The Drive-Thru Communion Trial Run – Logistics, Lids, and the Day the Juice Got Loose
By Tom Seest
At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.
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🎤 Audio Overview
The Drive-Thru Communion Trial Run – Logistics, Lids, and The Day The Juice Got Loose
Of all the modern conveniences tested in Sequatchie Crossing, Drive-Thru Communion might’ve had the purest intentions and the stickiest aftermath.
The idea came from Pastor Arnold Peeler, who had read an article in Modern Church Today about “Sacraments on the Go.” He pitched it as “a spirit-led solution for our time-starved believers.” Also, it meant fewer folding chairs to set up.
The plan was simple:
- One lane in the church parking lot
- One table for elements
- And a team of “Communion Couriers” made up of youth group volunteers in matching vests that read “Body & Vroom.”

The Drive-Thru Communion Trial Run – Logistics, Lids, and The Day The Juice Got Loose
The elements were prepared in advance: individual crackers in biodegradable snack bags and miniature plastic cups filled with “grape-ish” juice sourced from a pallet Pastor Peeler got on sale from the Dollar Mart warehouse.
First car through? Boot Barnes in his ‘94 Lincoln, window barely cracked. “Just the bread,” he muttered. “Doctor says I gotta watch my sugar.” Second car was Shelley Wexler, who requested an organic, gluten-free, intention-infused alternative. She was handed a rice cracker and a wave.
All went well until Clovis Strickland showed up with his conspiracy van, asking to inspect the juice box “for microchips or theological manipulation.” He left suspicious but hydrated.
The turning point came around 11:32 a.m. when a breeze knocked over the tray of pre-filled juice cups. The spill spread faster than original sin across the asphalt. Trixie Jo Bartlett, roller-skating with her tray, slipped and landed in a sea of sacraments. Her vest now permanently reads “Body & Vrooooooo…”
Officer Kenny Joe Teeter was called to redirect traffic after a minivan full of Lutherans tried to enter from the wrong side. “They crossed the line, spiritually and literally,” he later remarked.
Doug ‘Doughboy’ Teeter attempted to reroute the ritual using a leaf blower to dry the parking lot. He mistakenly turned it on high near the cracker basket, launching unleavened missiles in every direction. One landed in Boot’s sunroof.

Conclusion
Amidst the cleanup, Lurleen Davenport arrived and demanded the sacrament in “chalice form.” When offered a Styrofoam cup, she held it skyward and said, “We are a people of tradition, not takeout.” She was later seen sipping it anyway while reorganizing the glove compartment.
The event was suspended when a toddler consumed six crackers and asked for more “Jesus snacks.” Pastor Peeler announced a temporary communion fast “until further clarity can be achieved.”
The Church Council is now reviewing proposals for “Communion 2.0,” which may involve curbside pickup or sacramental vending machines. Meanwhile, the youth group has added roller-skating drills to their weekly training.

Checklist
At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.
Please share this post with your friends, family, or business associates.
Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or just stubborn, is purely accidental—but also maybe a little flattering. Sequatchie Crossing exists only in the minds of those brave enough to imagine a town where zoning laws, casseroles, and conspiracy cassettes collide in glorious disarray.












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