a buckhead eucharist

Last night, we ate with some friends in Atlanta. I joined my wife with two of her friends from work along with one of her friend's partner. The five of us enjoyed a great meal...a couple of snapper specials, the salmon, grits of some kind, prickly pear margaritas, a dos equis, a stella artois, and a pint of guinness. Desserts came too.

But, nothing tasted as good as the conversation.

For three co-workers, it seemed wonderful (and necessary!) to commiserate and celebrate about work. The two "significant others" sat quietly, for a little while at least, in support of this make-shift group counseling session. But then, the attention bounced in my direction. What was I up to these days? With genuine interest, affirmation and support, my new friends listened to the tale that is my journey. They also listened to our trials and triumphs of being parents of young children.

We listened to a sense of loss and grief of one whose father recently died and how she's getting away to put her toes in the sand on this "father's day" weekend.

We all then listened to the other couple's struggles at their church. And of course, I offered my take on the problems that arise when folks working for the Kingdom get bogged down trying to run it as a business. Then we all comiserated that something's just not right in the world of Christianity.

And so, a single Episcopalian, two gay Methodists, and two Baptists of some sort gathered at the table giving thanks in a communal sense. Had I known how the night would have played out, I probably should have started by saying, "On the night when Jesus was betrayed, he gathered in an upper room...he took bread...he took the cup...do this in remembrance of me."