Deuteronomy 8:2-3, 14-16; 1 Corinthians 10:16-17; John 6:51-58
Is not the cup we bless a participation in the Blood of Christ? Is not the bread we break a participation in the Body of Christ? St. Paul puts it well. He “says it like it is.” This is what happens inside this church today. This is what happens at this Mass . . . at each and every Mass: a participation . . . a holy communion. Christ not only speaks to us, Christ becomes one with us.
Here, in this place and time. This country, this county; here, in this week, in this year; in the life that is yours, in the life that is mine and this world that is ours, in this act of worship that we render to the awesome God, we don’t just talk about a baby born in the humblest of conditions in a stable long ago; we don’t just talk about the body of a prophet hungry and weary and racked with temptation in the heat of the desert; we don’t just talk about teachings of a wise rabbi who preached to fisherman on the sea and to priests in the Temple; we don’t just talk about that moment when God so loved the world that the universe stopped! And in the spilled blood of an innocent man, the tight-grip of sin released; and the strangle-hold of death gave way in the cry of our Savior: “Into your hands, Father, I commend my spirit! Into your hands I hand over my life.” No. We don’t just talk about Christ when we gather for Mass, we become one with Christ. And how we become one with him is what we celebrate today: Corpus Christi; the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ; the Eucharist; Holy Communion.
In a few minutes, during the offertory, before I empty its contents into the chalice and communion cups, I will pour a few drops of water into the flagon of wine. The wine represents Jesus; the water us. As I do this, the words that I pray are, in my opinion, some of the most meaningful in the entire mass. But the thing is, you’ve probably never heard me say them because they're prayed quietly, in a whisper. In fact, this prayer is actually called the “Secret.” But it shouldn’t be a secret. The words are so beautiful and so meaningful they should be shouted so everyone can hear. The words I pray are these: By the mystery of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity. Unlike oil and water, water and wine mix completely. They become inseparable and indistinguishable. This is exactly what happens in the Eucharist. When we receive the Eucharist, we are receiving Jesus’ Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity, and we are joined in such a close association with God, a communion, that our human nature is comingled with the divine!
Realize it or not, this is what happens here at Mass: in the Eucharist we receive, Christ becomes one with us, and we become one with him. In the early centuries of the Church, St. Augustine attempted to explain something of the meaning of Holy Communion. He pointed to the Eucharistic Bread on the altar and said to his people: BE WHO YOU RECEIVE . . . RECEIVE WHO YOU ARE! In other words: Your deepest reality is Christ. Christ is your truest identity. You and Christ . . . One and the same . . . One holy communion
His hands washing the dust off the feet of his disciples? Those are your hands washing your child in the bath tub. His hands feeding the hungry? Those are your hands feeding your father in a nursing home. The Lord weeping over the City of Jerusalem? His tears, are your tears when love’s pain runs deep, so deep that eyes can’t help but weep. Like the day you found out that the diagnosis was cancer. Like the time you had the argument with your teenage son. Like the night your spouse told you he no longer loved you and was leaving. Like the morning you sat all alone in your car not knowing how you were going to break the news to your family that you had been laid off from your job. His body sacrificed on the cross? That’s your body when, despite the desires within and temptations without, you choose to live chastely. His blood spilled on the cross? Yes, that’s your blood donated in a blood drive for someone you don't even know. All of this is a holy communion, when you put your life on the line or, as St. Augustine would say: when you put your life on the altar.
In a little while, our Eucharistic Ministers will join Father and myself here in the sanctuary and then they will be sent back into your midst to present the true and sacramental presence of our Lord to you. But in a real sense, we are all Eucharistic Ministers. We all have as our mission to make Christ present to the world. And we do that by we ourselves becoming Eucharist; by we ourselves becoming his Body and Blood manifest physically to the world; by we ourselves making Christ present through our presence . . . through the sincerity of our voice, the compassion in our eyes, the healing of our touch, the charity in our deeds.
This truth is beautifully expressed in a poem, which made such an impression on me in the very first class I took in my diaconate studies that I kept it all these years. It goes like this:
He was old, tired and sweaty,
Pushing his homemade cart down the alley,
Stopping now and then to poke around in somebody’s garbage
I wanted to tell him about EUCHARIST
But the look in his eyes,
The despair on his face,
The hopelessness of his life filling his cart, told me to forget it.
So I smiled and said “Hi!” and gave him EUCHARIST.
She lived alone, her husband dead, her family gone,
And she talked at you . . . not to you.
Words, endless words, spilled out,
So I listened . . . and gave her EUCHARIST.
She couldn't say she was sorry, she could only stand there,
Stubborn, stiff, and still angry.
I reached out my hand, I forgave her, and we shared EUCHARIST.
He was dying of AIDS, terrified, alone and in so much pain,
All alone in the world, misunderstood, condemned; no one seemed to care.
I held his hand, and prayed with him; he was EUCHARIST for me.
It was a silly fight. Who started it? What was it all about?
We hugged, we reconciled, and we laughed EUCHARIST.
Tired, weary, disgusted, lonely,
Go to your friends, open their door,
Say, “Look at me” . . . and receive their EUCHARIST.
I laughed at myself, and told myself,
“You, with all your sin, all your selfishness,
I forgive you, I accept you, I love you.”
It’s nice, and so necessary, too . . . to give yourself EUCHARIST.
My father, when will we learn, that you cannot talk EUCHARIST,
Cannot philosophize about it . . . you do it!
You don’t dogmatize EUCHARIST.
Sometimes you laugh it,
Sometimes you cry it, often you sing it.
Sometimes it’s wild peace, then crying hurt,
Often humiliating, never deserved.
You see EUCHARIST in another’s eyes,
Give it in another’s hand held tight.
Squeeze it with an embrace.
You pause EUCHARIST in the middle of a busy day,
Speak EUCHARIST with a million things to do,
And listen EUCHARIST for a person who wants to talk.
For EUCHARIST is as simple as being on time
And so profound as sympathy.
Jesus took bread in his hands, he looked at it and said, "Change."
He took the cup in his hands, he looked at the wine and said, "Change."
And they became EUCHARIST, his blood and his body.
Jesus takes us in his hands, he looks at us and says "Change."
And we become EUCHARIST, his blood and his body.
And we become EUCHARIST, until he comes again.
I give you my life, I give you me,
I give you . . . EUCHARIST.
The crowds in today’s gospel witnessed the miracle of the loaves and the fish but couldn’t accept the implications of Jesus’ words of the even greater miracle of his own flesh being the living bread come down from heaven. At every mass, we too witness a miracle: ordinary bread and wine transformed into this living bread. Can we accept the implications? Eucharist cannot be passive - simply taking, eating, drinking. Eucharist is active and dynamic, and the miracle of the Eucharist is not complete until we BECOME and SHARE. Be who you receive . . . Receive who you are.
