The Anxiety That Starts Before Communion

I used to love the rhythm of Mass. The readings, the homily, the Eucharistic prayer. There’s a flow to it, predictable in the best way. A container for the sacred.

But somewhere along the way, a new rhythm crept in. Somewhere around the second reading, my stomach would start to tighten. By the Our Father, my mind was running calculations. By the Lamb of God, I wasn’t praying, I was strategizing.

Did I bring a host? Did they have them today? Will the cup be offered? Which minister should I go to? What if something goes wrong?

This is the anxiety that comes with receiving Communion when you have celiac disease. Not the spiritual kind, the logistical kind. The kind that colonizes the space meant for peace.

When Preparation Becomes Worry

I’m a planner. Planning helps me function with celiac disease: I check menus, pack snacks, ask about ingredients. It’s not neurotic, it’s necessary.

But there’s a line between healthy preparation and anxious rumination. And I crossed it.

I started thinking about Communion not as an encounter with Christ, but as a problem to solve. A potential failure to prevent. A performance to get right.

That’s not what the Eucharist is supposed to be. And I knew it. But knowing didn’t stop the knot from forming.

The Thoughts That Spiral

Here’s what the anxiety sounds like, if you’re curious:

What if there’s no host and no cup today? What if the host they give me isn’t really low-gluten? What if I get sick and ruin the rest of the day? What if I have to explain myself to someone new? What if I mess up the protocol and look stupid? What if I’m being a burden? What if I should just stop receiving altogether?

None of these thoughts are useful. Some of them aren’t even rational. But anxiety doesn’t check its logic at the door.

What Helped

I can’t say I’ve eliminated the anxiety entirely. But I’ve made peace with it. Here’s what helped:

1. A Consistent Routine

The more automatic Communion becomes, the less mental energy it takes. I go to the same Mass, the same minister, the same spot. I don’t vary it without reason.

Routine isn’t boring, it’s calming. It reduces the number of variables my brain has to process.

2. A Backup Plan I Trust

I know that if all else fails, I can receive from the cup. That single fallback eliminates a whole category of worry. It’s not my preference, but it’s there.

Having a backup you trust is like having a fire extinguisher. You probably won’t need it, but knowing it’s there lets you stop thinking about the fire.

3. Front-Loading the Preparation

I do all my thinking before Mass. Check the hosts. Confirm the plan. Talk to whoever needs to know. Then, when Mass starts, I put it down.

The Eucharistic prayer is not the time to problem-solve. That’s the time to pray. All the logistical thinking should be done by then.

4. Naming the Anxiety as False

Some of my anxious thoughts weren’t just unhelpful, they were lies.

“You’re a burden.” No. I’m a member of this community with a medical condition that requires accommodation. That’s not a burden, it’s reality.

“You should stop receiving.” No. The Church wants me to receive. She’s made provisions specifically for my situation.

“You’re going to mess up.” Maybe. But even if I do, it doesn’t matter as much as my anxiety says it does.

5. Spiritual Direction

I talked to a priest about this. Not just about celiac logistics, but about the anxiety itself. He reminded me that God isn’t grading my Communion reception. That the Eucharist is a gift, not a test.

That helped more than I expected.

The Anxiety Isn’t Sin

Here’s something I had to learn: being anxious about Communion isn’t sinful. It’s not a failure of faith. It’s just what happens when your body and mind have learned to be on alert around food.

Celiac disease trains you to be vigilant. That vigilance doesn’t turn off just because you walked into church. It takes time to teach your nervous system that this particular food situation is safe, or safe enough.

Grace means showing up anyway. Even with the knot in your stomach.

Receiving Through the Anxiety

Some Sundays, the anxiety fades by the time I reach the minister. The familiar ritual takes over, and I receive in peace.

Other Sundays, I receive while still feeling the tension. I say “Amen” with a tight chest. I walk back to my pew still processing.

And Christ is still present. The grace is still real. My anxious reception doesn’t diminish what I receive.

I think about the people in the Gospels who came to Jesus with chaos in their hearts, desperate, afraid, doubting, uncertain. He didn’t turn them away for their anxiety. He met them in it.

He meets me in it too.

A Prayer for the Anxious Heart

Lord, I come to Your table with a mind that won’t stop racing and a stomach that won’t stop clenching. You know what’s underneath this anxiety, the fear of getting sick, the exhaustion of being different, the longing to just receive You simply.

I can’t make the anxiety go away. But I can show up anyway.

Receive my anxious heart as my offering. Transform this worry into trust. Help me believe that Your grace is bigger than my logistics.

I receive You now, as I am, not as I wish I were.

Amen.

A Small Shift

Lately, I’ve tried something different. When the anxiety kicks in, usually around the Creed, I acknowledge it, and then I redirect.

“There’s the anxiety. I see you. But you’re not in charge right now.”

And then I focus on the words of the prayer. The rhythm of the liturgy. The presence I came to receive.

It doesn’t always work. But sometimes it does. And on those days, I find my way back to the peace I used to know, the Mass as container, as rhythm, as home.

Even with celiac disease. Even with the planning. Even with the knot that starts before Communion.