One Bread, One Body.

Edward, a young Rwandan member of the Lutheran Church in Kigali, leans over to me every few minutes to translate parts of the service we're attending into English. In a low voice, he tells me a short summary of what the preacher just said in Kiswahili. I’ve been in language school for two days learning Kinyarwanda, and now happen to find myself at the Lutheran Church’s monthly Kiswahili service. I don’t mind. I probably would have understood about the same amount either way (about zero).

Lutheran Church of Rwanda Kigali Parish: my church home for the next few weeks!

About two thirds of the way through the service, Edward leans over, “Communion.” he says. I appreciate his help, but this one I had on lock. I watch as the pastor breaks the bread and pours the wine, something I’ve watched my own father do most Sundays of my life. I walk up to the railing (with a slight prod from Edward and an encouraging nod from my Program Coordinator, Pastor Kate) and kneel at the altar. I receive a wafer in my hands and place it on my tongue. This is the body broken for me. I don’t need a translation to know the pastor’s words. I am the body. I know. As the tray of wine comes by, I tentatively reach for a cup. This is the blood poured out for me. I say a short prayer and walk back to my seat. I reflect, quietly, on what just happened. I just communed with a Kiswahili speaking congregation…in Kigali...in Rwanda...where I live.

And suddenly I could be anywhere. I am everywhere.

I am finally across the table from my granddaddy again. I am breaking bread with my grandmother as she hums the hymns that quietly coax me to sleep. I am at Lutheridge in an Upper Craft Lodge on a Thursday, I am at Briarwood on a Friday afternoon, I am at Flathead on a Sunday morning-the sun spilling over my face like water. I am in a circle with 74 YAGM and the communities they are serving all over the world. I’m holding the hands of all of the best friends I left in the U.S. I’m in a pew next to my sweet family, my siblings and I trying not to attract too much attention as we make each other giggle. I am home. I am here. I am in the Kingdom of God. I am in Rwanda.

And slowly I realize that I have always been here, at this same table next to my new Rwandan friends. My whole life, I have been seated beside the kind souls of Edward and Veronica and Frank, speaking Kiswahili and Kinyarwanda and English. I have been surrounded by a communion of saints who-though I could not see them-were no less present with me every other time I took communion than they are now.

LCR Kigali youth teaching YAGMs Kinyarwanda hymns at church!

The service proceeds and I continue to understand nothing. I spend a few more minutes pondering my communion experience. I feel the breeze drift lazily through the church’s open windows. I am completely at peace. As the service concludes, Edward leans over to me one last time. The theologian, Veronica, just said something in Kiswahili. “You know what she said?” he asks. He knows I don’t, but I shake my head anyways.

He smiles over at me and says “She said ‘All languages are understood in heaven.’”

All are seated at the communion table in the Kingdom. All are understood.

Amina. Amen.