The Body, the Blood, and My EpiPen: A Reflection on Faith and Food Allergies
There’s a joke I’ve made more than once—half laughing, half whispering into the void—that it’s kind of ironic I’m allergic to gluten, can’t eat fish, and don’t drink. You know… just three of the most mentioned foods in the Bible. Just, you know… Jesus Himself.
Bread? The literal Body of Christ.
Wine? The Blood.
Fish? The symbol of the early Church.
Me? Chronically ill with a handful of prescriptions, a list of dietary restrictions that reads like a Leviticus scroll, and a tiny bit of resentment when someone says “you have to try the sourdough at this place.”
Like, respectfully… I cannot.
The Last Supper (Hold the Gluten)
I used to think it was just a weird coincidence—some cosmic gag reel. Like, haha, Jesus multiplies loaves and fish and I’m in the corner Googling if the communion host is celiac-safe. But then I realized: maybe there’s something holy in it.
Maybe it’s not about what I can consume with my body, but what I’m invited to consume with my spirit.
Because even if my body would reject the Last Supper spread, my heart would still show up to the table. I’d sit there with the twelve and the tension, with my messed-up immune system and my longing. I'd be there, reaching not for bread or wine, but for Him.
What Happens When You Can’t Physically Receive the Symbols?
It’s complicated. Because when your faith is deeply sacramental—when the elements matter—there’s a grief that happens in the exclusion. Not intentionally, not maliciously. Just quietly. You start asking strange questions:
“Is there a low-histamine version of Holy Communion?”
“Does it still count if I’m holding a rice cracker and grape juice in my trembling hands?”
“Is it irreverent to cry in the pew because your body can’t do what your soul is desperate to?”
And yet, God meets me there.
In the yearning. In the no’s. In the allergic reactions and the tiny bottles of Benedryl tucked in my church bag. He doesn’t need me to digest gluten to feed me. He doesn’t need fermented grapes to draw me near.
The Jesus Who Heals… and Still Doesn’t Always
I think people like me—people with chronic illnesses, rare allergies, strange limitations—walk into church differently. We walk in aware of the ache. We already know what it is to carry a cross, not because we’re holy, but because our bodies drag one around all day.
And sometimes we pray for healing and we don’t get it.
Sometimes we sit at the table and can’t partake.
Sometimes we feel like spiritual outsiders in physical skin.
And still—He comes close.
Still—He feeds us another way.
Still—we are part of the Body, even when the body we live in doesn’t cooperate.
Why I Stay
I stay because the story isn’t over. Because Jesus didn’t come only for the able-bodied and the allergy-free. Because He sees the girl with the swollen throat, the stomach pain, the anxiety in the checkout line reading every ingredient label like it’s a trap.
I stay because the real miracle is that He keeps inviting me to the table—even if I have to bring my own elements. Even if I just sit quietly and cry. Even if the only thing I can take in is the holy silence between songs.
It’s ironic, sure.
But it’s also sacred.
Because God doesn’t just work through the traditional symbols—He’s in the weird loopholes too. He’s in the rice crackers and the coconut milk and the grape-scented lip balm you use instead of wine.
He’s in the girl who shows up allergic to half the Bible but loved by all of Heaven anyway.
