The Eucharist is a real test of grace for those who can't tolerate the elements.

Six years ago, eating out got a lot more complicated for me. I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease and learned that eating even a crumb of gluten (the protein found in wheat) makes me violently ill. This meant no more regular pizza, cookies, bread—and communion wafers. Among many other adjustments, I’ve had to learn the complicated choreography of taking gluten-free communion.

Celiac Disease is a relatively easy affliction to have. Once you discover that gluten makes you sick, you just stop eating it and you feel better. Of course there’s the constant label-reading, the never-ending hunt for the gluten that lurks in spices, soya sauce, and even the glue you lick to seal envelopes. But considering that many diseases must be kept in check by drugs or physiotherapy, this constant vigilance isn’t bad.

One thing I did resent about being a Celiac was my new public pickiness. I had prided myself on being, as one friend put it, a “culinary cowgirl.” I was adventurous and had a big appetite. Now, when eating out, I have to ask lots of nitpicky questions—for instance, “Do you cook your fries and chicken fingers in the same oil?”

I sometimes feel obnoxious.

Some servers are gracious, but others have been hostile or confused. I handed one waiter an information card on Celiac Disease and he handed it back. He thought I was proselytizing.

Improv at the rail
Of course, taking the Eucharist is the trickiest—and most important—“eating out” to navigate. Shortly after being diagnosed I moved to Kingston, Ont., and started attending my first Anglican church on a regular basis. Already the weekly procession to the communion rail and the prolonged kneeling made me feel conspicuous. I laid low for the first couple of weeks, wondering how to get what I needed gracefully.

Finally, I worked up the courage to approach the rector, and we made arrangements. He would put a rice cracker in a special silver box—a pyx—and I would signal for it at the communion rail. What kind of signal, I wondered? I’d seen genuflecting for the first time and wondered if I could just poke myself an extra time, on the mouth, and act like it was all part of the holy moment.

The next Sunday, we gave it a try. I processed, knelt, and whispered hoarsely “Rice cracker!” when the minister approached. Success! I thought, receiving the pyx. But when I returned to my pew, a neighbour asked, “What’s with the box? Are you getting an extra special body of Christ?”

I tried to tone it down. The Sunday afterwards I decided not to say anything, but just catch the rector’s eye. Instead, another minister came by, all too quickly, and thrust a regular wafer into my outstretched hands. Then, just as quickly, she snatched it back. The people beside me stared in shock.

“Don’t worry!” she assured them in a loud voice. “It’s not as if this woman has sinned more than any of you. She just has, um, food issues.” I bowed my head lower.

Options and grace
At least as a Protestant I could take a rice cracker, even if it sometimes led to embarrassing situations. Roman Catholics have had a harder time satisfying the Vatican’s requirements that all hosts have some wheat. In response, some Benedictine sisters have mixed up their own low-gluten wafers, still safe for Celiacs. Me, I can experiment endlessly with weird flours like amaranth, sorghum, or quinoa.

That is, if I choose to make my own wafer. Now that more people are being diagnosed with Celiac Disease (an estimated 1% of Canadians have it), there are lots of recipes and advice out there for how to be creative with communion choreography—everything from bringing your own wafers to convincing the whole church to go gluten-free.

Celiacs are not alone. Alcoholics, the physically challenged, and people with food allergies must also be cared for in a special way. Thankfully church leaders are becoming more aware and more flexible in accommodating different needs in the Eucharist.

Take, for example, the saints who work here at Church House. We celebrate a weekly Eucharist and the worship committee has ordered gluten-free wafers for me. They will place one out for me, even if I’m late, and they’ll often send along a Ziploc bag of wafers to off-site meetings.

My colleagues say, “It’s not a problem!” but I’m deeply moved by their actions. God’s grace seems to be present in a special way whenever “picky eaters” are included in the Eucharist. We want to blend in, but we are singled out and loved in sometimes awkward, but very real, ways. We also get to put food and drink in our mouths. We also remember Christ’s death for us.

I’ll always remember one time when I was visiting a church and tried to disappear during communion. The minister noticed me, learned of my condition, and came to find me after the service, holding the chalice and paten. I stood with him in the aisle, holding my coat and watching as people left the church.

“I don’t want to be a trouble,” I said.

“No, no, please come,” he said, handing me a rice cracker. “Ali, this is the body of Christ, broken for you.”