No. 14: The Communion

After the singing of the Agnus Dei--the Lamb of God--there is a stillness in the church. The priest completes his silent prayers and genuflects before the Lord lying upon the altar. Thus we see clearly Who is at the center of the mass. It is not the priest--his knee is bent before the One upon the altar. Rather, it is our Savior who offers himself as the victim for our sins. What greater contrast could there be between the altar in Solomon s temple, drenched with the blood of hundreds of animals who could not take away sin, and this altar, bearing upon itself the flesh and blood of God. How many parodies of Christ's true altar have been produced by men desirous of the forgiveness and eternal life that comes through Christ's blood, but who were stained by sin, and led astray by the devil! The Romans thought that their offerings of grain would bring them divine favor, but their altars are destroyed, and their descendents now receive the true bread of Christ. The Aztecs thought that their thousands of human sacrifices would lead them to victory in battle, but the hearts of their children are now conquered by the sacrifice of God become man.

Behold now, in the silence, Our Lord rises above the altar, borne aloft in the hands of the priest. "This is the Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world, happy are those who are called to His supper." If only faith could supplement our vision, we would see Christ before us, seated on the clouds of heaven, His glory shining through the wounds He sustained on the cross. We could see all the choirs of angels bowing down before Him, trembling with awe at the fact that the Lord has come to earth; that He has deigned to give Himself to men. What wonder should we then feel, seeing that Our Lord has come to earth that we might receive Him? When Elizabeth was visited by Mary, she said, "But who am I, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?" How much more should we ask, "Who am I, that my Lord, himself, should come to me?" Yet He comes. He comes not because of our greatness, but because of His love.

We recall the Roman centurion, who, when Christ came to visit him and heal his servant, spoke the words, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive thee, but only say the word and my servant shall be healed." He knew that he was not worthy to receive our savior, yet Christ came none the less. We are not worthy to receive Christ, yet He comes to us, and so we echo the centurion's words, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." Our souls need the healing that the centurion's servant received. And so we rise, and go up to entrance of the sanctuary, to receive the King who is not disturbed by our unworthiness. By all rational measures, we ought to be struck dead for daring not only to approach God, not only to touch Him, but even to take Him into our very bodies. Yet, if we receive this sacrament free of grave sin, and if we receive it with faith, it brings us not death, but eternal life. And so, receiving our Lord into our mouth, we hope to receive with Him every grace and every blessing. For a few brief moments, we bear our Lord Jesus Christ within our bodies, body, soul and divinity, as completely as Mary did after the annunciation. How could we not thank Him for this great grace? How could we not take this moment of special communion to pour out our souls to Him, to give Him the troubles of our hearts, to resolve anew to place nothing before His love?

When we return to our pew, we find ourselves drawn into reflection on God who is so absolute, yet so near, so powerful, and yet so compassionate. Or perhaps we join in singing of His goodness to us in giving us His only Son, upon the cross, and then upon the altar. In any case, we will never do anything as significant as what we have just done--eating the flesh and blood of God.

©Theodore Book, 2007, reprinted with permission