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I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh. (John 6:51)
Stop. Please stop. I want to stand here for a moment … and
just look at my empty hands. They tell me everything I need to know to live in
a way my heart understands.
It happens most every Sunday morning. Filing forward, we
near the Lord’s Table where stands a Eucharistic minister breaking bread and
sharing the chalice of life’s own nectar. Most bow just before opening their hands to receive the host, as do I.
And then, I stand there, in this precious moment, my hands together,
cupped and empty. And that’s what I want to see and feel, the grace of my
emptiness, my hands eager to hold that which fills a place in my heart that nothing
else can.
But before I do, I need to stop and look at the lines and
creases, the little scars, the signs of age and wear from 72 years of living,
the regrets of what was done and left undone, and feel the emptiness of my
heart that has longed for this eternal love since I was a boy and first became
aware that I was hungry for something to fill me, something I could not give
myself or find anywhere else, except when I extended my emptiness to receive
the fullness of what heaven and earth cannot contain.
Freely and fully given, the body and blood, the very flesh
of Christ, completely surrendered, nothing held in reserve, right there extended
in the hands of a gracious soul, for me, eternal love given, becoming part of
my own flesh and blood, giving the fullness of life to me, the beloved of the Beloved.
Not just given, for Christ gives himself in joy that joy
might fill every last corner of my oft-melancholy heart and bubble into tears
of consolation that one such as I should be so loved, so wanted, so cherished. In
her visions, Christ addressed the English mystic, Julian of Norwich, as she
gazed on his Passion. ‘Are you well satisfied that I suffered for you,’ Christ
asks. ‘If you are satisfied, I am satisfied. It is a joy and a bliss and an
endless delight that ever I suffered my Passion for you.’
Yes, for you, for me, for every last blasted one of us. And
the realization starts with empty hands, longing for life’s blessed fullness,
known only when our emptiness is engulfed in the mystery of the Love who gives
everything away.
A few years ago, a time came each Spring when I would gather
communion ware from the sacristy, don my Indiana Jones fedora and head to a room
crowded with eight-year-olds and their anxious parents—training for first
communion.
The hat was needed because it was always an adventure that
took unexpected and sometimes hilarious turns. The kids would ask questions
their parents would never dare utter, and one or two would try to ‘stump the
chump,’ i.e. me, which is not all that hard to do.
But there would come a quieter moment when I cupped my hands
and asked them to circle around me and tell me everything they noticed about my
hands. “What’s the most obvious thing you see,” I asked.
Answers flew: ‘They’re old. Lined. Wrinkled. Dry. Dirty.’ ‘No,’
I’d say. ‘The most obvious thing. What do you see?’ When silence settled, I’d
speak the most human truth of all. ‘They’re empty.’
And so, aren’t we all? Everything we are, from the breath in
our lungs to the next beat of your heart, is a holy and unrepeatable gift from
the Giver whose joy it is to give the only thing God has to give, God’s own
life, love unending, ever flowing from the Triune heart to we, empty vessels, intended
for eternal fullness.
I don’t know if any of those eight-year-olds will remember
our empty-hand exercise. But I hope some will. I hope one day they will look down
and listen to their empty hands tell them everything they need to know about their
deepest need … and the heart of the One who
joyfully fills it.
David L. Miller
