I stood awkwardly in the front of the sanctuary, trying to keep my balance. The piece of bread that had been torn for me, which was far too big, dangled half in and half out of my mouth. I white-knuckled my one crutch while briefly letting go of the other to shove the rest in.

And the little cup of juice? Let’s just say that the Elders must have been having a contest of who could fill the communion cup the fullest. When she handed me the cup, the first words that came to my mind were the reason I needed communion in the first place. Luckily, my wife Jodi, noticing the situation, took the cup from my hand and brought it back to our row. I slumped back into my seat and hoisted my locked-brace leg up onto the pew. I took the cup from her and with a heart rate of about 160 bpm I took the cup and was filled with joy. 

My family has been attending a variety of churches as we navigate towards a new community. To my delight, a number of those worship services have included communion. Not being able to walk has provided a little bit of a challenge. During one service, a hospitable soul invited me to remain seated and assured me that an Elder would find me and serve me in my seat. No, thank you. I didn’t want to make a scene, nor am I above acknowledging my own frailty (after all, I’m currently not able to change my own underwear). But it was important for me to approach the Table.

For the Table of Christ is a table for the broken.

There is no better way to approach God than with a limp. And I am limping. My wife got me dressed that Sunday morning. One of my children tied my shoes. I was driven to church, sitting the long way in the back seat of the car, and I took the elevator to get to sanctuary level. I could not see the screen when others stood to sing and I felt the pity and care of others while we passed the peace. I am also not working full time. On that morning, I wasn’t the ordained minister, the writer, the preacher, or the biblical scholar, it was just frail me. And Christ was there to meet me with open arms.

Of course I’ve always been this broken. My wounds are just more visible now. I limped forward with issues that all could see. I also shuffled forward with wounds they could not. I limped forward with my sadness, with my questions, with broken relationships, and with my doubts. I limped forward with all of myself toward a table at the end of the center aisle, from which the Spirit would come to unite me with the risen Christ. 

Even then, I could not do it alone. My wife was there to carry my cup, to help lift my leg, and to gently rub my knee as if to tell me that I had made it. Christ and the people of Christ surrounded me.

This Holy Week I am experiencing death and resurrection in new and deeper ways. I am not leading anything. I am learning to receive. I am learning to receive the love of a wife who has had to live into the “for worse” part of the vows she made over 25 years ago. I am receiving the love of children who have to help dad do the basics of life. I am receiving the love of friends who have given me rides to therapy, given me books to read, and just stopped by to check in. I am receiving the special kind of love that God has for the broken.

This Holy Week I am confessing my sin. But I do so differently. I am not focused on my mistakes, my “missing the mark,” or my failures. For me this year, sin isn’t defined as evil. Sin is a brokenness. My confession is not a movement away from specific actions or inactions, but it is the difficult and sincere acknowledgment of my state. 

The year the cross will not be reduced only to a legal transaction between a perfect God and an evil humanity. Rather, I am experiencing what it means for a God to be broken so that I might be put back together. I have been given a front row seat into the actions of divine love. 

Love has lifted me this season. My smile has returned. I laugh and cry more. I have hope. There is light in the darkness, and there is life where there has been so much death. My brokenness is still present, and mine is still the kind of faith that is more comfortable with questions than with simple answers.

This Easter I know that not all will be fixed, but the miracle of the entire incarnational experiment remains that while on this journey, I do not walk alone. The One who was broken will continue to restore. For God is, in a special way, the God of the broken.