The Resurrection: Third Eucharist

Last week at mass the idea sprang into my mind that there is a connection between the empty tomb and the consecrated Eucharist. I wasn't sure what that meant because the connection is not immediately obvious. It only became clear after I'd taken some time to meditate about it.

In both cases, there is nothing divine present at first. All we see are the accidents of linen wrappings, of bread and wine. Then suddenly there is more. Suddenly He is present again, present in resurrected Body.

For some moments in the tomb He was there only as an empty shell, a mere husk, a hollow image of His fullness. Then suddenly, in a silent moment like that at the annunciation, the miraculous happens again. The Holy Spirit returns as Animus and the Word is re-made into resurrected, glorified flesh to dwell among us.

At the consecration it happens again. The Holy Spirit acts, carrying the laws of nature beyond their constraints into fulfillment to transform the Word once more into His bodily presence.

I've concluded that this miraculous generation takes place three times in the Gospels.

First at the annunciation, when the Holy Spirit falls upon Mary, and Christ becomes flesh for the first time.

Second, at the last supper, when the Holy Spirit transforms the bread and wine into His Body and Blood. When Jesus initiates the sacrament, and instructs His apostles to Do This in remembrance of Him.

Third, at the Resurrection, when the Holy Spirit re-animates Christ into His new bodily form.

After this, the apostles take over, following Jesus' instructions. And so it continues even now, at each mass, when the Holy Spirit descends again to perform the miraculous transformation.

I am so blessed to be Catholic, to recognize how the central reality of our faith is present through each of these key Gospel accounts and to participate as the blessed Trinity continues to re-present this reality to us at each Eucharist.

Amen credo. Amen credo.

Forgive me Lord, that I did not

A haunting thing occurred at mass a few weeks ago.

As I approached the altar to recieve Him in most Holy communion, I watched the very blood of Christ leap up as if to greet me, spilling itself on the floor in an expectant pool. I watched as someone, not knowing, hurried forward with a paper towel to wipe up the precious spill.

The deacon of the mass stopped him before such a thing took place, praise God.

I hesitated for a moment and then lurched around the priest, rushing to the sacristy to find a suitable cloth. One of the altar guild appeared, knowing better where to look, and so I returned to recieve Him and to surreptitiously monitor the remainder of the cleanup.

The haunting comes from not following my instincts. I should have obeyed the urge to get down and drink Him directly from the floor.

Forgive me Lord, that I did not.

It was an opportunity to humble myself and lift Him from such an unworthy posture. A chance to receive Him in a way only few would have done throughout the ages. A moment of witness to those still waiting to drink what they thought was merely wine.

But I didn't do it. And the chance is gone, forever.

Forgive me Lord, that I did not.

Like blood from a wound

Love is not a tap. It flows and flows like blood from a wound, and you can die of it.

--Chitra Banerjee Divakuruni

Where were you Mother?

This week's readings led me to various gospel accounts of women coming to the empty tomb. I found it interesting that the Blessed Mother was not included in any of the lists.

Think about what it would have been like to go there that morning... The linen strips which had been hurriedly wrapped by the men when He was taken down must have been stuck on the wounds. The blood would have seeped through, congealed, and then dried.

Can you imagine going to one you loved so deeply a day or two after such a brutal death, and having to peel away the cloth from flesh already brutalized?

I've never spent time with the body of a loved one who has passed, let alone had to attend to their body and prepare them for interment. The thought of doing that for my child, and doing further damage to their battered body in the process, is incomprehensible.

And so I thought of Mary, His mother. Was it custom for the mother to do such a task?

I can think of two possible reasons for her absence.

Either it was just too painful and she was overcome with grief, so much so that she couldn't make herself go.

Or her Spouse told her that it was not necessary to go because He was risen.

The latter seems to make more sense. What do you think?

Neither lamb nor throne

I attended a wedding on Saturday morning at a Presbyterian church.

It was through a Presbyterian church that our Lord called me a decade ago and so I carry a perpetual gratitude to that denomination. But my heart ached for it on Saturday as I looked around the church, and saw the position of the lectern.

The church was traditional, perhaps 100 years old or so, with wooden pews, two stained glass windows showing Jesus as shepherd, and not a crucified Christ in sight. I don't even remember seeing a cross...

At the front was a raised area, and the pastor moved to stand behind the lectern to deliver his word to us. Center stage.

The lectern was center stage.

This man's speech to us was the center of the worship service.

Not the cross, not the altar, not the lamb, not the body and blood shed for the life of the world. But the lectern.

Lord, may it be that some day soon all churches everywhere will return You to the center. May the world yearn to commune with you, and seek you. May they all eat of your body and drink of your blood, and so have eternal life.

And may I never stand in the way of anyone reaching you.

Hypostatic Reunion

Mass yesterday was powerful.

Weekday evening masses attract a small group, and BP's homilies in this setting tend toward the dialogic rather than the didactic. They are intimate; more family dinner than holiday feast.

It was in this setting that I sat, having just received the Eucharist, savoring His body melting into the precious blood in my mouth, and willing my taste buds to perceive beyond appearances.

It was then He made me to know that in coming to me, in entering my mouth, He experienced joy.

It was a holy reunion. Holy completion.

His body and blood were reunited with eachother, and with the Spirit residing within me. His body rejoining His body. A hypostatic reunion of the human and the divine.

It swept me off my feet, and to my knees.

And it is still sweeping me now.

(John 6:56)

No other fount I know

I have been thinking about blood, and in particular about menstrual blood.

One of yesterday's hymns was Nothing but the Blood of Jesus, and so of course, being me, I had to connect the two.

I thought about how Christ's baptism sanctified all the waters of the world, and wondered if his pierced side did the same for our blood, setting it apart and making it holy.

Women, in the cycle of life giving, pour out His blood in a perpetual flow of love and glory. A perpetual blood letting for the life of the world. A shedding of fecundity. A constant fount of blood and water, pierced like his side.

No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Be still?

God has been showing me how He provides realizations of Himself through other people.

This sounds so tame, when what I mean is so untame.

So wild. So excruciatingly joyful. So wonderfully heartbreaking.

He says to be still and know that I am God. Know that I am God.

Know me. Just as Adam knew Eve.

He sends us people so that we may know them and so come to know Him. Through mess and sweat and tears and blood. Through heart-pounding, pulse-racing, soul-wrenching love.

Through joy and grief, sometimes combined.

Through highs and lows and hurts and restorations.

Through passion, we know Him.

Lord, you are a mystery... It hurts to know you.

More on blood and roses

On Wednesday my BP asked me to listen to a brilliant talk by Dr. Peter Kreeft (one of my uber-heroes, from whom I may be taking a class in October!) called The Culture War.

He finished the talk with a connection to my recent strange dream on blood and roses.

The whole talk concentrated on the fact that we are at war, and reminded us of our weapons.

Christ's weapons.

The weapon of the cross.

He talked about our nation needing to be spiritually pruned, as ancient Israel was so often pruned. He said that we -will- bleed, but that a second spring will come, bringing new buds. But that it would not be without blood.

It never happens without blood. Without suffering.

So... I'm not sure what our Lord's message is to me through this. I don't have a direct correlation between the blood and roses of my dream and the spiritual battles that I am engaging in. But I do accept the consolation and the encouragement that they provide.

And I thank you, Lord.

Blood red roses

A few nights ago I dreamt that I got out of bed to find my legs and the sheets splattered with blood and small chunks of flesh. When I began to clean up, and looked more closely at one of the fleshy bits, I discovered that they were, instead, small dark red rosebuds from a bouquet that someone had pushed down between the sheets.

Isn't that strange?

All curves and sweet intoxication

I am besotted.
As soaked with love
as a wine-steeped pear;
drenched red
with heady sweetness
and the desire
to be consumed.

--Chantelle Franc

Shakespeare on love (4)

Madam, you have bereft me of all words.
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

Shakespeare on love (3)

Hot blood begets hot thoughts,
and hot thoughts beget hot deeds,
and hot deeds is love.

This saying is hard; who can accept it?

The other day I had a thought which feels both intensely right and disturbingly wrong.

It came while pondering the scourging scene from Mel Gibson's The passion of the Christ. Christ's mother and Mary the Magdalene used white cloths to try and collect His precious blood which was spilled and splattered over the stone pavement around the whipping post. In addition to the blood, you could see scraps of flesh which had been ripped from his body by the barbs of the scourge.

As I meditated on this scene, I thought about the spot becoming forever holy through such an outpouring.

Here is the disturbing part:

I desired to eat those torn pieces of His body, and even lick up the blood which the women must have had to leave behind.

I recognize how grotesque this sounds, and yet I still desire it, and think that it is the only right and reverent thing to do.

Sometimes I wonder about my mind...

Body and blood reunited

I was thinking about Christ on the cross, the paschal lamb, the perfect sacrifice; how his body and blood were separated just as it is when kosher meats are prepared.

And I realized that when we receive the Eucharist, his body and blood are joined back together, reunited, made one, as we become one with him.