There’s this part in the New Testament where Jesus rips off a chunk of his body and turns it into Communion wafers and is all, “Yo, eat some of my flesh!” And while some “progressive” Christians want to claim that that’s a metaphor or whatever, those sadsack excuses for Jeliebers (what we in the JC fandom call ourselves) are missing the point.

The point is that I’m addicted to Communion wafers.

It started out innocently enough, okay? When I was a kid, I would grab just a handful. Well, maybe more than a handful. As they passed the unleavened hosts around on a golden paten and conducted the transubstantiation (either with the Words of Institution or the epiclesis of the Anaphora, depending on your interpretation of sacrament — basic stuff, obviously), I’d reach my grubby little hands onto the platter and scoop up as much of that tasty Jesus bod as would fit in the pockets of my finest Sunday suit. So as the priest went on and on about sin this or sin that, I was crouching under the pews, stuffing wafers into my gaping, masticating maw.

But soon I found myself thinking: Why just once a week? Surely J-Man would want me to devour His Holy Flesh whenever I got hungry, right? Which is what led to that one fateful night during Vacation Bible School when Father Wavich, woken by the sound of fierce gnawing coming from behind the altar, flicked on the lights to find my twisted, naked form, hunched over discarded packaging and spit-dripping wafers, my personal feast cut short by that horrid brightness. Before Wavich could reach for the crucifix hanging around his neck, I grabbed my snacks and took off into the night. Which is what led me here —crouched in a damp but cozy sewer, surrounded by wafers, only occasionally venturing into the overworld in search of another church to pillage.

So, yeah, I’m addicted to Communion wafers. I’m not looking for help or anything. Just wanted to let you know.

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