Holy Wine Floater

I was the first one to take hold of the sacred chalice, a beautiful gold cup with ornate filigree and crosses, lots of crosses.  Deacon Tom had handed it to me.  He wiped the rim first with a sacred wiping cloth, consecrated in Rome, hand-stitched by a hard-working, holy nun, and blessed by the last ten popes.  Or maybe it was just a handkerchief.  I don’t know.  I couldn’t tell.

After I performed my customary respectful nod, I took the chalice in hand and lifted it to my mouth.

I don’t usually look before I sip.  I assume all is well.  I trust that the liquid in the chalice is going to be pure, or as pure as it can be after fifty other people have drunk from it.  I take for granted that the blood of our Lord is clean of all backwash.  Maybe that’s silly, or maybe I just don’t like to dwell on the alternative.

Something Touched My Lip

As is my custom, I didn’t look.  I pursed my lips and prepared to sip.  The holy wine tilted towards me.  As I allowed it to enter my mouth, some flotsam washed ashore on my sandy philtrum.  Oh no.  I closed my eyes.  It was just my imagination, right?  Not someone’s accidental deposit of partially chewed wafer.

I passed the cup back.  I didn’t want to look, but like a driver passing a wreck I had to catch a glimpse…  And there it was.  A chunk of backwashed bread.  I stymied a gag.

“Are you all right?” asked Deacon Todd, who must have noticed my face lighten by twenty shades.

I nodded.

I wasn’t worried about myself.  My wife was right behind me, and she gets woozy just drinking from the communal cup.  How would she handle a holy wine floater?

Lana Steps Up

Anticipating the worst, I made a decision to break protocol.  I turned around and whispered, “Don’t do it.”

“What?”  Her eyebrows pinched together.

I motioned with my head and pointed with my eyebrows.  This way.  Follow me.

The front-pew folk interrupted their Our Fathers to stare at me.  The line grew behind her.  Deacon Todd put his hand on my shoulder, a subtle warning.  Creeping away, I motioned again with my head.  Floatie, I mouthed.

She hadn’t a clue what I was saying.  I watched as she took the chalice and lifted.  I feared the worst.  Would she pass out, faint and fall in a pile, perhaps even spilling the precious blood?  She saw.  Horror spread across her face.  Her throat convulsed.  She knew.  She handed the chalice back sip-less.  Lowering her eyes, she raced away, Deacon Todd’s gaze drilling into her back.

At least, she had avoided the holy wine floater.

Holy Wine Floater or Not?

On the other hand, there’s an old church tradition of dropping the communion bread into the wine.  This fermentum was carried to groups of Christians unable to attend mass and receive the bread from the Bishop personally.  The local priest dropped the bread into the admixed water and wine and everyone drank from the chalice.  This proved they were “in communion” with the Bishop.

Was this a floatie or a fermentum?  How could one tell the difference?  If you open your mouth just a tad too wide instead of pursing your lips to sip; if you get a piece of the nearly indestructible wafer caught in a back molar and you’re working it out with your tongue just when you open your mouth to taste; or you decide to take a slug instead of a moderate nip – all of these could force a piece of the Blessed Sacrament back into the cup.

Does It Matter?

It was over now.  We had survived.  I couldn’t make up my mind though: was I more grossed out by the thought of a floatie or a shipwrecked chunk of bread?  It was good to know we hadn’t buckled under the pressure.  No holy wine floater was going to take us down.

Has anyone else been brought to their knees by a holy wine floater?