Craving Communion

I tell her I'm thinking baguettes. She says no, Koreans don't really like them. How about something else from the bakery and some milk? I say that will be fine. We get on the bus and head downtown. It's Sunday evening and I'm craving communion.

That afternoon, I'd been reading in Brother Yun's Living Water, when the ache suddenly arose. That desire to have soul communion with other believers, the kind of communion that happens rather spontaneously, in deep, peaceful silence, in candlelight fellowship, in the washing of feet, in earnest prayer. A few days earlier, I'd known it at the lunch table, sitting between Karen and Juhee, when Juhee finished giving grace, “in Jesus' name.” Yes, Jesus was there, and I could feel the delight of his presence, the grace of him bringing us together. Suddenly I yearned to break bread and share the cup, but Karen and Juhee were hours away and there was no one for me to ask in the community. And that's when I thought of the poor. Jesus is in the poor. Could I share communion with him there? In loaves of bread? I call Mi-hyang and ask if she'd like to go with me. She loves the poor, and she said yes!

We arrive at Uijeongbu Station, where I've often seen old, weathered men begging for change or sleeping on cardboard mats. But today we can't find anyone who fits the picture. I joke, “Maybe the economy's improved and there are no poor?” We look in front of the station, behind the station, walk around the neighborhood, check the unemployment office, and, after striking out everywhere, we finally find a place to eat dinner.

I'm embarrassed and confused, and I feel pressure to either explain away or ignore my failed plan, or else account for it. I swallow a bite of spaghetti and blurt out what I've been afraid to say: “When this kind of situation arises, when you thought you were supposed to do something but then the pieces don't fit together, what do you think the reason is? Was the Holy Spirit not behind it? And if the Holy Spirit wasn't behind it, can I not hear his voice? Did I mistake my own plan for His?”

Mi-hyang isn't at all upset that we haven't found anyone to share food with; she's just thankful for the time we can spend together. I'm glad for that too, but I still feel something's missing. I bite back the tears and dare another confession: “I think my heart is good, but my ears are bad.” I appreciate the way she neither condemns me nor denies it.

We finish our ice cream and are walking around the market, when suddenly we spot a commotion on the left. There are two middle-aged woman pushing and shoving each other in front of a comforter shop. A man emerges from the shop and tries to restrain the woman closest to us, but she carries on with surprising strength. As she flails her arms wildly, throws herself on the ground, kicks her legs, and refuses to be restrained or consoled, it becomes apparent that she may not only be drunk but also mentally ill.

We stare with the other onlookers, and Mi-hyang asks me what I think we should do. I tell her I don't know, but we should pray. I pray for peace, but the peace isn't coming. In the fighting, the woman's shirt has come up and the man considerately yanks it back down. The crowd stares on. The woman falls to the ground again and she has wet her khaki pants clear through. She's crying as she gets up and staggers away, toward the sidewalk where she kneels down and hangs her head in the nook of a wall. I stare after her and it hits me that she is the most broken person we've seen all evening. Just the kind Jesus would go after. Despite her nice clothes, handbag, and shiny watch, she is the poorest of the poor.

Mi-hyang and I walk over to her, and my only thought is to pray. But I think it's impossible to pray for someone so desperate without touching them, too. I reach out and timidly pat her back, afraid she might recoil or lash back violently, but she doesn't and so I rub her back with sure, wide strokes and try to brush off the dirt and litter bits from the street (this only by God's grace, given my aversion to germs^^).

We help her to her feet and walk her across the street to a little restaurant. The handful of patrons stare wide-eyed as we enter and sit down, and I can't blame them; we must be quite the sight. In between dozens of attempts to call her son, the woman wails on and on about the terrible shopkeeper and his wife, how she'd thought they were her friends but they'd betrayed her. I get very little of what she says, but Mi-hyang paraphrases later, and what I do piece together makes it harder for me to love her. Gulp. It's easy to love a poor, helpless woman, much harder to love a poor, guilty one.

She dying for revenge and can't stop crying. When the woman can't reach her son by phone, Mi-hyang starts calling with her own phone, and feeds the weeping woman by hand, one spoonful at a time. I see a new dimension of love. I take over the feeding while Mi-hyang goes out to make some more calls. The woman reeks of street and urine, and I can't eat for the stench. I recognize pride growing up among the good things in my heart. This is dangerous ground. How to keep the left hand from knowing what the right is doing.

The woman's son finally answers and gives us directions, and we get a taxi and drive across town. I smile and tell Mi-hyang now I know why we came. This was God's good purpose for us. But if we hadn't been looking? Oh, the things you see when your eyes are peeled for opportunities to serve and love. We arrive at the son's apartment, but he doesn't come out to meet her. He says she does this all the time; he's not a bad son, he's just tired of it. Mi-hyang tells me more about the situation on our way back home. Apparently, the woman and shopkeeper were part of a love triangle, and the woman was hysterical because he had betrayed her. As the ugliness and unworthiness of the situation sink in, the glory of loving the broken slowly fades out and contemplation takes over.

Mi-hyang asks if I'm okay, and I say yes. I tell her thank you and I'm sorry.

Thankful for what, and sorry for what? she laughs. Thankful for all you did, and sorry the problem got so big.

She says she had several experiences helping people like that in college, but now she avoids them. I feel a bit foolish, like she's discovered something I haven't. We both realize we wouldn't have gotten involved without the other. I tell her now I understand why Jesus sent the disciples out in pairs of two. And there it is, the same communion I'd felt in the restaurant, it swells between us, and I reach over and pat her leg. God satisfied my craving indeed.

This weekend, Christians all around the world will share the Lord's Supper together for World Communion Sunday. How might we also share that communion outside the church walls, in hearts sharing a common brokenness and surrender, a common pouring out and gain?