May Your Cup Runneth Over
By: Tej Karamjot
A few months ago, I was on my way to the studio by subway when I unexpectedly received a call that I needed to return immediately. I got off a few stops early at Christopher Street, stepped into the garden at St. Luke’s Church, and returned the call.
Some twenty years ago, when I was new to New York and in the midst of my spiritual searching, the beauty of St. Luke’s gardens drew me in. I became a parishioner there for many years. When I finished my phone call, I could hear the choir singing. I thought, “Of course—it’s Sunday,” and since I was early for Angad’s class, I wandered inside for old times’ sake. They were just finishing the hymn before communion, and as I watched the procession to the altar, I wondered whether I should go up and partake. Person after person received the bread and silver cup, and as I watched, I felt—gently but clearly—that I would stay seated. The ritual was beautiful, but no longer my ritual.
I stepped back out and took the scenic route through the Village toward the studio. Just north of Washington Square Park, a silver dish full of candy in a shop window caught my eye. Coming straight from church, it struck me as a kind of communion cup, and I thought how lovely it would be to offer something sweet to the people who come to Infinite Space. But the shop was closed—and the dish looked expensive—so I kept walking.
Class that Sunday was, as always, wonderful. Since taking ownership of the studio, I haven’t often had the bandwidth to come into the city on Sundays, something I’ve regretted because Sunday morning classes have always felt special to me. At some point during class, I became emotional with the realization that this was my church now, and these were my congregation. The life in the ritual of communion at St. Luke’s hadn’t been lost—it had been translated into another sacred space. It was alive in a new form, and I felt profoundly grateful to be exactly where I was meant to be.
I once again thought of the silver dish in the shop window, and I understood, in a way I hadn't before, why it had stopped me. The theologian Rev. Derrick McQueen writes that "the cup does not create communion on its own—communion emerges where memory is shared, protected, and expanded." That is exactly what the dish had come to mean to me: not a place to grab a sweet on the way out, but a vessel for something more—an offering, a small shared ritual, a way of saying you are welcome here, and we are in this together.
That Thursday, I was early again and, while searching for flowers, I passed the same shop. This time it was open. On impulse, I went in to ask about the silver dish. The price floored me a little, and I hesitated—but when I asked if they would let me keep the candy inside if I bought it, they laughed and said yes. So I decided to be brave and told them I’d take it.
When I arrived at the studio, I checked the mail as I always do—and found a check waiting there, for the exact amount I had just spent on the dish. It felt like God was rewarding my bravery. And so it is that we now have our own little cup of communion.