Making a Meal of Jesus: The Rev. Canon Dana Colley Corsello

Roman Catholics and fans of Flannery O’Connor’s writing are familiar with the famous defense of transubstantiation that she made during a dinner party with other writers and friends in the early 1950s. As O’Connor later wrote to a friend:

“I was taken by some friends to have dinner with Mary McCarthy and her husband, Mr. Broadwater. She departed the Church at the age of 15 and is a Big Intellectual. . . I hadn’t opened my mouth once, there being nothing for me in such company to say. Well, the conversation turned on the Eucharist, which I, being the Catholic, was obviously supposed to defend. Mrs. Broadwater said when she was a child and received the Host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the “most portable” person of the Trinity; now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one. I then said, in a very shaky voice, ‘Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.’ That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now that this is all I will ever be able to say about it, except that it is the center of existence for me; all the rest is expendable.”¹ End quote. Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it!

Before I continue, and at the risk of offending one’s high or low Eucharistic theology or getting tangled in their metaphysical differences, I do think it’s helpful to distinguish between them so that we might better understand what the sixth chapter of John’s Gospel means, especially when Jesus claims, “…unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” (vs. 53). Roman Catholics, on one end of the spectrum, believe the doctrine of transubstantiation, which purports that the entire substance of the bread and the entire substance of the wine are converted into the Body and Blood of Christ in such a way that “only the appearances of bread and wine remain.”² In other words, the bread and wine used in the Eucharist do not merely symbolize the Last Supper but become the body and blood of Christ. It’s the belief that there is a change of what is there, totally into something else.

Protestants on the other end of the spectrum tend to spiritualize this presence, focusing on the inward communion with Christ by faith. Baptists and other “born-again” Christians have a “memorial” view of the Eucharist: Communion is a symbolic act commemorating the Last Supper, the Passion and its promised redemption.

And of course, as Anglicans and Episcopalians, we follow the via media (the middle way), which holds that the “Real Presence” of Christ is in the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist, but the consecrated elements on the altar do not cease to be bread and wine. Whether one is a snake-belly low Episcopalian or an Anglo-Catholic, we all believe that Christ dwells mystically in the elements. The mysterious power of Holy Spirit makes this possible just as it did with Mary at her annunciation.

I’ve been brooding over today’s gospel for weeks. John’s sixth chapter is obviously an important one because the lectionary has been dwelling on it for five weeks. Keep in mind that in John, miracles such as the Feeding of the 5000 aren’t just “special effects”; they are part of the revelation that Jesus really is God, and that the consumption of Jesus in heart, mind and mouth translates into an encounter with God. Jesus is the new manna, giving life to his believers just as God gave it to the Israelites in the wilderness. The difference is that this new manna will never get stale or run out. John’s Eucharistic theology is unabashedly life affirming; the shocking truth will be unveiled soon enough that the “life” he promises comes through death, and only through his death. We make a meal of Jesus in order to receive his gift of eternal life. What’s so incredible and so alarming to us is that this gracious gift of manna becomes truly personal—and, some might say, a tad too carnal.

“My flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. By eating my flesh and drinking my blood you enter into me and I into you. …So the one who makes a meal of me lives because of me. This is the Bread from heaven” (The Message Bible, 6: 55-57). Jesus’ instruction to make a meal of himself is an invitation to the disciples to be at home in him, just as he is at home in God.

Did the Disciples understand it? No! Were they shocked and appalled? Yes! They grumbled that, “This is a hard saying, who can listen to it?” and “many of them chose to walk away after that day (vs. 60 & 66). The verses following our gospel this morning indicate that the people who parted ways with Jesus were not only confused but scandalized by his words.

So, what does this mean for us? When Jesus invites us to partake of his flesh and blood—when he asks us to be at home in him just as he is at home in God—what he means is exactly what he tells Peter during the Last Supper, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me” (vs. John 13:8). This is the scene of Jesus with a towel tied around his waist and a pitcher of water in his hand trying to convince Peter to let him wash his feet.

This act of foot washing, of Jesus kneeling at the feet of his disciples, and taking their flesh into his hands, was at the time equally scandalous and off-putting. Not only was it a role reversal of the servant-master relationship. It was disturbingly intimate, even weird. Do you see the similarities? It’s the same pushing of boundaries—the same invading of space and fleshly inappropriateness. Unless I wash you, you have no share with me. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. This is real, folks! Jesus spoke plainly and meant what he said, just like Flannery O’Connor did when she said, “Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.”

I want you to think of this invitation from Jesus, to eat his flesh and drink his blood, as his way of asking you to be at home in him, just as he is at home in God. This share with him means that you no longer have to elbow your way or scootch to the table in hopes no one notices you, because Jesus has actually prepared a place setting for you. This share with him means that the love Jesus has for you, this mystical union with every person of the Trinity, is a love you feel here (hand on heart) and also here (hand on stomach)—as you do when someone who loves you prepares a beautiful meal for you.

This invitation of a share with Jesus became quite real for me this week when I visited a sick congregation member in the hospital. Carla’s cancer has really done a number on her—she is weak and unsteady. But no matter how disappointing the news has been from her latest scans her faith and her spirit never ceases to amaze me. She abides in peace.

My realization was that Carla is at home in Christ Jesus, just as he is at home in God. And it’s been this way from the beginning of her cancer journey. I went back and read texts from her on my phone, and they sing of a deep well of gratitude for her life, for her partner Jayne, for many of you. She doesn’t despair, because she rests confidently in the hands of a resurrected Christ.

When I went to make this pastoral visit on Tuesday, I brought a communion kit. Unfortunately, between the nurses, the doctors, the physical therapist, and the phone calls, her room was like Grand Central Station. There was no quiet. Both Jayne and Carla are eucharistic visitors who bring communion to the sick and shut-ins, so I decided to leave the consecrated kit in case they had other visitors who might like to share communion with them. Well, on Friday I received a voicemail from Jayne thanking me for leaving the black box. She said, “I have to tell you, having it in Carla’s room and now in the apartment—it’s very beautiful. I know there is evidence of Christ in that box. It’s had a tremendous effect on my own soul too. Thank you.” End quote.

Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.

My friends, whatever your personal theology is about the meaning of the Eucharist, please know that it is an invitation to be intimate with Christ, to have a share with him, to have life. I may sound overly dramatic by saying this but when we eat the bread and drink the wine, when you look into my eyes and into the eyes of the chalice bearer, and we look back at you, this is the conjugal bond of God’s incarnate love.

It’s a love that defies explanation and my verbal acuity. It is, literally, what God feels like. And this morning, when you join the procession to come forward to receive and, for those of you watching on-line partaking in your spiritual communion, think of us and the Christians around the world as a people journeying with one another toward the Lord. No one is left behind.

Please, come and be fed. Amen.

¹ Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being, ed. Sally Fitzgerald (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1979), 125.
² Council of Trent, Sess. XIII, can. II.