Broken

At the parish where I celebrate Communion week by week, we use pita for the bread – a nice Middle Eastern connection. I tear off a small piece for each person who presents themself at the altar rail, place it in their hands. The Body of Christ.

This morning, every time I tore the bread, each time I placed it, between my hands and theirs I saw the child. You know him: his picture flooded our news streams for a week or so after he drowned while his family was fleeing the war, after he was washed up on the beach in his bright red t-shirt.

Suffer the little children, he said, to come to me.

This is the Body of Christ, broken for you.

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