Matter Matters

A Pew study last year showed that 69% of all self-identified Catholics said they believed the bread and wine used at Mass are not Jesus, but instead “symbols of the body and blood of Jesus Christ.” The other 31% believed in the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, known as transubstantiation.

“Still, one in five Catholics — 22% — reject the idea of transubstantiation, even though they know about the church’s teaching,” Smith said. 43% of Catholics believe that the bread and wine are symbolic and also that this reflects the position of the Church.Hispanic Catholics believe in it less than whites, and women believe in it less than men.

In a 1994 article in The New York Times, religion correspondent Peter Steinfels reported the following: “Yet when a representative sample of American Catholics were asked which statement came closest to ‘what you believe takes place at mass,’ only 1 out of 3 chose ‘the bread and wine are changed into Christ’s body and blood’.” In other words, the percentage of U.S. Catholics who expressed a belief in the Eucharist that entirely lines up with the Catholic Church’s teaching on transubstantiation has not changed at all in a quarter of a century.

How can someone sit in the pew week after week and never know what we believe is happening right in front of us? I’ve heard how religious ed can sometimes be a joke, but for people to not even know the basics of the faith is beyond neglect. Then some even know what the Church teaches, rejects it, and receives the Eucharist. At least they are aware, though that puts them in a more morally precarious spot.

It saddens me to think of the hundreds of people in my own parish who probably don’t believe. They might come out of habit or old social obligation. They might think that it doesn’t matter. They might pridefully think the Church is wrong but will “come around.” They might be fully sincere and ignorant. The Church might be failing them by not evangelizing properly. They might be failing the Church by faking belief.

As Flannery O’Conner said, “If it’s a symbol, to hell with it.” The Eucharist is the center of our worship. “This is my body,” Jesus said. “Hoc est corpus.” The Incarnation brought God physically into His creation, and the Mass sustains His physical presence here with us. 

Other denominations have communion that is memorial—it still has meaning, of remembrance, of community, of participation in faith. But those communion services do not make the claims the Mass does, because they do not do what the Mass does. If I thought Catholics just had symbols of Jesus like so many other churches, I’d be at another church.

It is a Mystery—you can’t see or smell or taste His presence. Under the species of bread of wine, He is not detectable to the senses. But there is so much beyond the senses. There is testimony and faith and heart. There is a calling I didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.

There is a rushing wind in the interior self, striking you down on your knees. The senses and rationality don’t go away, but they find their proper place in the face of the greatness of God.You can believe in God without believing in the Eucharist. You can love Christ without believing He is present in the host and chalice. But there is so much more to believe. So much more to experience. So much more to consume. Don’t sell the faith short. Go and meet Him. He’s there.

Where Were You? There.

The top story on the morning shows before school was something about Michael Jordon.
It was second period geography.
My first period teacher interrupted class and said to turn on the news. “A plane hit the World Trade Center.”
I didn’t know what that was.
I saw the next plane hit.
I watched them cut to the explosion at the Pentagon. Kids beside me knelt on the ground and prayed.
Third period. Spanish. We were told to turn off the TVs and continue the school day as if nothing was happening.
Rumors came from students who could get in the office and pick up stories from the tv in the teachers lounge. The White House?. The Capitol? Some plane shot down in Pennsylvania?  
The buildings fell around 4 p.m.

They didn’t, really, but it took me years before I realized that. I just didn’t see the footage until after school, and my memory remembers it as live. Because I was there that day; I saw it, just like we all did.

Memory is imperfect. But we cherish it. It’s important that I remember where I was when I heard the news. “Where were you?” every year. “Where were you?” because it’s important to know you’re tied to this event too. It binds us. We were all there. We were all affected. We share this. “Where were you?” because not remembering seems impossible.

Boomers in school on Nov. 22, 1963.
Gen X in school on Jan. 28, 1986.
Millennials in school on Sept. 11, 2001.

Our generation defined by our school-age national tragedy. Our Americanness defined by our shared trauma. I wasn’t in New York or Washington. I wasn’t covered in dust and ash. I didn’t know anyone affected. I wasn’t worriedly calling loved ones. But I was there, with everyone, glued to the TVs, knowing our lives had shifted, but yet not sure how. I was a witness, from my small town and with my middle school understanding. Breaking news shifted from sports to geopolitical terrorism in a matter of minutes. Childhood was over. I was there. “Where were you?” I have an answer.

Collective memory binds us. To know we share a history defines a community. You show you belong to the group by acknowledging this shared memory, even if you weren’t actually there, even if you weren’t born. But you share the memory because the event is important, because it shapes the group you are a part of, and thus, it affects you. Yes, I saw the president shot. Yes, I saw shuttle explode. Yes, I saw the buildings fall. Yes, yes, I was there. Not physically, but as part of the group that was affected.

Throughout the liturgical year, we bare witness to Christ’s life. We proclaim the Incarnation, witness to God becoming man. We celebrate the Nativity, witness to His coming into the world. We join in the Last Supper, we walk to Calvary, we see the water and blood spill from His side, we feel the earth tremble as He gives up His spirit. We are witnesses of His sacrifice and victory. I was there on the hill. I was there at the tomb. I was there on the mountain top. I remember. I remember with you. Because it’s important to know you’re tied to this event too. It binds us. We were all there. We were all affected. We share this. “Where were you?” because not remembering seems impossible.

There aren't Windows in the Panic Room

I love house layouts. When I was a kid, I’d use building blocks to make custom homes for my Polly Pockets and constantly rearrange the furniture in my doll house. If bored, I’ll sketch out my dream estate layout, which includes a house of hidden rooms and secret passageways and supporting structures of a self-sufficient farm. On my “if I win the lottery list” is buying an old house and customizing each room.

There is something so alluring about creating that perfect space. The indoors was created to keep out the weather and predators. But now we can customize our indoors spaces to control the air quality, temperature, humidity, sunlight, noise, lights, etc. We can design for our specific desires. Rooms, houses, whole neighborhoods—custom-made to keep out whatever needs keeping out.

But even while I fantasize about my manor with a hidden bunker behind the wine cellar, I know that no design would ever completely eliminate danger. I can prepare to be safer, but I can’t completely keep the world at bay.

Some have tried. There are plenty of examples of people going off to form their own communities, to reject the world and build their utopia. The Puritans came to America to establish their “city upon a hill,” away from heathen, tainted Europe. The goals of segregating always sound pure: live according to our rules, uninfluenced by competing ideas, safe from those that oppose us. It’s about safety—physical and ideological.

But that quickly devolves. Who is pure enough to stay in the perfect place? Will a child raised in this utopian community be kicked out if she believes something different? Will the poor, black man down the road be allowed in?

How do you love your neighbors when you’re locked inside your panic room? How do you evangelize when the only people you interact with are prescreened and hand-selected? Maybe you survive the bomb or the virus, but what values did you preserve?

A few years ago, The Benedict Option was quite popular in certain crowds. Admittingly, I haven’t read the book, but I’ve read a lot of responses (positive and negative) thinking on this idea of creating community. Christians should be intentional about forming communities; parishes should be family, not just a place to use on Wednesdays and Sundays. We should cultivate our social circles with people that will edify us. Yet when we lay people begin to cloister off, I feel it’s not for the pure goals of a “city upon a hill.” I think it’s a rebuke on the world, writing it off as unsavable, undeserving of our efforts. We have our security and salvation; the rest can perish.

When the pandemic first started hitting New York, there were stories of rich New Yorkers fleeing to their second homes. Villagers in these small, rural places were pleading them not to, for they could bring the virus to an area with very little medical resources to spare. Yet the rich wanted to feel safe, and they had the means to retreat. Now, as the virus continues nation-wide but schools are resuming, upper and middle class families with the means are creating their own pods—small groups that can self-contain and educate their children away from school. Families who have prepped rural retreats can simply step away from the virus and riots and contention the year has brought.

How much is safety and how much is neglecting our neighbors?

The perfect space does not exist, because the world isn't perfect. We must strive for perfection within this imperfect world, We all need to be safe. Walls, roofs, locks, and masks, are all prudent. But there is no security system, wall, moat, maze, or bunker that will eliminate every threat. At some point, they may even eliminate compassion, charity, and empathy. Open the door. There’s a whole world out there.