I stand holding a chalice half full of juice and utter, “The cup of salvation” over and over to worshipers coming forward for the sacrament, who lift a square of white bread from a basket held by the server to my left and then dip that bread into my chalice. It’s like nothing else. It’s actually kind of messy, because, from cup to mouth, the bread leaks juice onto the floor. By the time the server and I are offering the elements to one another a fractal splatter pattern is splayed on the stone tiles.
Yesterday the splatter hit my wrist. The worshiper responsible for it was aghast and breathed a hushed and wide-eyed, “I’m sorry” with her hand half covering her mouth. Nothing to apologize for. I liked seeing the purple splotch there on my arm, the way it changed shape as gravity pulled the edges of it downward to run over those two little veins.
The cup of salvation.