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Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. … It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. (John 6:53, 63)
I could not sing the verse as I returned from receiving the Eucharistic elements today. Consoling tears would not allow it. A mystery far beyond my meager theological skills held me in its grasp as the cantor sang on, ‘The mystery of your presence Lord, no mortal tongue can tell.’ Mine certainly cannot, neither then, nor now … or ever.
But the heart perceives what the mind cannot. In bread and wine, the mystery of an infinite love fully and irrevocably given is received into human bodies. And in the receiving, the Love Who Is … and always will be … and we—the finite, mortal and uncomprehending—are one. Everything we are (the good, the bad and the ugly) is engulfed in the Loving Mystery who gave us birth, one with the One who is love and life.
In particularly graced moments, our souls are overwhelmed with the wonder of bearing Love Immortal, rendering speech, let alone song, impossible. If only the moment could last, enduring through the daily dullness of the ordinary.
The truly good news is that it does, if only we had eyes to see and ears to hear. For the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood is not a discrete discharge of grace into an ungraced world. It is the key that unlocks the sacramental mystery of existence. His physical givenness at the Lord’s Table reveals what is true everywhere and in everything.
The One who gives himself in bread and wine is he for whom, through whom and in whom the universe came to be. Everything was created by him and for him and through him. The universe comes to be through Christ, the materialization of divine love, pouring forth from the heart of the Holy Trinity.
‘The world and time are the dance of the Lord in the emptiness,’ wrote the twentieth-century contemplative, Thomas Merton. So, when I savor the red cardinal flashing through the locust trees I eat the flesh of Christ. I take the beauty of who he is into myself, and my soul is made alive and joyful. When I watch the gold finches flit and play in the morning sun I wake to his invitation to throw away my deadly seriousness and join in Love’s dance in time and space.
When I take my beloved’s face into my hands and her smile melts my heart one more time, I look into the very heart of eternity smiling at me, hoping I will finally wake to the central truth of my life. And when I receive the day … whatever it is … as a holy gift to be gratefully unwrapped and lovingly embraced I eat and drink the sacrament of the present moment.
The mystery of his presence at the Lord’s table cracks the code of creation. The Christ present at the table wakes our souls to believe and our senses to welcome his presence in everything and everyone, everywhere and in every moment, ever seeking to feed our souls with the love he is.
And if that is not wonder enough, then imagine that you, too, are part of the eternal outflowing of God’s presence, a sacrament of God’s triune love, your reality and vocation.
David L. Miller
