Strangers at the Rail

When I arrived at my parish seven years ago, I asked my elders about closed communion. They had never heard of it before. I explained that closed communion is taught by Scripture and has been the practice of the faithful church since the time of the apostles. They responded, “Well then, we should do that!” On paper our congregation went from open to closed communion in the course of a single elders’ meeting. But in reality, closing the altar was a much longer and messier process, something every good pastor knows all too well.

Closed communion is much more than putting a statement in the bulletin. This is a necessary step, but the pastor cannot rely on the statement and think that his job is done. People don’t read the communion statement. Or they do read it, and then they ignore it. Nor is it sufficient to make an announcement before communion. People don’t listen to the announcement. Or they do listen, and then they decide that by virtue of their love for God and country they deserve to receive Holy Communion.

The real work of closed communion happens in conversations between the pastor and individuals. To that end the pastor needs to carve out at least a few minutes to greet visitors before each communion service. He should also train his elders and ushers to watch for visitors and direct them to speak to him. Ideally, the members of the congregation would also be taught to explain our communion practice to friends and family members when inviting them to church. But in spite of all these efforts, there will still be the occasional stranger who arrives late, avoids the ushers, misses the communion statement, and ends up kneeling at the altar rail. What then?

Pastors, as stewards of the Mysteries, you have a solemn duty to question such strangers at the rail. If you are unprepared or unwilling to do this, then no matter what your communion policy may say on paper, you are practicing open communion. You cannot fall back on your communion statement, saying, “I warned them. If strangers choose to commune, it’s on them.” To do so would be an abdication of your duty as a Seelsorger. It would be similarly irresponsible and dangerous for a preschool teacher to read a warning about peanut allergies to her new class before indiscriminately handing out Reese’s peanut butter cups. The uncatechized are incapable of understanding the dangers of unworthy reception, just as children cannot be trusted to eat only what is good for them. God gives parents to children and pastors to sheep.

St. Paul writes, “For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord’s body.” (1 Cor. 11:29 [KJV]) More than 50% of Christians in the United States belong to Sacramentarian bodies that do not discern or recognize the Body of Christ in the Supper. For this very reason they are not able to understand the danger of unworthy reception. How can plain bread cause spiritual harm? It can’t. Not perceiving the Body, they cannot examine themselves (see 1 Cor. 11:28). Therefore, this responsibility falls squarely upon the pastor.

A pastor once told me that he would rather commune strangers than embarrass them at the rail. I replied that embarrassment is preferable to damnation. Of course, I have no desire to embarrass people, but, sure as hell, I will do that before I hand out damnation.

I learned how to question people at the rail by observing my field work supervisor, the Rev. David Petersen. When a stranger presented himself for communion, Petersen asked him quietly, “Are you LCMS?” The man looked confused. He asked again, “Are you Lutheran?” The man responded that he was a Christian. Then Petersen asked, “May I give you a blessing?” I don’t recall if the man was happy or angry to receive a blessing—I’ve since seen people storm out before the service was over—but regardless of the outcome, Petersen was a faithful steward, and the man was kept from eating and drinking to his own spiritual harm.

There was wisdom in Petersen’s questions. First, he asked if the man was LCMS. Ideally, the pastor would have time to discuss all the aspects of the faith with those who commune at his altar. But there is nothing ideal about questioning a stranger at the rail. Being LCMS serves as shorthand for sharing our confession of faith. When it was clear that the man had never heard of the LCMS, Petersen asked if he was Lutheran. This question was more for the sake of explanation. Of course, the man was not a Lutheran if he knew nothing of the LCMS. But at least he could understand the second question. The third question frames the pastor’s stewardship at the rail in a positive way: “May I give you a blessing?” It’s hard to decline that, even though the stranger may go away angry and refuse to talk after the service. Being angry is better than being condemned.

Practicing closed communion is hard, messy, and generally thankless work. But the faithful pastor must be more concerned with the account he will one day give of his stewardship than the hurt feelings of those who come unprepared to the altar. We mourn the sad divisions that prevent every member of the church from communing together. But until our Lord restores His fractured body, we must not shirk our duty to properly fence the altar. And this duty includes being willing to examine strangers at the rail. Pastors, if this has not been your practice until now, then man up and make it so today.