Being Last

Matthew 20:16

16.

So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.

When I go to church, I sit in one of the front rows because, well, that's where the wheelchairs go.  In my parish church, the front two rows of the middle aisle are indented slightly, as if one space were removed from each, and this is where I park my electric wheelchair.  Our current priest suggested that my parents and I sit in the front most of the two rows so that it is easier for him to bring Communion down to me before he goes back to the sanctuary steps and gives the Eucharist to those who line up the center aisle.  The very front pew is not the place that I would choose to sit, if I had free choice -- not because of any sense of humility but, rather, perhaps, from a sense of pride.  I really don't like being put on display.  Of course, being in a wheelchair all my life, I've never exactly blended into the background.

Sitting there, front and center, I feel like everyone behind is watching me.  They probably aren't, but the sense of eyes upon me only increases my self-consciousness.  And I am a person who is highly self-conscious, anyway.  You might be imagining a shy, painfully cowering waif -- but, though I do have a waiflike appearance, I do not cower.  No, instead, I'm up there singing and wondering if I am an inspiration to others as I sing, praying and wondering if I look like Joan of Arc in a mystic trance, reciting the prayers aloud and being quite sure that I am a model for others.  Yeah, I've got serious pride issues.  And, the thing is, I know it's ridiculous.  As much as I love myself, there are times when I feel myself such a stupid little fool... then again, that may stem from pride, as well.  I get disappointed in myself because I know I have potential greatness.

So, how I would look to others is almost always in my mind when I am at church, especially after receiving Communion first and having a large portion of the congregation file past me as they also receive.  My thoughts have been far too grounded in myself.  Like I can't escape, can't break through to what is just beyond... to what is truly being offered to me, to what I just can't see.  And then, one day, our parish was celebrating the first Communion of a dozen or so little children.  I used to skip the First Communion Sunday because it's so crowded and my parents and I have to sit in the very back of the church so I won't be in the way in the aisles.  That year, however, our priest had left under some mystery and strain and, on his last day, he had asked me to pray for him.  I can't tell you how many people have asked me to pray for them!  When I was younger, I would inwardly roll my eyes at the request and smile.  But, at that point in my journey, I was willing to try, to try to actually pray for someone else.  So I agreed to pray for our departing priest and decided that I would do so by forcing myself to Mass every week.  Even on First Communion Sunday.  So, my mother and I sat in the very back of the church, I parking in my wheelchair behind the last pew, while my father sang in the choir upstairs.  The only way for me to receive Communion without getting in the way of the others or turning my wheelchair around without incident was to be the last one in the line.

It felt good to go last.  I didn't feel so "special", something I've been called my whole life.  I just followed along with the others and the priest didn't even have to move as he gave me the Consecrated Host.  I turned my wheelchair around without hitting anyone and proceeded back down the aisle while everyone else was knelt over in prayer.  And then... then I sat in the back of the church, behind everyone else... dark, quiet, unobserved... and, for the first time in my life, I truly received the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ beneath the Sacramental Veil.  I gnawed upon His Body and received Grace beyond words.  After that, for almost a year, I cried every time I received the Eucharist.

Somethings, some people, are most certainly worth the wait.  It is good to be little and last.  It is good to be relegated to the shadows of the world, sometimes, for there, in the quiet and stillness with no one's eyes upon me, I could finally sense the Real Presence of Christ with me and within me.  The power of God's love reached way back beyond the last row and was intimately mine in that moment of aloneness when I was self-conscious no longer but, rather, God-conscious and totally loved beyond all telling.

And, yes, I have taken a life lesson from that.  Funny how Christ preached it and, yet, I had to experience it myself to know what it meant.