A donut Eucharist

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The first Friday in June is Nation Donut Day — let us celebrate! The day is holier than you might suspect.

I know there are plenty of jokes about donuts and overweight cops. Homer Simpson has contributed to the stereotype of a donut-eating slob.

But donuts were distributed by volunteers of the Salvation Army to soldiers on the frontlines of World War I. These “donut lassies” would fry the dough in a soldier’s upside-down helmet! National Donut Day was established in 1938 to remember these volunteers as well as the troops. Donuts were about boosting morale, sharing food in difficult, even life-threatening situations.

The earliest Christian traditions claim that Jesus had broken bread with his disciples on the night he was betrayed and handed over to be crucified. To be sure, he didn’t pass out donuts. The bread was unleavened, that is, without yeast, for Jesus was celebrating the Jewish Passover — a ritual meal in remembrance of the Israelites exodus from slavery in Egypt. The slaves had to flee so quickly that they didn’t even have time for the bread to rise.

Donuts are designed for ease of eating. You can grab one on the go, whether rushing out the door to work or back to your desk from the office break room. You can eat them with one hand, conversing for a minute or two with a colleague or with a member of your faith community.

My earliest memories of donuts are connected to religious traditions, specifically Easter. My family would rise before dawn for worship at the Easter sunrise service. We gathered in a cemetery to mark Jesus’s resurrection from the dead. On the way home, we would stop for a treat at the local Krispy Kreme. On other Sundays, there was a box of powered-sugar donut holes in the fellowship hall after service. But that Easter morning, melt-in-your-mouth glazed donut was extra special.

Now, I’m a pastor and I make my own kids go to church. Being confined to a sanctuary for an hour once a week is not exactly the same as slavery in Egypt, but when liberated from church, my kids race from the fellowship hall with donuts in their hands, free to play on the playground with their friends, sugar coursing through their veins. I watch and smile.

There was a time in college when I had lost my way. I began drinking too much, then taking drugs to stay up later and drink even more. It was a vicious cycle. I sought help at a dirty brick building behind a church on Tuesday evenings. A half-dozen, grisly-faced older men with bags under their eyes would smoke cigarettes outside the door. A Black man with a wide smile ushered me inside that first visit. In the corner of the small room, a card table had been hastily setup with a coffee pot and a box of donuts. Apologizing for not having any sugar or cream, Kevin said that I could sweeten my coffee this way — he broke a donut in half and swirled it around his Styrofoam cup. He handed me the other half and, as I took the donut and dipped it into my cup, it became holy communion.

Not all resurrections are sudden and glorious. Sometimes, all you need is a donut.