Transition to Adulthood

We’re not Presbyterian. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but if you’re Presbyterian or have ever been Presbyterian, or Episcopal, or Anglican, or Catholic, you know these folks are pretty serious about Holy Communion.

There are differences in doctrine, belief and ceremony from one denomination to another, but in general, the purpose of communion is to recall and replay Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples, who were his friends. At the Last Supper, that particular meal was to venerate the Jewish celebration of Passover (Jesus and his buds were Jewish, remember), which was a big deal because it celebrated the freeing of the Israelites, who were once slaves in Egypt.

God had to do some convincing to get Pharaoh to free the Hebrew slaves, up to and including (heartbreakingly) the death of every first-born Egyptian. Every firstborn Egyptian except, that is, the Hebrews (later known as the Jews), who were “passed over” by God’s plague. If your ancestor was the one being passed over for death, you can see that definitely warranted some celebrating. So Jesus and his friends were doing exactly that, in a feast which included bread and wine. Jesus took some bread, broke it into pieces, blessed it and said, “Take, eat; this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me.” Then he took a cup of wine, gave thanks for it, and said, “drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

If none of that makes any sense to you, no worries—if you want to explore more I’ll set you up.[i] The point here is the “do this in remembrance of me” part definitely gained a following, so Christians up through and including today have been doing the bread and wine thing every week, every month, and/or on special occasions ever since.

Now, if you’re a kid, the very notion of drinking wine—in church, of all places—is pretty heady stuff. We started going to church with Jason and Josh not long after our lives fell apart (it seemed like a good idea) as soon as we had community staff support who could help manage the boys there.

The first church we attended was a CEC—Charismatic Episcopal Church. My idea of the best church ever is along the lines of the one Sister Mary Clarence brought to life in the movie Sister Act. I love music. I want the house to rock! And I figured the boys would be more interested if there was music they could dig. So the charismatic part had its appeal. And Father Peter did not disappoint. That man could belt out a rendition of Glora! [clap clap] Gloria! [clap clap] In Excelsis Deo like it was nobody’s business. Energetic, contemporary praise music gets the blood moving and the soul stirring, and serves as a great reason to come to church for kids with autism, and some of us older folks as well.

Josh often left with his staff shortly after the music, because that’s really all he could take. Fair enough, it was a start. Jason wanted to stay (he loved it!) but it didn’t take long for us to realize he was better off busy during the service than sitting on a pew bench. With Father Peter’s support, Jason became an alter server. It was interesting, because Jason needed staff help to be a server at first, so you had this little guy in an alb (robe) ringing a bell and holding a plate under communion wafers being followed by a staffer taking data and giving Jason an M&M every so often for reinforcement. Granted, this wouldn’t fly in all churches; ours was small, and in Maine, so there you go. That’s part of why we live here.

At this particular CEC, Father Peter used real, good, Italian red wine for communion. Jason was quite taken with it, since he knew wine at home was only for Special Occasions, and the CEC did communion every week, so church must be Really Special! And when it came time for Jason to take communion, he got a tiny taste of that red wine.

All was well in the garden. And then one day, we were grocery shopping. I tend to shop aisle by aisle, which is against all advice when it comes to not buying junk you don’t need to consume as well as not spending money you don’t need to spend, but it prevents me from running from one end of the store to the other because I forgot the mayonnaise all the way back in aisle 2. Since they sell alcohol in the grocery stores in Maine, this brought us down aisles with beer, wine and spirits (as well as the organic foods which are inexplicably located at one end of the booze aisle.) My son was trailing me a bit, and I realized he was muttering something, and some people were looking at him. And then I heard it. He passed the Merlot, and said, “the blood of Christ.” The Burgundy, “the blood of Christ.” The Cabernet Sauvignon, “the blood of Christ.” The Bordeaux, “the blood of Christ.” The Chianti, “the blood of Christ.” You get the idea.

Oh well, I guess there are worse things kids could be saying in public. A little odd, I’ll give you, but as you can probably relate, “odd” was the new normal for us.

Jason’s burgeoning language was so interesting to watch. Back in our sailing days, Steve used to say he wished that for just one day the waters would recede from Salem Sound, to reveal exactly how varied the bottom was, and just where the U-boats alleged to have been sunk during WWII lay at rest. Today, I would give anything to be inside of Jason’s head. How does he think??

The little CEC church eventually folded, so we went church-shopping. Jason and I were in charge of this; Josh couldn’t take all the novelty and uncertainty (Steve wasn’t wild about it either), so Steve stayed home with Josh while Jay and I shopped. This caused Jason to be very aware of all the different kinds of churches. Steve and I had discussed what we needed in a new church home. Basically, we wanted a low-key, bible-teaching church with great music. Simple. Basic. If it was rice it would be a white box with black lettering that just said Rice. Basic but passionate, if that makes any sense. The people of the church turn Rice into spicy jambalaya that, well, if Sister Mary Clarence had anything to say about it, was uplifting and giving to the community.

By definition that excluded some denominations from our new church home consideration. It excluded “high church” orientations—those that do a lot with robes and pointy hats and incense and lots of Latin that for all the world sounds to me like “I can beat anyone at dominoes” in a sing-songie voice. No snake handlers, no cult leaders. We checked out the usual—the UCC, the Methodists, the Baptists . . . keep in mind we were looking not only for a basic Bible-teaching church with jumping music, but it also had to be autism-friendly, meet at a time I could get my family there, and have a place to park that wasn’t a fight for on-street parking. Seriously, when you have two kids with autism, the list of must-haves for a church home becomes longer. We decided, in part, that we were “evangelical Christians,” which in Maine means Church (white box, black lettering,) and if it works for you, tell people when they ask things like “hey how do you do it?” but don’t be pushy.

So we whittled the list down. Jason was very much an equal-opportunity church shopper, so it became common for him to note every church we passed by. “That church?”

“No honey, we’re not Catholic.”

“That one?”

“No, we’re not Lutheran.”

“No, we’re not Jewish.”

“No, we’re not Methodist.”

“No we’re not . . . ”

And so it went.

Route 88 through Falmouth is beautiful. It’s a gently winding two-lane back road that bypasses route 295 and Old Route One, one that gives HGTV fans like me the opportunity to look at beautiful homes I will never own but can thoroughly appreciate. Jay and I like to take that road when we’re coming back to Georgetown from a trip to Dr. Robbins at Maine Medical Center.

Not far from the Falmouth General Store, there’s a big brick church on the left with a silver cross in front: The Church of the Holy Martyrs.

“Not that church,” Jason said.

Hey, this was new. . . growth! Too far away . . . he brought it up. . . cowabunga!

“Why not this church?” I asked.

Jason looked at me like I was daft. “We’re not Martyrs,” he said.

True enough.

We finally found what we were looking for. LifeChurch is a small congregation of about 60 people (100 if you count the kids) that meets in the Bath Senior Center on Floral Street. To my ever-loving astonishment, the Pastor was Sam Francis, the same Sam Francis who lives in Georgetown and owns the Back River Bend Boatyard not far from our home. Holy cow, imagine meeting you here! Sam? A pastor? And a sailor to boot. Who knew.

We love LifeCurch. Jason became an usher (no alter servers at LC; communion once a month on the first Sunday of the month. Grape juice, not wine.) Jason arrives at church every Sunday two hours early to help set up chairs and to inflate the Bounce House outside for the kids to use when the weather is good. He helps move the simple cross made of rough-hewn weathered beams from the storage shed in the parking lot to the small stage the seniors use for talent shows and other entertainment when the space is not used as a church the other six days of the week. He helps set up the Varsity Kids classroom for “LifeCamp,” and reviews the slides to be projected for praise music to be sure they are in the right order with the right words.

This last job is one for which Jason is particularly suited. Jason has a near-photographic memory, and he just has a knack for song titles, words and artists. He has a collection of about 300 contemporary Christian CDs, not a duplicate in the bunch, and by golly if Pastor Kevin gets any words out of order Jason is right there to correct it before a major faux-pas during worship.

Every once in a while Josh comes from his group home with his staff. I will never forget the first day these amazing professionals surprised me with Josh at church. I cried. “It’s the first time my entire family has been under the same roof at church in what seems like forever,” I whispered to Jessica. “Thank you.”

Old habits die hard, of course. Another church emerged long after we joined LifeChurch, one that’s led by one of Bath’s Martial Arts instructors and seems to really connect with teens. Victory Church.

“We don’t go to Victory Church,” Jay said the other day.

“That’s right,” I said, a little surprised he was resurrecting this routine from a while back. “Why not?” I asked.

Jason looked at me like I was daft. “We’re not Victorians,” he said.

True enough.

[i] Check out RickWarren.org as a place to start.