The Joke´s Still on Me: Separation of Church and Alcohol Never Ends
North Star Writers Group
August 06, 2008
By Nathaniel Shockey
I feel the need to preface this column by affirming my reverence for the sacrament of Communion, or the sharing of the elements, or the Eucharist, as it is sometimes called. The following may seem to undercut this reverence, and those who consider the discovery of humor around a holy sacrament objectionable might want to stop reading. My defense would simply be that sometimes the humor just finds you, no matter how unlikely the event, or how penitent one´s attitude.
My parents did not teach me that alcohol was evil. We just never had any. I can´t help wondering if my parents´ parents had suspicions about the satanic content of alcohol, but I don´t think my parents share these suspicions. They simply don´t drink.
As you may have gathered from some of my previous columns, the apple fell at a considerable distance from the Shockey tree. But it didn´t happen overnight.
My first encounter with alcohol was in an Anglican church in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at which my uncle was a rector. Anglicans tend to take Communion much more frequently than their Protestant cousins, so quite naturally, the one time I attended their church at the tender age of 10, the elements were served.
Although the Bible does specifically mention bread and wine being served, most Protestant churches serve bread and Welch´s. So this is how I grew up, eating a small piece of bread and drinking about a ½ ounce of grape juice once a month on Sunday morning. At 10 years old, I had no idea that Anglican churches served wine. I knew about as much about wine as I knew about STDs. And boy was I in for a surprise when I had my first sip at the front of a church, surrounded by other worshipers on their knees, with quiet organ tones playing solemnly in the background. I took a sip, my throat was on fire, and I think I almost swallowed my tongue. I almost died in church that day.
Fast forward to 15 years later, and I´m now living in California where we pour wine in our cereal.
This week, I´m visiting my family on the East Coast, and I happened to attend an Anglican church where my brother leads the music. About two minutes into the service, I realized we´d be taking Communion. This time, I´d be ready. Not only would I not be in danger of choking to death, I could even enjoy the taste, analyze it and prove it by describing it as "dry," "spicy," "oaky" or even "jammy".
Finally, after great anticipation, it was my pew´s turn to walk to the front, kneel and take the communion that was being served. I did my best to stay focused, as one should during this sacred event. But I was about to redeem history, so it was a bit more difficult than usual.
First, the rector served my brother, who handled the wine without any problem. Then he served my Dad, who coughed a bit, but held it together. Next in line were my wife and me. This was it, my chance to prove my adult status, my acclimation into the age-old tradition of bread and wine. I could barely wait, and I no longer had to.
Until he skipped directly over us.
My wife later suggested that perhaps we were supposed to say "hit me," or tap the bench in front of us. We obviously missed some sort of code. And about a minute later, he came back to us, carrying tiny little plastic cups filled with what I assume was Welch´s. It sure as hell wasn´t wine. It was remarkably disappointing, in a sick, twisted sort of way.
Apparently, when the rector came to offer us the wine, we were looking down, and this meant we would prefer grape juice to alcohol. I thought I was being respectful, while in reality, I was rejecting one of the elements. If only I had known.
I guess I´ll just have to wait until the next time I attend an Anglican church to resolve this utterly bizarre game history seems to be playing on me. Until then, the separation of church and alcohol will persist as one of the cruel jokes of my life.
2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.
I feel the need to preface this column by affirming my reverence for the sacrament of Communion, or the sharing of the elements, or the Eucharist, as it is sometimes called. The following may seem to undercut this reverence, and those who consider the discovery of humor around a holy sacrament objectionable might want to stop reading. My defense would simply be that sometimes the humor just finds you, no matter how unlikely the event, or how penitent one´s attitude.
My parents did not teach me that alcohol was evil. We just never had any. I can´t help wondering if my parents´ parents had suspicions about the satanic content of alcohol, but I don´t think my parents share these suspicions. They simply don´t drink.
As you may have gathered from some of my previous columns, the apple fell at a considerable distance from the Shockey tree. But it didn´t happen overnight.
My first encounter with alcohol was in an Anglican church in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, at which my uncle was a rector. Anglicans tend to take Communion much more frequently than their Protestant cousins, so quite naturally, the one time I attended their church at the tender age of 10, the elements were served.
Although the Bible does specifically mention bread and wine being served, most Protestant churches serve bread and Welch´s. So this is how I grew up, eating a small piece of bread and drinking about a ½ ounce of grape juice once a month on Sunday morning. At 10 years old, I had no idea that Anglican churches served wine. I knew about as much about wine as I knew about STDs. And boy was I in for a surprise when I had my first sip at the front of a church, surrounded by other worshipers on their knees, with quiet organ tones playing solemnly in the background. I took a sip, my throat was on fire, and I think I almost swallowed my tongue. I almost died in church that day.
Fast forward to 15 years later, and I´m now living in California where we pour wine in our cereal.
This week, I´m visiting my family on the East Coast, and I happened to attend an Anglican church where my brother leads the music. About two minutes into the service, I realized we´d be taking Communion. This time, I´d be ready. Not only would I not be in danger of choking to death, I could even enjoy the taste, analyze it and prove it by describing it as "dry," "spicy," "oaky" or even "jammy".
Finally, after great anticipation, it was my pew´s turn to walk to the front, kneel and take the communion that was being served. I did my best to stay focused, as one should during this sacred event. But I was about to redeem history, so it was a bit more difficult than usual.
First, the rector served my brother, who handled the wine without any problem. Then he served my Dad, who coughed a bit, but held it together. Next in line were my wife and me. This was it, my chance to prove my adult status, my acclimation into the age-old tradition of bread and wine. I could barely wait, and I no longer had to.
Until he skipped directly over us.
My wife later suggested that perhaps we were supposed to say "hit me," or tap the bench in front of us. We obviously missed some sort of code. And about a minute later, he came back to us, carrying tiny little plastic cups filled with what I assume was Welch´s. It sure as hell wasn´t wine. It was remarkably disappointing, in a sick, twisted sort of way.
Apparently, when the rector came to offer us the wine, we were looking down, and this meant we would prefer grape juice to alcohol. I thought I was being respectful, while in reality, I was rejecting one of the elements. If only I had known.
I guess I´ll just have to wait until the next time I attend an Anglican church to resolve this utterly bizarre game history seems to be playing on me. Until then, the separation of church and alcohol will persist as one of the cruel jokes of my life.
2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.
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