The Sacrament of the Eucharist
Father Richard writes of the sacramental nature of bread and wine in the Eucharist.
When Jesus spoke the words “This is my Body,” I believe he was speaking not just about the bread right in front of him, but about the whole universe, about every thing that is physical, material, and yet also spirit-filled.
Seeing the Eucharist as a miracle is not really the message at all. I can see why we celebrate it so often. This message is such a shock to the psyche, such a challenge to our pride and individualism, that it takes a lifetime of practice and much vulnerability for it to sink in—as the pattern of every thing, and not just this thing.
The bread and the wine together are stand-ins for the very elements of the universe, which also enjoy and communicate the incarnate presence. Why have we resisted this message so much? Authentically eucharistic churches should have been the first to recognize the corporate, universal, and physical nature of the “Christification” of matter. While Catholics rightly affirm the Real Presence of Jesus in these physical elements of the earth, most do not realize the implications of what they have affirmed. The bread and wine are largely understood as an exclusive presence, when in fact their full function is to communicate a truly inclusive—and always shocking—presence.
A true believer is eating what he or she is afraid to see and afraid to accept: The universe is the Body of God, both in its essence and in its suffering.
The Eucharist is an encounter of the heart when we recognize Christ’s Presence through our own offered presence. In the Eucharist, we move beyond mere words or rational thought and go to that place where we don’t talk about the Mystery anymore; we begin to chew on it. Jesus did not say, “Think about this” or “Stare at this” or even “Worship this.” Instead, he said, “Eat this!”
We must move our knowing to the bodily, cellular, participative, and thus unitive level. We must keep eating and drinking the Mystery, until one day it dawns on us, in an undefended moment, “My God, I really am what I eat! I also am the Body of Christ.” Then we can henceforth trust and allow what has been true since the first moment of our existence. The Eucharist should jolt us into awareness that we have dignity and power flowing through us in our bare and naked existence—and everybody else does too, even though most do not know it. A body awareness of this sort is enough to steer and empower our entire faith life.
This is why I must hold to the orthodox belief that there is Real Presence in the bread and wine. For me, if we sacrifice Reality in the basic and universal elements, we end up sacrificing the same Reality in ourselves.
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From Diana Butler Bass
I want to take a moment and paraphrase a question once uttered by Frederick Douglass about a different American holiday. Douglass asked, What to a Slave is the Fourth of July? But that’s not the only American holiday that needs rethinking. I humbly submit another question for consideration: What to a Christian is the Eleventh of November?
On November 11, 1918, the Great War, the conflict we know as World War I, ended. Earlier that day, the Allies and Germany signed a peace treaty calling for an armistice between combatants at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year.
A year later, the British and French commemorated Armistice Day, and a solemn annual memorial continued thereafter every November 11. Eventually, the day was re-christened as Remembrance Day throughout the British Commonwealth and as Veterans Day in the United States.
November 11, however, wasn’t always a day to remember lives lost in a war between the great imperial powers of Europe. Across Europe, November 11 was an important festival on the Christian calendar — St. Martin’s Day, or Martinmas, in memory of a pious bishop of the early church, Martin of Tours.
Martin of Tours (ca. 316-397) was born into a pagan family, but as a young man expressed interest in Christianity. His father, a soldier, was appalled by the religion and forced Martin to join the Roman army. While a soldier, Martin’s curiosity about Christianity grew and he became a catechumen, a “learner” of the faith.
According to legend, Martin was on patrol when he saw a naked beggar on the road. Moved with compassion, he dismounted his horse, took off his military cloak, tore it in half, and covered the man. In a dream that night, Jesus appeared to Martin and said, “Martin, a simple catechumen, covered me with this garment.”
Martin decided to be baptized and asked to be released from the army. “I am Christ’s soldier,” he maintained, “I am not allowed to fight.” He refused to wield the sword for Caesar.
Martin didn’t invent this position. He stated what most early Christians believed. Before theologians made a case for just war, Christians were primarily pacifists. Indeed, no record exists that Christians served in the Roman army before 170. The overwhelming consensus of the early church was that war was killing in service to the empire, killing was murder, and murder was wrong.
Martin left the army and became a monk, a priest, and finally, a bishop. He was known for peacemaking and his generosity toward the poor, especially children.
After his death, he was made a saint. His festival coincided with the harvest — and the day came to celebrate gratitude, abundance, and gift giving. It always focused on the poor in memory of St. Martin’s good deeds. Martinmas was one of the most popular of all Christian holy days through the Middle Ages and into early modern Europe.
Martin’s story lent itself to another tradition — the practice of signing peace treaties on his feast day. Several wars ended with peace made in honor of St. Martin, including signings in 1500, 1606, 1648, 1865, and 1918. The ancient celebration of this Roman soldier turned conscientious objector was the reason why Armistice Day wound up on November 11.
But the memory of St. Martin has largely faded. And now, Armistice Day-Remembrance Day-Veterans Day is mostly a solemn commemoration of soldiers who served more modern empires at war, not to remember a soldier who rejected empire to serve the poor and outcast.
History takes us down some unanticipated pathways. And November 11 is surely one of its weirder journeys. Few recall Martin’s mercy on the road, the surrender of his military cloak to cover a poor man, and his rejection of violence on behalf of an empire. Instead, we extol military service as the highest form of sacrifice to a state. One of the most moving stories of anti-nationalism in the history of Christianity has become a holiday to valorize soldiers as national saints.
Both the poor and peacemaking* have been lost along the way.
I have questions about what we remember and what we forget. But mostly, I want to know: What to a Christian is the Eleventh of November?
