Not too long ago it was my turn to help serve communion at my church. This always makes me nervous. I worry that my hands will shake and I’ll drop the plate. I worry that I’ll somehow be a distraction. I worry that I’m not worthy. Which of course I’m not but Jesus loves me anyway.

Usually we pass the plate from row to row, the servers facilitating the process as we progress up the aisles. But on this particular week our pastor shook things up a little and had the congregation come forward to receive the elements.

I stood, along with three others, at the front of the sanctuary, holding a shiny tray filled with tiny communion cups. I kept my eyes focused on the tray, silently watching as each person’s hands moved toward their chosen cup, seeing their fingers rise above my focus then move past me to the bread.

Seeing the variety of God’s people in their hands.

There were small hands, unlined, unsure, untaught. The owners of these hands hesitated before choosing their cup. Perhaps this one is better? These were hands that wear Band-Aids like badges of honor. That boast ink stains that don’t easily wash off because they used indelible ink even though Mom told them not to.

Where will those hands go, over time? How will they find ways to serve the Lord? Will they always make the right choice? So many possibilities.

There were middle-aged hands, more worn and rough than the previous ones, which reached confidently for their cups before moving on. They had found their place in the world. Found ways to prove their worth through the years, serving God, serving their families, serving communion themselves, in their turn. Sure, they have made wrong choices, but yet here they are, taking communion amongst their peers, knowing that God’s grace covers over a multitude of sins.

There were old hands. Thin of finger and skin, lined and freckled with age. These were knowledgeable hands, slowed by the wisdom that sudden decisions can lead to regrets. They were strong hands, once. Skilled hands. Hands that have seen their skills betray them through tremors and frailty and age. Cool, dry, hands that take yours in greeting each week and give you confidence to carry on.

And there were farmer’s hands. Calloused, they were, and bent. Marked by deep lines and sun. Gnarled. Thick. Strong enough to endure the rigors of life. Scarred and marred by the hazards of their trade.
Not unlike Jesus’ hands, I’d imagine. Scarred. Marked by his trade as a carpenter. Marked by Roman brutality. Yet gentled by the grace of His father.

I wonder, if I held the communion tray and His hands reached for the cup, would I recognize His scars? Would my heart leap as His hands came into view? Would I know, without looking up, who it was that stood before me?

Or would I watch His hands pass by as the others did? Just one more hand in the line. One more face in the crowd. Not drawing attention to Himself. Not wanting to distract. Only wanting to serve.

Yeah, this church thing…it works for me. No, we’re not perfect. Yes, we have quirks and do weird things. Sure, there are Sunday mornings when I’d rather stay in bed, have brunch, drink my coffee out on the deck to the sound of birds chirping and my neighbor mowing his lawn.

But when it all comes down to it, all that weirdness is done for Jesus. All those raised arms and ageless hymns and tiny plastic communion cups. For Jesus. All the committee meetings and baby dedications and Vacation Bible Schools. For Jesus. All the rote recitations and misunderstood motivations. Jesus. He’s why I do what I do.

This is where my story is leading me.

“The Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many.” Matthew 20:28