Tolerance, acceptance, and embracing difference–even in the face of established tradition and clear procedures–has been a theme on this blog for the last couple of weeks. Given that we live in a society that is more polarized than any I can remember, that’s not surprising.
Today, I am reminded of a simple act of acceptance that was offered to me eleven years ago while on sabbatical. For me it has become a example of grace and love. I have spent the last thirty years of my life, first as a student, then as a professor, as a non-Catholic in Catholic higher education. Accordingly, the issue of receiving Eucharist in a Catholic church has arisen on a regular basis. The official stance of the Catholic authorities, of course, is that non-Catholic folks like me are not welcome. When I was hired twenty-seven years ago at my current Catholic college in New England, I so me the chair of the department that had just hired me, a Dominican sister, about what would happen if I as a non-Catholic went for communion at the chapel on campus. She replied with what I have come to recognize as a typical response on this matter: “I would have no trouble with it myself, but there are some on campus who probably would.” Given that those “some” undoubtedly included a few of the fossilized Dominican priests in my new philosophy department, I decided that discretion was the greater part of valor and chose not to try it out. I never have received communion on campus in twenty-seven years. And that’s been fine. I’ve even made a point of attending mass once in a while in our main campus chapel and being one of the handful of people among hundreds not to go to communion. Given that many students show up on campus unaware that “non-Catholic Christian” is not an oxymoron, it’s a good “show-and-tell” moment.
But the issue arose unexpectedly eleven years ago when, while on sabbatical for four months at an ecumenical institute in Minnesota, I found myself at daily prayers several times a day with a bunch of Benedictine monks at the impressive Benedictine abbey just up the road at the center of the St. John’s University campus. During those months I was experiencing a great deal of internal spring cleaning and scouring; my spirit was reviving and I was discovering inner resources I had been unaware of my whole life. As I gradually awakened to a new perspective, I realized that not sharing communion with these new Benedictine friends was becoming a problem. One Saturday during dinner with my colleagues and some of the Benedictines at the institute, I asked one of the older monks, a physicist who had taught at the university for decades before his retirement a few years earlier in his middle seventies, what I should do. “Wilfred, I would like to receive communion at the Abbey,” I said, “but I’m not Catholic and I know that it’s against the rules for me to receive.
What do you think?” “I’ll tell you what Kilian (an even older monk at the next table about whom I wrote in a post last week) always says,” Wilfred replied. “Our policy is ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’” “But I just told you.” “And I forgot what you said.”
About The Author
Harrison Okafor
editor
Judith is a believer, a lover of Christ and a Gospel freak person. A passionate gospel blogger and press writer. I work with GospelHitsNaija.net Media, no 1 Gospel music platform.
