We celebrate the body and blood of Christ not as isolated objects of adoration but as food and drink, like the manna in the desert and the water brought forth from a rock.

Jesus makes it very clear how we are to approach his body and blood: if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood you have no life in you. He who feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has life eternal.

The food that we eat every day, and the liquids we drink, become part of our bodies, sustaining them and allowing them to grow, function, and heal.

The food that is the body and blood of Christ does something far greater; it makes us one with God. The man who feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him.

This is why the body and blood of Christ signify unity and peace: there is one Christ, and all who eat and drink the body and blood of Christ become one in the one Christ.

We, many though we are, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf. There is no room for disunity among those who eat and drink the body and blood of Christ.

“The mysterious reality of the Eucharist—‘My flesh is real food and my blood real drink’ (Jn 6:55)—is a puzzle to some, a scandal to others.

It has always been so.

But for those who believe in Jesus’ teaching because they believe in Jesus Christ himself, the Eucharist is, among all his gifts to us, the most cherished and the cause of our deepest gratitude.”

U.S. Bishops, The Eucharist and the Hungers of the Human Family (1975) 18-19

Paul wrote that because the one bread becomes the one body of Christ, then those who eat that one loaf become the body of Christ.

And they did, those first communicants of Christ. They shared their money, their houses, their faith. They were the solitary, spiritual hope in a disintegrating secular society; they were the amazing witness of extravagant compassion in a barbarous world. People kept saying, “I simply can’t believe how they love each other!”

Such is the innate power of the Eucharist. Such is the transformative energy of those who eat the body and blood of Christ. Or so it was in the beginning. Let’s take a brief survey of what those who share the Eucharist have done through the centuries.

In the Middle Ages, Christians who ate the same body of Christ fought over how Christ was present in the bread. They destroyed the unity of Christ’s body over the spoils of war. They actually murdered each other until the church, an experienced mother, said, “Shut up and eat!”

In modern times, men who commanded concentration camps for a living received the body of Christ in the morning, herded fellow humans into gas chambers all afternoon and then relaxed with a Beethoven concert in the evening.

A Christian nation that was one-fourth Catholic, most of them weekly communicants, incinerated two Japanese cities crowded with innocent women, men and children. To prevent greater bloodshed, it was said.

Catholics and Protestants in Ireland killed each other for generations over politics instead of the Eucharist. Still today, people who share the Eucharist maintain apartheid in Africa and support death squads and dictators in Latin America.

Devout communicants among us rigidly maintain our narrow worldview, continue to abuse our children, ignore the underprivileged and habitually lie, steal and hurt each other.

What happened to the power of the Eucharist? Liturgy happened. The power of the Eucharist has been dissipated through years of misuse. Until the 12th century, the body of Christ meant the congregation, while the mystical body meant the Eucharist. Now, the mystical body is the church, while the host is the body of Christ — and even that is misunderstood. Christians reduced the original holy meal into a sacred food at Communion and then a blessed sacrament in a tabernacle. The basic food of life became a snack between Sundays, and then a sacred species to adore.

We will continue to profane the body and blood of Christ until we regain some semblance of the true meaning of Mass.

The Mass is first of all the self-understanding of Jesus. And Jesus sees himself not as a plate of bread and a chalice of wine; Jesus feels himself as a bruised and broken body, as spilled and splattered blood. Body and blood are not just physical parts of his life. They are his life.

The Mass is not just a remembrance of Cavalry, not just a replay of the crucifixion, not just a reminder of Christ’s agonizing death. Jesus is not a spectator at Mass. He participates in Mass just as intensely, as personally as he did at the first Mass. His wounds have never healed. His body is still battered, his blood is still splattered all over the world in his sisters and brothers. The crucifixion is ongoing.

It is easy for God to convince bread to become Christ’s body; it is nearly impossible for God to convince us to become Christ’s body. And yet if we don’t, Mass is just a meaningless miracle for our entertainment.

Fr. James Smith

Human conversation is hard enough, even when we speak the same language. We have a mathematical language to talk about numerical relationships and a chemical language to talk about molecular relationships. But we have no God language.

Of course, we have to talk about God, the most important reality there is. And since God is personal, we naturally want to give God personal names. But we finally have to realize that every name we give God is just an analogy. If we ever take it literally, it is literally idolatry.

We must not put anything between God and ourselves. It is very tempting to do that, because God is so far from us, so totally different, so unimaginably awesome. That is why the Israelites pleaded with Moses: “You speak to us; let not God speak to us or we shall die!”

If it is hard to talk about God, it is infinitely more difficult to talk with God. Yet that is what we presume to do when we pray — we even call prayer “conversation with God.” That’s OK, as long as we remember that this is just an analogy, too.

If we have a conversation with a friend and the friend leaves, then the conversation is over. Before, there were two people; now there is only one. But we have to think of conversation with God differently. There are not two of us in prayer. I can never be separate from God, because God is the ground, the source of my being. Apart from God I could not exist. God and I equal one.

If we think about that further, we come to a shattering realization. If I plus God equal one, then I minus God equal zero. Since I cannot exist without God, then if I do exist, I exist in God! Where I am, God is.

This means that I never have to place myself in the presence of God. I am already there. I do not have to work to contact God. We are always connected. I do not have to find a special place to talk with God. God is wherever I am.

But what can I say to God? Anything I like. Even though we have no God language, God does understand human language. As scripture says, God’s own Spirit interprets our sighs, our faltering attempts at divine conversation, and says what we meant to say.

God does not have to chatter to feel alive; God needs no repartee to make a point. God is self-evident. It is we who need to use words to express our essence, to bring our substance to the surface, to explain our existence, to demonstrate our understanding, to prove our love. And we keep doing that all our lives because we can never fully put ourselves into words.

Until we find a soul-partner, someone who knows us better than we know ourselves. After we wrestle long enough with words, wear ourselves out trying to make ourselves perfectly clear to God, we suddenly realize that we don’t have to talk. Like familiar friends who know what the other is thinking, who can complete each other’s sentences, so we become comfortable enough with God just to be with God. The silence between us becomes palpable, personal. That is the function of the Holy Spirit within the Trinity: the personal expression of the conversation, the relationship between Father and Son. Father, Son and Spirit have no existence apart from each other — they are not three, but one. Like God and us in prayer. By analogy!

Fr. James Smith

Creative Fire

Through the Spirit’s fire, what had been muddled began to live with new clarity.
Before the experience of the Spirit they had doubts as to who Jesus was and confusion about the manner of his messiahship. After their experience of the Spirit’s fire, they began to understand and were able to set aside disappointed expectations so they could accept the surprising ways and will of God. Before the Spirit’s fire and light, they were eager for power, prestige and good places at the victory table. After the transforming Spirit, they began to put others first, especially the poor, and to exercise their power as service. They cared compassionately for victims of injustice and made their plight their agenda. They began to share at one table, in one communion.
Before the Spirit came upon them, the followers of Jesus cast a suspicious eye on foreigners and their customs, dismissing these as beyond God’s concern and, because of that, unworthy of their attention or care. With the fiery transformation brought by the Spirit, their horizons began to broaden; their service became all-inclusive. Their caring for the differences of others became a truer reflection of the God who created every complexion and listened intently to every language.
Prior to the Spirit’s enlightening and warming fire, Jewish women had been little more than cooks and housekeepers, children had no voice, slaves were counted as lesser than free persons and gentiles were discounted altogether. But with the Spirit, the disciples began to question gaps between genders and generations; they scrutinized the discrimination that had formerly compartmentalized people and their position in the world. In the Spirit, women, men and children were newly valued. Together, they formed a praying, believing, serving community wherein political status had little bearing. Without exception, all belonged to Christ; all were to be loved and cherished; all were to be regarded as worthy witnesses of the Gospel in word and deed.
Before the Spirit’s flame engulfed and empowered them, they thought forgiveness of sin was the proper prerogative of God alone for those deemed worthy. With the Spirit, the followers of Jesus began to realize that he had come with healing in his hands and forgiveness in his heart, and through his saving death had made these gifts available to every sinner. With the breath of the Spirit, breathed into them by Jesus, the disciples also realized their responsibility for extending that healing and forgiveness.
Ambassadors of Jesus in this world, we too must remember that we are fired by his Spirit to continue the work of kindling the world with his love.

Pentecost celebrates the descent of the Holy Spirit on Mary and the disciples. God’s Spirit arrives as a violent wind and crackling tongues of fire, encouraging fearful people to boldly proclaim their belief in the risen Christ.

The most basic and best gift of the Holy Spirit is the Spirit herself. She is God’s own freedom: untrammeled, unfettered, uncontrollable goodness in a prison of sinful slavery. But the Spirit also brings with her the traditional seven gifts.

Wisdom frees us from being superficial and blasé about evil. It broadens our view so we realize that our position in this world is not the same as anyone else’s situation. Nor is our opinion necessarily the best angle on the whole truth. Wisdom helps us see the world the way God sees it. The wisdom of the Christian often appears as foolishness to the worldly wise. Our wisdom is not always practical, but it is always aware of the divine possibilities hidden everywhere.

The gift of understanding frees us from confusion and dissension. It puts us in contact with God — we “stand under,” we are turned upside down so we can see from God’s point of view. If we understand or stand under someone, we think what she thinks and feel what she feels. The gift of understanding helps diverse people share belief in the same God while having different experiences of that God.

The gift of knowledge frees us from ignorance and narrowmindedness, which make us slaves to our own needs and wishes. It strengthens us so that we do not automatically jump to the easiest conclusion, but instead stretch our minds and spirits. This gift is most obvious when people get together in church to work consciously at becoming more like the knowledgeable Christ.

The gift of counsel frees us from the loneliness of personal decisions. It enables us to give hope, comfort and direction to other people. The gift of counsel can occur in confession, in listening to our next-door neighbor, our children or spouse. Counsel is holy, wholesome advice.

The gift of fortitude frees us from living erratically. Its other name is steadfastness. You always know if you are faithful by asking yourself if you are consistent in what you do and why you do it. In the face of loneliness, despair, suffering and discouragement, the gift of fortitude helps us to choose the good no matter what.

The gift of piety frees us from the inability to pray. It allows us to come into contact with all that is holy; it develops our power to meet God in unexpected people and times and places. It helps us to contemplate, which is simply taking a long, loving look at reality.

The gift of wonder frees us from childishness and naiveté. It makes us wholesomely afraid of separating ourselves from our Father or our community. Wonder makes us wonder if God experiences us as faithful, loving and good as we experience God. The gift of wonder pushes us to be more like the God who continually amazes us.

We received all of these gifts in the sacrament of confirmation. Each one of us may judge for ourselves how well we have used them. But we should not be too analytical or judgmental in our spiritual life. Because we could double the number of gifts and triple the number of virtues and still not come any closer to God. The goal of the Christian life is not to be gifted or virtuous or obedient or holy or anything else. No matter how sophisticated we become, our goal has not changed: We were created to love God and our neighbor, however we can.

Fr. James Smith