The Homecoming Meal

I have to confess, I haven't had a cheesesteak yet.

Usually toward the end of a mission trip, talk turns to what meal a team member is looking forward to when he or she gets back to the states.  Since we are mostly from the Philly area, the cheesesteak usually ranks high on the list.

I have already confessed my craving for Heinz Ketchup, and I have had quite a lot of it since returning to the US.  I don't remember everything I've eaten but I have it several of the foods I have craved while abroad.  But I distinctly remember my first five meals.

My first meal was an omelet and hash browns at the diner at JFK airport while I waited for the van to take me home.  My second meal was a pepperoni and anchovy pizza from my favorite local pizzeria.  My third was sushi with my wife, breaking the three-week drought of our "sushi night" tradition.  My fourth was a bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel from Dunkin' Donuts.  

My fifth was communion.

Taking communion this Sunday was especially significant for me.  For the past three weeks I have been in various churches that were essentially foreign to me, yet I felt a connection to the congregants there that surpasses culture and language.  I couldn't understand the words of most of the songs, but I could hear the joy, the sincerity, and the love.  I was able to worship alongside my Swazi, Zulu, and Shonga brothers and sisters with my heart, if not my tongue.  

But it was refreshing to be in my own home church.  To be able to sing along with the worship leader, who is also my good friend.  To be able to follow the sermon by my pastor without any translation.  And to participate in communion with my own congregation.

We did communion by intinction, which involves tearing a piece of bread off from the loaf and then dipping it into the grape juice, receiving both at the same time.  To facilitate this, two of our church elders and their wives stood at the front of the church and the congregants formed lines to come forward and partake.

I waited for one of the lines to shorten and made my way to that elder and his wife.  When it was my turn to partake, the connection between Africa and my home church was brought full circle.

"Mduduzi, the body of Christ, broken for you," said the elder's wife as she held out the bread for me.  She had used my African name.  Then, as I turned to her husband to dip into the cup, he said "Welcome home, the blood of Christ, shed for you."

That was the best homecoming meal I could have received.