The first Sunday of our vacation found us in Rome so we walked over to St. Peter's in the Vatican to attend worship. To say the ancient basilica is impressive is more than a slight understatement. As we stood next to the very spot where St. Peter's bones are said to be buried, I couldn't help but be vividly aware of the power of that place and the impact it has had on so much of our civilization's history.

The worship service was somewhat less impressive.

That it was performed in Italian and Latin probably didn't help my assessment, but even I could tell the choir kept coming in on the wrong spots, and the preacher stumbled over his words through the sermon, but the most vivid example of weak worship came during the distribution of the Eucharist.

Ushers appeared to surround us and herd us toward the designated distribution points.

"Avanti! Avanti!" they ordered, literally shoving those of us who were a little slower than the others into line. I suddenly had an idea of how sheep must feel being led to slaughter...which, of course, has a certain biblical imagery about it. Nevertheless, we managed to make our way to the beautiful altar to receive our bit of bread and then to be quickly hustled away by the order barking ushers.

Returning to our places, I took the time to reflect on both the feel of our experience and the implications to our faith. My thoughts and feelings were, not to put too fine a point on it, decidedly mixed.

You may have noted an incongruity in this tale. The very fact we had received communion in the very center of Roman Catholicism denotes a disparity that those of you familiar with Christian doctrine would be most aware of. For the fact of the matter is only those are actual members of the Roman Catholic Church are welcomed to receive the holy gifts of Christ's body and blood. Nevertheless, I went forward along with my family as a silent protest to what I believe to be a terrible travesty done to this wondrous gift from Jesus. I made this action with deliberation and not without a good deal of prior thought. But the most important reason I found myself standing before St. Peter's throne was because of a story I had been told only a few weeks before...

The story begins back in the fifties when a friend of mine befriended another man while visiting a foreign country. Over the years the two stayed in touch through Christmas cards and the like. Never much more than that, so my friend was stunned when earlier this year he was contacted by an attorney and told that this somewhat casual friend had designated him the sole recipient in his will. Although the man was not dead yet, he was in failing health and had asked his attorney to get everything in order. You can imagine my friend's surprise and his not little discomfort over such beneficence. In any case, only a few months later, my friend was called and told that the man had now entered the hospital and things did not appear to be very good.

My friend left his family and his work and flew to this distant country. There he sat at the bedside of his friend for almost a month. Finally, the man breathed his last in the presence of his faithful friend and no one else. Before he could return home, my friend had to make funeral arrangements and so he contacted the local pastor. As he sat in the priest's office making the necessary plans, he remarked it was the dead man's wish that Holy Communion be celebrated at his funeral. The priest readily agreed but then said something that had devastating ramifications, I believe, to the work of Christ. The priest looked at my friend over his glasses and casually remarked,

"But, of course, you will not receive the bread and wine because you are a Lutheran."

My friend is much too much a gentleman to have caused a stir by questioning such fallacious reasoning but I seethed at his telling me. Here was someone who had just spent four weeks being the Christ to another human being. And now the church was to bar him from the very meal that Christ instituted and gave to all of us so freely. I was appalled at such a disgrace, and so decided, then and there, to march boldly to the altar at St. Peter's and break these infamous rules. I'm glad I did. I dare to think God is as well.