like you hurt mine? You’d be furious. You’d probably strike me down with lightning. My stomach is twisted into hard, angry knots by the time the hymn concludes. As I sit down in the pew, I don’t think I can take communion. My thoughts are too black to try to meditate reverently on the cross. I look down at my hands. I open them and look at what’s inside. The wine-soaked bread has begun disintegrating. It doesn’t even look like bread and wine anymore. It looks grotesque. It looks like a clump of flesh,