COME SUNDAY - Lucinda Perera Isaacs

Lucinda Perera Isaacs is a Presbyterian minister living in Cincinnati, Ohio, and she often writes about belonging and belovedness. This essay is from her manuscript on gender and spirituality. She has contributed to Justice Unbound, Presbyterian Outlook, and Journal for Preachers.

“Look down and see my people through.”
-Duke Ellington, “Come Sunday”

The jazz trio offered their riffs. I had finished my sermon and collapsed back into the fancy chair hidden behind the pulpit. Meanwhile, the piano, bass, and drum kit kept exploring Duke Ellington’s “Come Sunday.”

Pastors often bemoan that it’s hard to find a quiet moment on a Sunday morning. I’ve always felt able to worship while leading worship, but it was an extra level of comfort having the jazz trio that day.

My sense of panic had grown every day throughout the week. I was unsure how I was going to get through each day, but Sundays come with muscle memory. I could lean back and take a breath. I relaxed for the first time in days. The jazz staple offered respite to my soul, even as the steel brushes scraped across the snare drum. The bass thumped along as the pianist’s fingers danced on the high end of the keyboard.

I looked over the congregation at the faces of the people who entered this space by the white pillars outside to sit in pews lining the sanctuary. Consistently, this is a moment of incredible joy and responsibility for me. The jazz was a departure from an otherwise traditional service, and their faces swayed more than usual. Their expressions tell all kinds of stories that I’ve learned to detect over the years—what people are hiding from one another, what they are stuffing deep down from their selves, the relief they seek, the delight they are afraid to name, the quiet sacrifices they make for loved ones, and the incredible way they value their faith. All these faces gather here each Sunday morning grappling with something mysterious and sacred that knows each of them by name.

At first, I saw what I always saw—a smudge of make-up trying to conceal age, a woman bending her knees pretending to crawl with a grandchild between the pews, and a man pulling out a handkerchief to smother the same sneeze he has each week. Then I looked down at the bulletin to make sure I didn’t miss my next assignment. When I looked back up, I saw someone that I had not seen before: I saw me. 

I am not making this up. It is not a dream. I can’t explain it: I saw myself.

I was slowly proceeding down the center aisle. I stopped to greet people and acknowledge the hopes and fears they brought with them. I appeared bright and outgoing, but not quite effusive. I was wearing the shoes that I was hiding under my bed with black tights extending up my legs.

I blinked to bring me back to the chair. Wiggling my freshly polished blue toenails inside my black Oxford shoes, I realized that even my mannerisms were changing. My long, almost gangly, fingers covered the razor burn of my otherwise smooth cheeks. I was trying to hide my face, but my hands kept sliding toward one another as if I were praying. Certainly, I looked prayerful, but I kept looking down the aisle at this image of myself.

As the trio ended, I returned to muscle memory. I stood and walked to the center of the chancel, turned to the congregation, and said, “Grace and peace to you in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ…” I listed a few announcements and invited the congregation to join me in prayer. A few minutes later, I said, “Our Father…” Everyone joined in with “…who art in heaven.”

As I returned to the oversized preacher’s chair, the drummer clicked his sticks together four times. The ensemble began playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” I intended to rehearse the benediction in my head, but instead I looked back down the center aisle again. There I was swaying along, mirroring the pianist’s passion for jazz. I was wearing a charming gray and navy panel dress that I’d never seen before. Then I saw myself approaching the communion table with open hands. My shoulder-length hair was smooth and straight.

The piano played out the words one last time: Carry everything to God in prayer.

That was my cue to offer the benediction. I straightened my grey suit jacket and plain navy tie—late August is no time for a black, polyester preacher's robe—and felt myself facing myself in front of the table. My image, draped in a lovely dress, was standing there looking over the table into the chancel, while I stood facing out towards the congregation. 

I occupied the same place twice. 

I stood in desperate need of grace, acceptance, and inclusion. And I faced this gathered people to offer an assurance of a steadfast love beyond my understanding. 

I looked back over the faces as I am prone to do, but that day I spoke mostly to myself. 

* * *

Following worship, I drove home in my pickup truck, and I knew that I needed to carry my whole messy self to God in prayer.

The self I saw at the table was pleading for bread and wine. My face looked tender and gracious—expressing deep relief to be in this place. Yet a lingering hunger called me forward to receive the compassion found at God’s table. How do I make this happen? Do I drive to Lexington? Or how about Indianapolis? Louisville? Columbus? How far would I have to drive to find a church that would be willing to feed me at their table while wearing a dress? If someone found out, it feels like I could lose my whole livelihood.  

This was all seventeen months since the beginning of the pandemic. Pre-packaged, sterilized communion wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to tear open the body of Christ and place it in my mouth. There needed to be crumbs. Wine needed to splatter.

I called a friend and colleague who offered to help. “I need communion—as my whole, messy self,” I said. Asking for help wasn’t as hard as I feared, but I still worried that I might sound delusional. “To be clear, I need to change my gender presentation. Do you know anyone who can do that? I can drive anywhere.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to explain myself. Can you do all of the explaining?” I pictured myself again pleading for the sacrament. I prayed for the compassion I have for others that I struggle to have for myself. 

“I’m on it.” He emailed an introduction to another pastor by the end of the day.

On the following Thursday morning, I drove through cornfields to a city two hours away. I had driven these fields plenty of times in my life, but they seemed to stretch out further that morning. As I approached the city, the “Hell is Real” billboard bit in a way that I never allowed it to before. More than anything else, I wanted to find communion with God and myself.

Presbyterians have lots of rules, and I generally don’t mind bending them as much as possible. However, I wasn’t in the mood to embody  a broken rule. In fact, I needed to know there was room for me. Communion is an act of the whole community of faith, and as such it is best rendered as a public act of worship. Of course, the church makes exceptions for those unable to attend worship, pastoral emergencies, and occasions deemed appropriate by elders of the congregation. I was an emergency—unable to attend worship as myself. In my email exchange with the pastor she assured me that this fit her congregation’s understanding of who they were called to be.

Since I refused to be an exception, I asked that an elder from the congregation be present. I needed to receive the care of the Church, not just a favor from a friend of a friend. My hope was to satisfy this hunger as an act of obedience to God. And then, maybe, I could cry in the empty sanctuary for an indefinite period of time. My expectations were scattershot. I wondered if the bread had the power to knock me over like I’d seen in a televised Benny Hinn revival, but I didn’t want a spectacle, either.

I arrived at the church at the same time as the elder. We bumped Covid-wary elbows, and I said, “I’m here to meet with the pastor at 10:15.”

She responded, “Great. I’m meeting with you, too.”

“Thank you,” I said. “My name is Mi…Mi…Michael.” 

I struggled saying my name in a way that I hadn’t felt since adolescence. I stepped into a conference room and put on a black dress with a red pelican print that I paid one dollar for at Snooty Fox, a boyfriend cardigan from Costco, black tights, and teal Chucks. I stuffed the blue, padded sports bra back into a maroon gym bag feeling uneasy that wearing a bra in church may be taking it too far.

As I stepped out of the conference room, I was face-to-face with a man pushing a custodial cart. He kept pushing the cart. He was the first to see me, and he didn’t look away disgusted. I, too, was totally unfazed.

I slipped into the sanctuary and stepped into the chancel where the pastor and elder were setting the table. They moved with intention as they stretched out a tablecloth. The cloth drifted as it landed on the table. The elder lit small tea candles on the table as the pastor placed a loaf of bread in a basket. They were both somehow delicate and confident, exactly what I needed in a space being prepared for me. They started to pick up the table and move it back from the steps so that we could more easily gather around it.

Still the gentleman, I said, “Let me help.”

We set the table down, and the pastor looked up and began to chant: Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom. Her fingers sunk into the crust until they became indistinguishable with the bread. Her cardigan flowed down past the back of her knees, and I briefly felt envy that a pastor could dress that way.

She broke the bread and poured the wine. I mouthed along with some of the words, as I always do when I’m not leading the liturgy, but I spoke softly enough that no one else could hear the,. I only wanted to receive and not be responsible for anyone else. What if I could never be a pastor again? What if those words were forbidden to me? 

The pastor presented the bread to the elder on her right who tore a piece off and held it between her fingertips. The pastor said, “The bread of life.” She dipped the bread into the cup. The elder passed the elements to me in the same way. 

I was glad to be served by an elder of this church. I did not know this person, and yet we shared a body in Christ. She fed me the bread of life. To me, this was church, encompassed in that one simple act. 

Now the elements were in my hands. I did not anticipate having to serve communion to the pastor. I just wanted to receive, be seen, and not explain myself. I wanted a little respite from any pastoral expectation to better understand myself. It is tempting to prove your worthiness at this table, which is, in fact, a contradiction of terms. 

I realized that I was standing at the front of the table, the same place that I had seen myself the Sunday before. The bread and wine in my hands are such a gift. Both the pastor and the elder had served the elements with the phrase, “The bread of life.” 

But for me this was about bodies. This is about a god who became flesh and invites me to embody my deepest convictions. This was about being broken and redeemed. I have never been scared of being broken, but I worry about not being able to be put back together.

I said, “The body of Christ, broken for you.”

The breaking of bread felt natural. My favorite part of serving communion is that I give something away that I have no control over. That’s why the rules don’t usually interest me. This moment was defined by its ordinariness, and that was healing. I wasn’t straining to be someone I wasn’t. The moment did not feel strange, despite how bizarre this may have felt to other people. Surely, someone else might feel like they were wearing a costume. Jesus said, “Do this in remembrance of me,” and that is all I intended to do. I did not feel knocked over by the power of the bread but invited into its groundedness. 

Mystery made a home of my body. The fingers that had become indistinguishable from the bread held me. I was a part of something larger than myself where my belovedness was never questioned and my belonging always assured.

The pastor offered a blessing after the communion, and while the cadence comforted me, I had stopped listening to words. I slid into the second pew and cradled my face with my hands. The sanctuary was as silent as my mind. I could feel my feet on the ground, my weight on the cushion, and every breath entering and exiting my lungs. The tension between my shoulder blades dissipated. I’m not sure I ever felt each of these sensations so distinctly. Where I expected to feel exhaustion, my body exhaled with satiation. I have always been more likely to reside in my head and ponder the world from somewhere outside my body, but now a stillness emanated from within my chest.

I saw her. I really did.