse and attendant chorus of “Just As I Am.” The serving usher, a lanky man bent seriously to his task, stooped to ease his way through the arch before descending the narrow winding staircase from the loft. As he rounded the steps above and just behind the pipe organ, he lost his footing—then fell hard against the stairwell railing. Grabbing the rail to break his fall, the unfortunate man inadvertently upended the tray of The Blood of Our Lord the Messiah Chiefest Among Ten Thousand, sending its Welch’s-brand contents spilling over the railing and onto the organ below. As well as the organist.
A collective gasp arose from the congregation as this scene, in seeming slow motion, unfolded before them. The organist, feeling first the spray of cool purple rain that immediately preceded the heavier and faster shower of shot glasses, instinctively clasped her arms over the back of her head and threw herself protectively over the keyboard—sending the organ into a full open-stop wail that muffled somewhat the serving tray’s thudding skid across the organ’s top. The tinkling hail of shot glasses caromed against and off the organ pipes and onto the marble floor.
After a hushed eternity, the organist—initially motionless against any prospect of further onslaught—slowly roused herself from this unwelcome baptism to blink myopically out over the congregation as she fumbled across the sticky keys for her horn-rimmed glasses. The usher gently pulled himself to his feet and calmly began wiping up The Blood of Jesus Christ Rescuer From This Present Evil Age with the oversized napkin, the only item that had remained in his hands.
Stricken to the core of her unsanctified soul, Cade fully expected the raftered ceiling to blaze open with the wrath of a vengeful God. Or—worse!—the leering and triumphant visage of Satan. But: nothing. And so, the first sound to fill the church in the aftermath of that shocked silence was Cade’s sharp bark of helpless laughter before she fell to the floor in a spasm of choking guffaws. A fit of hysterics cut short, to be sure, as she was jerked up from the floor and summarily dragged from the sanctuary out into the blinding noon sun, her father’s grip tighter with each step.
“Do you understand, Cade?” he said, removing his hat to slowly massage his frowning brow. “Are you even listening to me?
The car ride home was excruciating. Sylgie’s gloved hands lay clasped in her lap as she stared fixedly at the shimmery horizon beyond the passenger window. Hal’s brow beneath the brim of his Sunday hat remained tightly furrowed, a holding pattern of disapproval.
“It’s monumentally clear, Cade, that church is becoming an increasingly difficult burden for you to bear.” Hal’s weary tone signaled that retribution was to be swift if not just, and Cade made herself very small in her seat. “And if you feel that you are old enough to poke fun at our Christian ritual, then you at least must first familiarize yourself enough to realize just exactly what it is that you are choosing to ridicule. This means that we will have to leave home earlier each Sunday”—and here Cade felt her brother’s quick kick across the car seat— “in order to avail ourselves of the Bible Study classes before church. But I feel it’s a necessary sacrifice, I mean offering, to Our Heavenly Father Horn of Our Salvation. I would also suggest that you accompany your mother to the Wednesday night prayer service. You may sit in the back pew where you can stretch out and work on your homework, so long as you don’t call any attention to yourself.”
Cade’s heart sank further as her father carefully pulled into the garage. “As a matter of fact, I would also suggest that you now make your way to your room to meditate on the events of the morning. And if there are no dinner leftovers to be had later on, so be it.” Hal switched off the car’s ignition and turned to face his daughter. “Do you understand, Cade?” he said, removing his hat to slowly massage his frowning brow. “Are you even listening to me?”
But Cade—her head bowed and stomach already lightly growling—had, indeed, quit listening to her father. A new inner voice had seized her, small and insistent and beginning to quiver in righteous indignation. Wait just a ding-dang minute, that voice whispered: why in the world are you being punished here? You’re not the one at fault. You didn’t spill the communion tray, nor did you push the usher down the stairs. All you did was laugh, dang it! And only then after it was apparent that no one was hurt. Because it was funny, just like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Shoot, I bet Jesus Himself would’ve busted a gut if He’d been sitting there with you.
And here Cade gave herself over to the idea of sharing a laugh with The Only Begotten Son Jesus Christ Heir of Righteousness, right there in her own Balm of Gilead Baptist Church! The small voice was right! Why, Jesus would’ve nudged her with His elbow and pointed toward the purpled panorama and laughed out loud! But only for a minute, because, being Jesus, He would’ve quickly soared up to the choir loft to clean up all the mess and make sure everybody got their share of grape juice (or wine, or whatever it was supposed to be).
And He’d certainly pull her along with Him to help, wouldn’t He? Because she was a good helper, wasn’t she? Everybody knew it! (No matter what her brother might say—but Jesus would know better than to listen to Harris. She would be such a good helper in the choir loft with that Communion tray that for years afterwards anyone passing her on the street would stop and whisper, “Look! There goes the girl who helped Jesus!”) And maybe then she and Jesus could fly home before the rest of the family got back from church and she, Cade, could sit Him down at the dining room table and serve Him however much coconut cake He wanted.
“Here, Mr. Christ. Or may I call you Jesus? So, tell me, please, Jesus. What’s all this Good News I’ve been hearing about? And how about another cup of coffee?”
“Here, Mr. Christ. Or may I call you Jesus?” she would say, in that tone of voice her mother reserved for Company. “So, tell me, please, Jesus. What’s all this Good News I’ve been hearing about? And how about another cup of coffee?”
Yes, sir, Cade decided. Jesus Christ would definitely want me for a sunbeam, to shine for Him each day. Why, He and I might even become best friends!
Cade would, for most of her remaining days, find great comfort in this newfound personal version of Jesus Christ Shepherd and Bishop of Our Immortal Souls. This caring—and humorous! —Son of God was much easier to handle than His Angry Old Man, so far as Cade could tell. But, in the fraught here and now, she opened her eyes and found her family staring at her in bewilderment. She blushed and remained immobile, desperately hoping she had not been speaking out loud.
“Anyway.” Harris was the first to speak. He opened his car door, then paused to smile back sympathetically at his sister. “Anyway, Dad,” he said. “Just give her a break. Geez, it’s not like it was real blood or anything that got spilled all over creation.”
And, at their father’s quick hiss of reproof, Harris leaned over to wink at Cade, then dropped a hand onto her shoulder. Cade returned his gaze with her newly defiant Jesus-based resolve—which crumbled as soon as Harris intoned, in his best ministerial voice, “And may God Our Heavenly Father have mercy on your everlasting soul.”
About the author
Jean K. Dowdy is a hopefully-soon-to-be-retiring horticulturalist who lives and works in the relative wilds of northeast Florida. Aside from gardening columns featured in local periodicals over the years, her poetry has appeared in Oberon Poetry Journal and SWWIM Every Day online.
- Jean K. Dowdyhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/jean-k-dowdy/
- Jean K. Dowdyhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/jean-k-dowdy/
