Things not seen



If you’re thinking about becoming Catholic, the emphasis the Church places on the Eucharist means you have to come to terms with this whole it-may-look-like-bread-but-believe-me-it-isn’t-bread thing.  What the Church calls transubstantiation.  How can a modern, educated person with at least some understanding of science and evidence possibly buy into Middle Ages Catholic voodoo about eating Jesus’ body and drinking his blood?  For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you how I came to terms with it.

 The central question

The central question is whether Jesus meant for me to understand the Eucharist as really and truly his body.  Was this his intention?   If Jesus wants me to believe when I go to Mass I really do eat his body and drink his blood, then that is what I will believe.

Here’s some context.

 I’m a Christian – with all my heart I believe Jesus was raised from the dead, literally got up out of a grave after being dead for days.  I believe it based on historical evidence, evidence that seems undeniable to me.  If a fellow can do that, then I have no particular problem with other things that he says, even if those things seem improbable. 

 Here are some examples:

  • Jesus says that a person who is baptized and who surrenders his life to Jesus is a person whose sins are forgiven.  That doesn’t make much sense.  When I was baptized (I was an adult), I didn’t have physical evidence my sins were forgiven.  What I had was Jesus saying so (it’s in Mark 16:16 and Matthew 28:20) and that was all I needed.  Something Jesus says can be completely without corroborating evidence, yet still be true and still be believed.
  • Jesus says my prayers make a difference.  That’s one I cannot demonstrate with scientific rigor.  Nor does it make all that much sense when you think about it.  About all I can tell is this — sometimes my prayers get a “yes” and sometimes it’s a “no”.  Sometimes I seem to get an answer right away, other times it seems to takes weeks and months.  Sometimes I pray and the sense I have is that God is absent and my prayers are unheard.  But none of that keeps me from believing Jesus when he says my prayers make a difference.  Remember, he’s the one who got up out of a grave.  If he says a thing, I trust him and believe.  Something Jesus says can relate to the physical world (like answering prayers) in a complicated way, but that doesn’t keep me from believing him.
  • Jesus says if I love him and obey him, then both he and the Father will come to me and make their home with me.  It’s in John 14:23.  I’ll be honest… I’m not even sure what that means.  But I don’t have to understand it for it to be true.  What in the world makes me think I have to understand a thing for it to be true?  That would be a crazy thing to believe!  Something Jesus says may involve an interaction between the realm of God and this world I live in and I may not understand it.  More likely, there’s about zero chance I’m going to understand it.

 So, the summary of all this is that Jesus can say something without corroborating evidence, something complicated, something that relates this world to the “other” in a way I cannot understand.  Yet, I will believe simply because he says it.  He is powerful and reliable.

 So did Jesus mean for me to take his words literally when he spoke of his body and blood?

Yes, he did.  The Bible says Jesus made the statement at the Last Supper “This is my body” and “This cup is the new covenant in my blood”.  The earliest recording is here starting in verse 23  from St. Paul.  The same words are also in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark and Luke.

Here are the reasons I find most persuasive for taking Jesus literally when he talks about his body and blood.

 A literal belief is ancient.    

I figure the folks nearest the apostles in time would know what it is that Jesus means by his words. 

For not as common bread nor common drink do we receive these; but since Jesus Christ our Savior was made incarnate by the word of God and had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so too, we have been taught, the food that has been made into the Eucharist by the Eucharistic Prayer set down by him and by the change of which our flesh and blood is nourished, is both the flesh and the blood of that incarnated Jesus.  St. Justin Martyr   Apologia   148-155 AD

 

But what consistency is there in those who hold that the bread over which thanks been given is the Body of their Lord, and the cup his Blood, if they do not acknowledge that he is the Son of the Creator of the world, that is, his Word, through whom the wood bears fruit, and the fountains gush forth, and the earth gives first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain on the ear?  How can they say that the flesh which has been nourished by the Body of the Lord and by his Blood gives way to corruption and does not partake of life?  Let them either change their opinion, or else stop offering the things mentioned.    St. Irenaeus       Adversus haereses    circa 180 and 199 AD

 Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and Cyprian also left writings expressing the faith of the Church in a literal understanding of Jesus’ words.  If the 2nd Century Church is dead wrong about something as fundamental as the Eucharist, then Jesus’ promise to the apostles that he would guide the Church into all the truth seems to have no meaning.  To conclude the leaders nearest in time to the apostles made an error of this magnitude calls into question the entire role of the Holy Spirit and the Church in the world.

 By no means was the 1st and 2nd Century church biased toward what we call “fundamentalism”.

The early Church Fathers were not what we would call today “fundamentalists” or literalists.  They often viewed the Scriptures as allegory and analogy given by God for our instruction.  

What this means is that I cannot just reject out of hand the early Church Fathers as being naively literalistic with Scripture.  They were more likely not to view things simply as literal statements.  So when they take a statement that is as difficult as “This is my body” and they interpret Jesus as meaning exactly and literally those words, I really must pay attention to that.

A literal interpretation is the only way I can make sense out of John 6.

In John 6 is the so-called Bread of Life discourse of Jesus.  It’s one of the longest discourses we have and it is definitely one of the strangest.  Without analyzing the chapter verse-by-verse, I’ll just make two observations, then draw a conclusion.

 As the chapter progresses, Jesus becomes more and more insistent on the necessity of eating his body and drinking his blood.  These are strange, even repulsive, words and yet Jesus would not let go.  Instead, he bore down harder and harder.  He begins by saying the people must eat his flesh.  He ends by saying they must grind his flesh between their teeth.  And he says this is the only way they will have life in them.  The words are so repellant and shocking that most of his disciples leave him.  Jesus is even concerned that the Twelve may leave him, but good old St. Peter saves the day.

The other thing is that if these words are simply analogy, if the words speak of the body and blood only in a symbolic way, then why in the world does Jesus not say so?  What possible motive would he have in driving away his disciples with language straight out of a horror movie, if that language is simply a symbol?  That would be the behavior of a crazy man, and Jesus is definitely not crazy.

 My conclusion is that Jesus considers the teaching regarding his body and blood as so important, so central to his entire mission, that even if these words drive people away he will not teach them less than the full truth.

 For a very, very long time a literal understanding is the only thing anybody believed.

Look at the quote above from Iranaeus.  It is remarkable that his argument is based on even the heretics believing in a literal presence of the body and blood of Jesus in the Eucharist.  Even the heretics!

 The first big controversy over whether the bread and wine become the body and blood of Jesus is in the late 11th Century, precipitated by a fellow named Berengar of Tours.  My point is it took a 1,000 years for there to be a major challenge to the Church’s faith that bread and wine are wonderfully changed in the Eucharist.  That’s a long time to go without a challenge from within the Church.

 This is not because there were no challenges to the faith of the Church.  This same 1,000 years saw tons of controversy over doctrine, but not over the bread and wine.

Then it is another 440 years before the Reformation challenges the accepted faith regarding the Eucharist.

 So here’s my question.  Am I supposed to believe that the 16th century reformers and protestors, who could charitably be said to have operated in a complicated time and with complicated motives, understood the teaching of Jesus and his apostles better than did the Early Fathers and 1,400 years of uninterrupted history?  I guess it’s not impossible, but it is so unlikely I can’t believe it.  Instead, I must suspect the philosophical and cultural and intellectual milieu of the times.

I come to the conclusion the alternative to a literal interpretation of Jesus’ words is unacceptable

 I understand my alternative to Transubstantiation to be this: in order to reject Catholic teaching I must conclude Jesus purposely drove away disciples based on a misunderstanding of his choice of words.  I must conclude the 16th Century understood the apostles better than the 2nd Century.  I must conclude the Catholic and Orthodox understanding of the Eucharist species, an understanding that has been crucial in holding these groups together for 2,000 years, is wrong – and instead conclude that somewhere within the almost bewildering division of Protestantism on this subject lies some group who has the right understanding.

 I can’t do that.

Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you.   John 6:53

Why do things stay so new?



It’s a common experience that the “newness” of a thing will wear off after a few months or years.  A new car or a new house – a new job, even a marriage – eventually settles into a routine and is no longer exciting.  For me, there has been an exception to this.  Six years ago, I was received into the Roman Catholic Church after a lifetime of Christianity in another fellowship.  The newness of Catholicism has not worn off.  If anything, it’s more exciting than ever.  How can that be?

This has relevance to anyone who is considering conversion.  Many people have questions about whether a Christian conversion will wear off over time, will become old and sort of worn before it is discarded for the next new thing.  Maybe my experience will be encouraging.

Here are some things I’m pretty sure do not explain it

I’m not still excited about my Catholic faith because it’s a new experience to be a Christian.  I have served Jesus as well as I knew how for almost my entire adult life.  Ups and downs happened like most other things.  At one point, I betrayed the Lord big time, but with his help and the help of a wonderful brother in Christ, I recovered.

It’s not my personality.  I’m one of those people who get tired of a thing fairly quickly.  So my Catholic faith doesn’t continue to be new simply because that’s the sort of person I am.

It’s not because I have found some wonderful new ministry within the Church that excites and challenges me.  In my old fellowship I taught Bible classes constantly, preached every once in a while, conducted weddings and funerals.  In some contexts, I had influence and respect.  By contrast, as a Catholic layman I have not been able to do what I once did.  My personal ministry has even sometimes seemed insignificant compared to what I once did.  So that’s not it.

Nor is it the richness of Catholic fellowship.  To be sure, I have made wonderful friends in the Catholic Church, including clergy and religious.  Yet, the person-to-person involvement, the combined faith and social fellowship I loved in my old church is something I wish I could see more of in my parish.

Nor is it because my six years as a Catholic have just been one joyful high after another.  The Cleveland Diocese where I serve has seen its share of trouble in the last few years.  50 parishes have been closed.  I was an active member of the lay group selected to make difficult recommendations regarding five parishes in our area.  Our recommendations were not taken initially – we appealed to the Bishop and he changed his mind after tons of work and angst.  So I have been part of the hard side of a diocese in a Rust Belt city, and I don’t have illusions of Catholicism as butterflies and chubby cherubs and sweet little statues of Mary in a flowerbed.

It’s just a guess, but here’s what I suspect keeps my Catholic faith new

I suspect it is because of the Catholic Church herself.  Not simply what she proposes for belief, nor the beauty of her liturgy, but rather the Church itself.  If my suspicion is correct, then two traits of the Church keep things new.

The Church has power.  The authority Jesus gave first to Peter, then later to the apostles, continues to subsist in the successors to these men.  The initial and explicit instances of granting power are the ability to forgive sins and the power to bind and loose — the so-called power of the keys.

So I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.  I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven.  Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.     Matthew 16:18,19

 

[Jesus] said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”  And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the holy Spirit.  Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.”      John 20:21-23

Very quickly, as the Church matured and came to an understanding of her role as the Body of Christ, other powers were exercised.  It is given to the Church to receive and proclaim and protect God’s truth with divine assistance and without error.  (John 16: 8-15, esp. verse 13   also I Timothy 3:15 )  This power guarantees the Church can assist me to grow authentically into the fullness of Christ.  This power allows me to rely on her to give me guidance and relieves me of the danger of every-man-for-himself determination of what the Bible means, of what the will of God is.

The Church has power to survive.  When Jesus gave Peter the power to forgive and bind and loose in Matthew 16, he also spoke of founding the Church and said the gates of the netherworld would not prevail against her.  Now I know a bit about the history of the Catholic Church, a history that is often inspiring, but sometimes is shameful and anything but godly.  Yet, God has stood by this promise to the Church that she will survive.  No institution in history has lived as long as the Church.  No other has survived what would have killed a merely human institution as has the Catholic Church.  No other has combined the preservation of what is unchangeable with the sort of growth and development which prove she is alive.

And that brings up my second suspicion as to why my Catholic faith remains new.

The Church has life and gives life.  This came as a shock to me.  I think it took a couple of years to realize that, yes, the Church is all the individual Christians taken as a group (which is all I had previously believed the church to be), but at the same time she is also more than that.  She really is the mystical Body of Christ, possessed of the life of Christ and able to give that life to me.  She is a living organic whole possessing and dispensing life as the Church.

In a way, this possession of life and giving of life explains the familiar description of the Eucharist as the “source and summit” of the life of the Church.  In John 6, Jesus says unless a person eats his body and drinks his blood, that person does not have life in him.  It’s in verse 53 here.      This life belongs to the Church as the Body of Christ.  By virtue of her priesthood and her inheritance in the apostles and her intimate, lively relation to her Head, the Church offers me life.  The source of everything good, everything lively in the Church, is this nourishment in the Eucharist rooted in Jesus that literally continues without end across the world and across time.  And the summit of all the power and life of the Church is this same communion in the body and blood and Jesus.

I receive this life at Mass.  It never gets old or loses its power to energize and quicken.  It never fails to amaze me, and puzzle me, for that matter – it seems too good to possibly be true, yet there it is.  The 2,000-year history of the Church and her teaching assure me I eat the Body of Christ in the Sacrament.  I am assured the life I receive is linked to the liturgy in heaven, is precisely the gift that Jesus said he gave for the life of the world, and is precisely the sacrifice of Calvary given in a new way.

Never has the Savior been so immediate, so available and intimate, as he is now.  The life received in the Eucharist spills over into prayer that draws me, into liturgy that transcends my ordinary circumstances and then seems almost to haunt my mind between the times at Mass.  This life seems even to chip away at my weakness and sin, gradually and gently coaxing me more fully to obey God, like medicine for what separates me from God and man.

And it all stays new.

 So whoever is in Christ is a new creation: the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.        II Corinthians 5:17

The man who hugged a pew



A few days ago, I saw a man hug a pew in a small chapel where I pray.  Seemed pretty strange at first, but it ended up as one of those “life lessons” that sometimes come unexpectedly.  Here’s how it happened. 

I get to pray in an adoration chapel attached to a monastery of cloistered Poor Clare nuns. (Here’s something about cloistered life.)  I pray in the late afternoon when the place is usually empty.  What a fellowship, what a joy, to pray with the Lord and the unseen nuns.  The picture is the monstery here in Cleveland.

A few days ago, there was a frail little man in the front pew on one side praying.  I had not seen him before.  He was bent over where he sat in that way that lets you know this fellow simply cannot sit or stand straight.  At one point, he took off a light jacket and I’m not exaggerating – it took three minutes just to get his arms out of the jacket and the jacket out from behind him.  I wasn’t “watching” him or anything like that, but when there are just two of you, it’s hard not to notice things. 

When he was ready to leave, this dear old man gathered himself and stood up.  Then it was like he sort of fell and grabbed the end of the pew and hung on.  He hugged the pew.  My reaction was that he was in trouble.  I almost stood up to go help him.  Then I realized what he was doing. 

The Church asks us to make a gesture of respect any time we come into or leave the exposed Blessed Sacrament.  Most people double genuflect.  Those who cannot manage getting down on both knees, and then up again, will make a profound bow from the waist.  Well, this little man couldn’t do either of those.  Balancing while he walked gave him trouble.  So instead, he hugged the pew and sort of slumped over it.  He bowed the best he could. 

This obviously is not a prescribed gesture of respect.  You won’t find hugging the pew in any of those pamphlets that tell you what to do in an adoration chapel.  Yet, I’m sure I have never seen a more moving or beautiful or eloquent posture in my life.

 He did what he could

Just before Jesus was killed, he was anointed by Lazarus’ sister Mary with perfume that cost a year’s wage for a working man.  It’s in the first part of Mark 14.  Everybody who was there were angered at such extravagance.  Except Jesus.  Part of what Jesus said in Mary’s defense was “she has done what she could”.

 That is exactly what that sweet, slumped over man did when he hugged the pew.  He did what he could.  I don’t doubt he would have preferred to be able to genuflect or give a profound bow.  But he could not do that, so he did what he could.  It may have occurred to him that what he did must look pretty odd, but that didn’t stop him.  He did what he could.

 It brought tears to me then and it still does today.  It was a grace to know this Christian had struggled just to get to the chapel (there are stairs), yet there he was.  It was a privileged moment to see a man give what he could, give everything he could, in a sign of respect for Jesus present in the Sacrament.  It was faith and love and hope that hugged that pew. 

 I reflect on how little it costs me to give Jesus what I give, then I think of the man who hugged a pew, and I am thankful for a God so good that he draws such devotion and love.  I am simultaneously humbled and encouraged and made to know that I am surrounded by saints.  And I resolve to do what I can, not merely what is convenient or cheap.

 For if the eagerness is there, it is acceptable according to what one has, not according to what one does not have.  II Corinthians 8:12