Truly, I Say to You

"O sacrament of devotion! O sign of unity! O bond of charity!" – St. Augustine

The Eucharist. It’s prevalent; it’s there, every day. It’s the appearance of common foodstuffs—bread and wine. It’s so easy to take it for granted. And yet, it’s the most radical belief of the faith—the living Christ, resurrected and ascended, is still present on earth, today, now, in multiple places all at once. It defies common understanding (that’s why it’s called a mystery). In fact, many Christians, even Catholics, reject it, saying that the elements of communion are merely a symbol. A symbol is easier to understand. But the Church has always held that there is something more going on. As Flannery O’Connor said, “If it’s just a symbol, then to hell with it.”

The catechism call the Eucharist is "the source and summit of the Christian life” (CCC 1324). In fact, it goes on: “The other sacraments, and indeed all ecclesiastical ministries and works of the apostolate, are bound up with the Eucharist and are oriented toward it. For in the blessed Eucharist is contained the whole spiritual good of the Church, namely Christ himself.”

Now, the Eucharist is not just a symbol, but there is a lot of symbolism. In the old testament, bread and wine were offered among the offering of the first fruits; the first and best of the harvest were given to God in gratitude for creation. When the Israelites escaped Egypt, they ate unleavened bread, and then they continued to remember this liberation with the Passover meal, which includes unleavened bread and wine, the cup of blessing representing the hope of rebuilding Jerusalem. As they journeyed through the desert, God provided manna, bread from heaven, to sustain them.

At the very beginning of his ministry, Jesus turns water into wine so that people may continue their celebration at a wedding. It’s his first public miracle. When Jesus’ preaching brought crowds, he multiped loaves and fish to feed them all—so much that there was an abundance of leftover food.

So when he and disciples celebrate Passover, and he takes the bread and the wine, there is already a rich symbolism there. But he is not continuing the deep meaning of these elements; he is fulfilling them. Sacrifice, thanksgiving, liberation, remembrance, sustenance, hope, celebration—he is all that. He is everything. And he promises to always be that, for all people, for all time.

“This saying is hard; who can accept it?” (John 6:60) When Jesus says you must eat his flesh and drink his blood, people understand that he is not being metaphorical. They are astounded at what he’s saying. Some even leave, because it’s such a radical statement. But Jesus doubles down: “Is this offensive to you?  What then if you see the Son of Man ascending to where He was before?... But there are some of you who do not believe” (John 6:61-64). He doesn’t say “who do not understand,” but “who do not believe.” They weren’t misunderstanding; he was calling them to the Eucharist, explaining that his flesh and blood would be available to be consumed and that doing so would bring salvation. Radical. Surreal. Difficult to believe.

The catechism acknowledges, “The Eucharist and the Cross are stumbling blocks. It is the same mystery, and it never ceases to be an occasion of division” (CCC 1336).

^“The mode of Christ's presence under the Eucharistic species is unique. It raises the Eucharist above all the sacraments as the perfection of the spiritual life and the end to which all the sacraments tend. In the most blessed sacrament of the Eucharist ‘the body and blood, together with the soul and divinity, of our Lord Jesus Christ and, therefore, the whole Christ is truly, really, and substantially contained’ ” (CCC 1374).

It is a hard teaching. It is a powerful teaching. It is an earth-shaking, world-changing reality. It’s so much easier to walk away or brush it off as a symbol. As T. S. Eliot said, “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.” Yet we are called to bear it. We are called to experience his presence. We are called to eat his flesh and drink his blood, to go all-in, to live in a radically altered world.  

St. Fazzio

St. Fazzio was born in Verona in 1190. He became a goldsmith. He was mistreated by some men that were jealous of his professional skill and success. In an effort to end the conflict, he gave away his money to the poor and churches.

Fazzio began going on pilgrimages—walking to Rome and Spain. At the end of the famous Camino, Santiago de Compostela, he donated silver chalice.

He founded the Order of the Holy Spirit in Cremona, dedicated to the corporal works of mercy. The order took care of pilgrims and the sick.

He died in 1272. His feast day is Jan. 18.

Always toward Bethlehem

This past Sunday was the celebration of Epiphany. While I’m a supporter of Epiphany being an immovable feast on Jan. 6, the priest’s homily for Epiphany was very good, so I’m glad I got to reflect on it again.

The priest himself is a missionary from Poland. He has traveled all over the world to serve Christ in different cultures. And travel is a pretty prominent theme in the Epiphany story. He made me reflect on the importance of movement.

The magi were from a culture separate from Judaism. We don’t know if they were Zoroastrian priests or Persian kings or Babylonian scholars or a troupe of various backgrounds. But they were foreign. And they were on a journey in search of something. They had seen a sign that an important child had been born—so important that they traveled a long way just to see the child and pay him homage.

Their particular beliefs or what they were expecting to see isn’t as relevant as their action. They were faithful and sincere, willing to journey a long way and suffer hardship for just one moment with something divine. They were willing to leave their homelands and cultural comforts and offer up expensive items. They were willing to ask questions and keep seeking until they found him.

It's five and a half miles from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. Jerusalem, the heart of Judaism, was only a couple hours’ walk away from the Infant Jesus. But the people who were supposedly eagerly awaiting the Messiah didn’t go (a few shepherds excluded, of course). The people of the culture Jesus was born into didn’t see him as anything special. But the magi did. And they travelled possibly over a thousand miles to be there.

Now, for most of us, the physical distance isn’t that difficult. Christ is no longer a baby in Judea; he is present in the Church all over the world. But still, we must seek him out and travel to him. For some, he is closer to find. They live in a Christian community, with a church right down the road. Christianity is the only culture they’ve ever known. Others face harsh challenges: remote areas with no churches, a culture that doesn’t recognize Christ, family or friends who oppose conversion. Frankly, it’s not fair. Yet some squander their proximity, taking it for granted, while others demonstrate such courage and persistence for just a taste.

The priest on Sunday mentioned how when he came here, it was the first time he had been in a culture that was Christian but not predominately Catholic (Catholics make up about 3% of the population). It was his first time meeting people joining the Church coming from other denominations, and they asked questions that he, who had grown up in a very Catholic environment and become a priest, had never considered.

Outsiders see things differently. They ask new questions. They don’t know all the ins and outs, but they want to join. They are seekers, willing to leave what they know and journey a long way, willing to suffer hardship and sacrifice, willing to ask questions and keep seeking until they are satisfied.

But we should all be seekers. Whether we are coming from Jerusalem or Baghdad, we should be journeying to Bethlehem. We should never take for granted when we are blessed with ease of access to the Church or the sacraments, and we should never get lazy with our faith. The journey does not end in this life; we should always be seeking, drawing closer to Christ. We are called be poor, wayfaring strangers, following the signs, seeking the divine, and not resting until we rest in him.