It was Communion Sabbath. I donned a large white bowtie, the same one I first wore for my ordination in 2022—a purchase from Etsy that turned out larger than anticipated. But with no time to find an alternative, it would suffice. Clad in a black suit and white shirt, the only hint of color was a pair of deep sky-blue socks, barely visible unless one cared to look closely. I believed I was ready.
Securing a parking spot outside the church felt fortuitous. It spared me the potential entrapment of the church parking lot, a necessary precaution should an emergency arise with my family. My wife and our two sons remained at home. Communion services present a challenge with young children; their vivacity is both a joy and a handful, and my duties would prevent me from tending to them. As I approached the church entrance, I exchanged greetings with those standing at the door.
Time, ever fluid, found me in the pastoral office alongside the leadership team, a program of the service placed in my hands. The elders convened in prayer—a collective murmur of supplication. Subsequently, the Senior Pastor led us and the deacons and deaconesses in another prayer in the lobby. The atmosphere was imbued with solemnity. We were poised, ready to proceed. The sanctuary welcomed us, and the service unfolded as intended.
Then arrived the pivotal moment. Dr. Yrvain Jean-Philippe (PhD, Montemorelos University), Senior Pastor of Beraca and Mahanaim Seventh-day Adventist churches, ascended the pulpit to expound on John 19:23-24—part of the crucifixion narrative. The scene is stark: Jesus suspended upon the cross, and the gospel writer directs our attention to the actions of four soldiers. They divide His garments among themselves—a mundane act amidst a profound moment.
Yet, when confronted with His seamless undergarment, woven in one piece from top to bottom, they refrain from tearing it. Instead, they cast lots to determine its recipient. Dr. Jean-Philippe delved into the theological symbolism of this act, emphasizing the indivisibility of the church suggested by an interpreter. He recounted a childhood memory of his father’s expansive garment, under which he and his numerous siblings would gather. This anecdote served as a metaphor—a call for the church to embody unity and togetherness. The layers of meaning were not lost on me.
We transitioned into the Communion segment with a certain fluidity. My role as an elder carries with it an acute awareness of representation and reverence. The manner in which I present myself—both in attire and demeanor—is not merely personal but emblematic of the respect owed to the sacredness of the service and the community I serve.
Prior to the procession of officials, in the program I was handed, I was informed that I would be offering the prayer over the bread. This assignment held significant weight—it was my first time undertaking this sacred duty. Throughout the preceding portions of the service, my mind oscillated between contemplation and apprehension. How does one adequately address the Divine in a room filled with expectant worshippers? Deliberately, I settled on what I hoped would be a prayer befitting the occasion. This was La Sainte Cène—the Holy Communion—a ritual steeped in meaning and tradition. I offered these words:
À celui qui vit aux siècles des siècles, le Dieu présent, qui est maintenant majestueusement intronisé sur son trône élevé, ici, à Béraca, vallée de bénédiction devenant montagne sainte, un trône porté par la puissance des anges forts, des chérubins. Devant toi, ô Dieu, se tient ton peuple, réuni avec révérence. Devant toi, ô Dieu, est la table, et sur cette table repose le pain—le pain qui proclame sans cesse que le Christ est bien venu; le pain qui proclame sans cesse que le Christ est bien mort. En partageant ce pain, nous continuons de dire ‘oui’ à faire partie de son corps.
Que ce qui est maintenant devant nous soit consacré, mis à part pour la guérison spirituelle et physique de ton peuple. Au nom de Jésus, le grand pasteur des brebis, amen.
Although French is not my mother tongue, and notwithstanding my lisp and a voice that I think might not resonate universally, extensive experience in public speaking has imparted crucial lessons. The importance of deliberate pacing and enunciating each word cannot be overstated, especially when one seeks to convey depth and sincerity. In this moment, I endeavored to present something that honored the gravity of the occasion.
My aspiration was to encapsulate the grandeur of God in my words. The imagery of a majestically enthroned Deity has long captivated me—a vision of transcendence and sovereignty. Preaching on Isaiah 6 this past summer intensified this perception, imbuing it with even greater significance. I sought to bring that celestial vision into the present moment, to bridge the ethereal and the tangible. Whether I succeeded is left to interpretation, but I am certain of the sincerity and effort invested.
Reflecting on my journey, I acknowledge the foundational influence of my grandmother and father in nurturing my faith. However, it was Elder Kardiner Cadet who, through quiet example, demonstrated the imperative of meticulous preparation in public discourse. His approach—methodical and earnest—served as a template for me to address my vulnerabilities in this domain.
The prayer concluded with a collective “amen.” Dr. Jean-Philippe stepped forward before the service’s end, sharing a poignant recollection. He spoke of his first experience on the freeway upon arriving from Haiti. The memory of the individual who facilitated this experience remained vivid and significant. He implored us to reminisce about our own transitions from Haiti, to recall those who extended kindness and assistance.
My personal narrative diverges here; I arrived at the age of six, greeted by my parents at the airport—the stewardess entrusting my brother and me into their care. Fortune smiled upon me in ways it does not for all. Countless others navigate the dislocation and unfamiliarity of a new country without such support, often confronting a society that mirrors the historical hostilities faced during the stigmatization of Haitians with AIDS.
Dr. Jean-Philippe’s exhortation was clear: to remember our own journeys, the emotions entwined with them, and the assistance we received. Despite not sharing the exact experiences he described, I recognize my place within this collective identity. There exists a responsibility—to advocate for and support those who may find in me a voice or ally. We are, after all, part of the body of Christ, called to embody His presence in multifaceted ways.
Featured Image taken by Jerry Jacques