If we cannot come forward

2026-02-04 - 22:46

Every Sunday, I stood in line to receive Holy Communion — until June 2022, when I was diagnosed ​with celiac disease, an autoimmune​ ​condition triggered by gluten​, a key component of the communion host. Since then, going to church has carried a quiet anxiety: Will there be a gluten-free option? Will anyone notice if I don’t go up? What will they think when I stay behind? Holy Communion is the most sacred act of belonging in the Armenian Church. It is the moment when ​believers receive Christ’s body and​ ​blood in the form of bread and wine for​ the forgiveness ​of sins​. Those who cannot fast for health reasons are permitted accommodations. But what about people like me, pregnant women or those recovering from alcoholism? They cannot safely consume the bread or the wine. Who, then, feels fully welcomed at the chalice, and who quietly steps away? Communion is community. The Eucharist is something Armenians have fought wars to preserve. It represents unity, survival and continuity through centuries of suffering. When access to it is limited, belonging becomes strained. I have had many conversations (some successful, others painful) with deacons, priests, bishops and even primates. Being different has been difficult. No one talks about the shame that comes with staying behind when the rest of the congregation goes forward: the stares, the whispers and the unspoken question: What sin have I committed that keeps me from receiving? It is made even harder when others who share my condition take the gluten host out of love for the Church, which can make it seem as though I have done something wrong by abstaining. At times, I have felt the need to overcompensate through other forms of service within the Church, as if my devotion had to be proven in ways beyond the simple act of receiving communion. Many churches want to be inclusive but lack the systems or conversations necessary to make that inclusion real. Alcohol sensitivity is another often unspoken issue. In many American churches, grape juice is offered instead of wine, or communicants may receive only the bread. Yet, even these alternatives can make someone feel conspicuously different. In Luke 22:20, Christ says, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” The sacredness of the cup does not disappear when compassion guides its administration. I visited St. Paul’s Cathedral in London a few years ago during its midnight Mass. One might expect my history-loving family to be most excited by standing in the same place as Winston Churchill’s funeral or the wedding of Diana and Charles. But it wasn’t. What struck me was that directly beneath the instructions for approaching the Eucharist, in bold letters, it explained how to request a gluten-free host: approach from the right side at the front of the altar. There was no rush to the front of the line, no being served last, no distinction between me and the rest of the congregation. There was only acceptance. My high school, the Academy of Notre Dame de Namur, also announced at the beginning of Mass that all students should approach the altar like everyone else, then step aside at the front if they required a gluten-free host. I sometimes wonder why the Armenian Church cannot provide the same sense of inclusion for those of us with dietary restrictions. I write for the Church’s publications, serve as a counselor at Saint Vartan Camp, and sing in church, yet I am often unable to take communion or even have something to eat during coffee hour. Despite my dedication and active involvement, I sometimes feel a subtle, but real, distance between my devotion and my ability to fully participate. My commitment is not about recognition; it is about offering my life in service and devotion to Christ. In talking with others who face similar challenges, I’ve found that this feeling is not uncommon. Many quietly struggle with these limitations, which is why I believe it is important to speak openly about these experiences. University life can make it harder to attend church regularly, but that only strengthens my desire to see our community find ways to fully include all its members. This is not about causing conflict, but about fostering a Church where everyone can participate in the life of Christ to the fullest extent possible. Clear communication matters. These conversations should not be confined to whispered exchanges or moments of personal discomfort. They can be included in church newsletters, through anonymous surveys or guided discreetly by pastors who understand both theology and human vulnerability. Silence around these issues does not preserve tradition; it unintentionally pushes people away. If the Church cannot meet people at their most vulnerable moments, where will they go? Trust and spiritual inclusion are what young people need most. They are not asking for faith to change, but for love to be made visible. One day, I hope there will be a Church where no one has to explain their body in order to feel worthy — where no one hesitates in line, and no one quietly steps away.