Commutation and Communion

 

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There was a time when every switch sparked.

 

When power moved only through contact—through the scrape of copper against carbon, the hiss of resistance, the arc of interruption. In the early days of the electric motor, motion was not cheap. It came at the cost of friction and heat. The system worked, despite the sparks and the loss.

 

This was commutation: the act of reversal of currents that made motion possible. A rhythmic breaking and remaking of connection. A deliberate interference—switching polarity not once, but constantly. Every pulse was a kind of rupture. Every turn, a small repentance. It was noisy. Inefficient. But it moved.

 

Modern science has since removed the need for commutation. Brushless—without contact—the fields are now switched with solid-state components and logic gates: efficient, precise, consistent. No contact, no spark, no friction.

 

And in that technical sense, we triumphed.

 

But something may have gone missing.

 

In our pursuit of seamless motion, we left behind the beauty of interruption. The soul of reversal. The poetry of a system that only lived because it was always changing.

 

And that old spark, now gone—was it just a waste of energy?

Or was it a sign?

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Commutation – Motion Through Change

 

At its heart, commutation is interruption.

 

It is the act of turning against the current—not once, but continually. In a brushed motor, the commutator is constantly switching polarity, ensuring that the magnetic fields never settle into alignment. This refusal to stabilize is what drives the rotor forward. The system must never be allowed to rest. To stop changing is to stop moving.

 

And this concept is not limited to electric motors.

 

We often think of power as stability. But in these systems, power is only released through disruption. It is in the switching that something happens. The spark of change is what gives the system life.

 

And perhaps this holds true beyond the motor.

 

In the biblical imagination, to repent is to change—metanoia, a turning of the heart and mind. Not once, but continually. Not merely a confession, but a re-alignment. Like commutation, repentance is a rhythm—a pattern of reversal that produces forward motion.

 

The danger is not in failing, but in ceasing to change.

 

Perhaps this is why the ancient paths were walked, not arrived at, and why the journey of faith is always alive—because it is always in motion.

 

The Redemptive Commute

 

The word commute is curious.

 

In one sense, it refers to a journey—the daily commute from one place to another, often marked by repetition, weariness, and return. But in another, more judicial sense, to commute a sentence is to change its outcome: to reduce the penalty, to alter the judgment, to transform its destination. Both meanings involve movement—a passage from one state to another. Both imply a transition. A reversal. We’ve already seen how commutation, in its electrical sense, is the act of continuous reversal that keeps motion alive. But here, the metaphor deepens. To commute a sentence does not erase it. The judgment remains. What changes is its path.

 

In Christian theology, this is the shape of redemption. Christ does not deny the sentence of death; He receives it. The penalty is not cancelled—it is carried. The judgment is not revoked—it is reversed. What was destined for us flows instead through Him.

 

This, too, is a kind of commutation.

 

A polarity has shifted. The consequence has been redirected, the current has found another path. And just like in the brushed motor, this switch was not silent. It sparked and it burned. It cost. 

 

In a motor, polarity is reversed through design—geometric precision, clean timing, contact reduced to a minimum.

 

But the redemptive commute was not clean. It was not logical, efficient, or frictionless. It was embodied. It was bloody. It was personal. Christ did not stand outside the circuit to redirect the flow—He stepped into it. He became the point of interruption. The arc of justice passed through Him. The cost was not eliminated; it was absorbed.

 

This is not the detached switching of a brushless system—a God who switches from afar, with clean and efficient hands.

 

This is the intimate, burning reversal of direct contact and consequence.

 

It is the difference between a mechanical exchange and a living sacrifice.

 

And here, we begin to see the threshold between commutation and communion.

One reverses current to sustain motion.

The other offers self to sustain relationship.

 

From Switching to Sharing

 

Commutation is a mechanical and electrical function—precise, calculated, and necessary for motion. It is a method of sustaining movement through the rhythmic reversal of polarity. But communion often remains more of a mystery. It is less about maintaining momentum and more about entering into presence.

 

In the Christian tradition, communion is not merely a symbol. It is a ritual act, repeated continuously—not for efficiency, but for remembrance. “Do this,” Jesus said, “in remembrance of me.” It is not optimized for output, but for intimacy. Through this act, we recall not only His words, but His wounds. Not just the reversal of death, but the offering of life.

 

And yet, between these two—commutation and communion—there remains a hidden thread. A point of contact that bears the cost of both. In the motor, that role belongs to the brush. Pressed constantly against the spinning commutator, it is the brush that carries the current, enables the reversal, and completes the circuit. And what are these brushes made of?

 

Carbon. Dust. The residue of fire. Ashes.

 

We say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” as a final word over the dead, and yet in the motor, dust becomes the very medium of transmission. Carbon is what’s left when life has burned away—yet it becomes the part that allows energy to move. The humble, sacrificial bridge.

 

What if we are the brushes?

 

What if communion is not only something we receive, but something we become? To take part in this circuit is to accept friction. It is to bear the spark. It is to be worn down by contact, not avoided by it. This is not a clean, distant transaction—it is a living transmission. The cost is not eliminated; it is carried. And the spark does not skip over us—it passes through.

 

This is the mystery of communion. Not the efficiency of switching, but the intimacy of touch. Not the avoidance of consequence, but participation in it. Christ did not reverse the current from afar. He touched the terminal. He became the brush.

 

And now we, too, are called to carry that current—fragile, dusty, imperfect—yet capable of passing on the spark.  And perhaps this is the beginning of a deeper parable. What if machines were never just machines? What if motion, spark, and loss were symbols—given not only to function, but to interpret larger truths?

 

We began with circuits and commutators, but behind the copper and carbon we encountered something more: reversal, contact, sacrifice, presence.

 

Maybe the systems we build are more than inventions. Maybe they are mirrors—reflections of something deeper. And if we learn to interpret them, we begin to see that the spark is not just a technical event,but a sign that points to something deeper.

 

A sign of presence.

Of contact.

Of meaning passing through what seemed mechanical.

 

What begins as circuitry might end as sacrament.

 

The current flows on—but now, we follow it not just as engineers or observers,

but as interpreters of a deeper design.