We Become What We Receive

In my twenties, I was a member of a Washington, D.C., parish where homeless men and women were regular guests at the Sunday liturgy.

At first, I found this distracting. As a busy working professional, a time-stretched graduate student, and an active parishioner, the Mass was a quiet and sacred refuge: a time to disconnect, to pause from the rush of life, and to find comfort in a familiar ritual. When this refuge was disturbed by a homeless woman re-arranging her belongings and chattering to herself, my first reaction was annoyance: how could I concentrate on what was happening on the altar with all that noise?

Yet, I knew this woman’s name. I had served Rita* warm meals at the parish’s dinner program. I learned some fragments of her story during those times when her mental illness allowed limited conversation.

‍Subjects of His Love

As I reflected on my dual desires to rest in the quiet and to be attentive to Rita’s presence, my eyes wandered to a statue in the Church: Jesus, with one hand on his heart amidst thorns, enflamed with love, and the other hand extended outward.

For whom did Jesus’ heart burn with love? Toward whom was his hand extended?

I knew immediately the subject of his love and his reach: Me. Those gathered to worship. Rita and the other homeless members of our community. All whose dignity is so easily forgotten.

The liturgy continued; Rita continued her “noise.” I understood that Christ, whose sacrificial act of love we celebrate on the altar, is also present in those whom he loves, especially those who suffer. With this realization, Rita’s chatter became a reminder of those towards whom Christ’s heart and hand were extended, and for whom the sacrifice on the altar was made.

The experience transformed my thinking; it also transformed my actions.

‍An Imitation of Christ

“In the celebration of the Mass,” the U.S. bishops write, “we are shown what love truly is, and we receive grace that enables us to imitate the love that Christ shows us” (The Mystery of the Eucharist in the Life of the Church, 34). For St. Augustine: “If we receive the Eucharist worthily, we become what we receive” (Easter Sermon, 227).

With new eyes and a heart more open to love for Rita and her companions, I began to ask: What does it mean to become the Eucharist in a community where some members lack basic necessities? What does love mean in the face of systemic barriers like the virtual non-existence of affordable housing options in D.C. and so many other cities?

‍Works of Mercy

In response to these challenging questions, I joined other parishioners to discern how to better put two feet of love in action both by responding to short-term, immediate needs (charity) and by seeking long-term solutions so that all can thrive (justice).

One winter night, I joined other parishioners to assist a city-wide effort to find, encounter, and record the names and stories of those sleeping on the streets. This act of encounter helped us to better understand the many factors which lead to homelessness (such as mental illness, lack of work or healthcare, disability, addiction, and rising rents). The data gathered would help the city prioritize its assistance to the most vulnerable homeless individuals.

On other occasions, the parish joined a network of faith leaders to raise our voices in support of calls to expand the number of affordable housing units in the city. Not only was such action important to families’ ability to feed their families amidst quickly rising housing costs, but it was also an expression of love rooted in our Eucharistic mission.

‍Reflection Question

This season of Lent, as I reflect on these important experiences, I am asking Jesus in prayer: how am I called—at this moment in time—to imitate Christ’s love, which is present to me in the Eucharist? Towards whom must my own heart and hands be extended? How can I better become what I receive?

‍Prayer

Lord Jesus,

You gave your life for us.

Your Sacred Heart is ablaze with love.

Your hand extends towards me, and towards all,

offering love, mercy, and healing.

Sacred Heart of Jesus,

may your love transform me.

Burn away my hesitation

that I may become your love

and radiate your mercy.

Amen.

Eucharistic Prayer Companion for Ash Wednesday: The Journey Home

This Eucharistic Meditation is designed to help you spend 30 minutes to an hour in meditation and silent prayer with Jesus during Eucharistic adoration. Even if you cannot be physically present in a church or adoration chapel with the Blessed Sacrament, you can unite yourself spiritually to the Eucharist as you spend this time in prayer. Visit the page here.

Print a copy here.

From the video message of Pope Francis for the National Eucharistic Congress of Indian in Mumbia, Nov. 12-15, 2015

But the Eucharist does not end with the partaking of the body and blood of the Lord. It leads us to solidarity with others. The communion with the Lord is necessarily a communion with our fellow brothers and sisters. And therefore the one who is fed and nourished by the very body and blood of Christ cannot remain unaffected when he sees his brothers suffering want and hunger. Those nourished by the Eucharist are called to bring the joy of the Gospel to those who have not received it. Strengthened by the living Bread we are called to bring hope to those who live in darkness and in despair. “In the Eucharist the Lord makes us walk on his road, that of service, of sharing, of giving; and if it is shared, that little we have, that little we are, becomes riches, for the power of God — which is the power of love — comes down into poverty to transform it” (Homily for the Corpus Domini, 2013).

Looking for God in the Storm

It was the early evening of the first day of the new year, 2007, and my son and I had just gotten home from visiting my dad, who was in a respite care unit at a local hospital enduring the final stages of his battle with lung cancer. Additionally, he’d suffered a stroke that morning, limiting his movement and robbing him of his ability to speak clearly.

I felt like one of the disciples in the boat on the stormy sea, being tossed around by the waves, desperately trying to row to the other side with the wind against us. In my mind, I went back to the past year in which we’d rowed our way through the sea of biopsies, scans, doctor appointments, chemo treatments, procedures, holidays, and a few trips to visit extended family. But the wind had picked up speed these past few weeks: the cancer had stopped responding to treatment, blood clots had formed in his lungs, and his doctor told me of the kind of death he would most likely suffer, adding: “I wouldn’t wish this kind of death on my worst enemy.” And now this—a stroke, robbing him of what little ability he had left.

Just a few years earlier, we’d lost Mom to this same disease and I admit to wondering this day—"God, where are you now?”  

I didn’t have to wait long for his answer.

A Prayer Offered with the Eucharist

Shortly after arriving home from the hospital, the phone rang. It was a nurse at the hospital saying that Dad was suffering from chest pains, and that it would be best if we came back to the hospital right away.  

Although Dad was a very faith-filled man who taught us kids to love the Lord and see Jesus in other people, he wasn’t Catholic. It was my dearest desire that Dad experience the grace of the sacraments of the Church before he died. Our priest, Fr. Tim, had asked me several weeks earlier if Dad wanted to join the Catholic faith but when I asked Dad, he was a little hesitant, saying, “I don’t think so right now, thanks.”

I once heard Mother Angelica of EWTN fame speak on how if you’re really praying hard for something, you should bring it with you when you receive the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist. Consequently, for the past several weeks, every time I received the Eucharist—taking the Body of Jesus into my hands—I offered him up to God in exchange for Dad to have the desire to join the Catholic faith.

On the way to the hospital that evening, we called our priest, Fr. Tim. Would he come and give Dad a blessing or pray over him? He agreed, asking once again, “Do you think he’d like to become Catholic?” Heavy-hearted, I replied, “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s changed his mind.”

The doctor met us in the lobby of the hospital and explained how serious Dad’s health was and that he had requested no unnecessary treatment due to his advanced cancer. She seemed to be preparing us for the worst. My husband and my two brothers and I entered Dad’s room. He was in pain but so glad to see us. We gathered around his bed; I held his hand and told him Fr. Tim was coming. In my mind, I imagined Fr. Tim offering Dad the very sacraments that I had been praying for him to receive. But would Dad be open to them?

Jesus Climbs into the Boat

Suddenly, I had this overwhelming urge—a physical sensation welling up in my body—that I had to ask Dad just one more time if he wanted to become Catholic, but I was hesitant. I didn’t want Dad doing it for love of me—I wanted him to do it for himself. And I’d just asked him a few weeks before. Could this sudden, overwhelming urge be God nudging me? Was he working to answer the very prayer I’d brought before him each time I’d received the Eucharist for weeks now? Dare I hope?

I pulled my brothers out of the room and discussed this “feeling” I had and my reluctance to ask Dad. My oldest brother, who wasn’t practicing any religion at the time, said simply, “I’ll go ask him.”  

And that’s when Jesus climbed into the boat with us.

My brother came out of the room a few minutes later saying, “Yep, he does!”

Stunned, I asked, “Are you sure you understood him? He’s had a stroke, you know. He can’t speak well…” to which my brother replied, “I told him to squeeze my hand if he wanted to become Catholic and he squeezed it three times!” Oh, the joy that filled my heart! Jesus was powerfully answering the prayer I’d so hesitantly brought before Him in the Eucharist.  

The priest came, and Dad was received into the Church, confirmed and anointed. He made a Spiritual Communion because his illness prevented him from receiving the Blessed Sacrament. I sat by Dad’s side holding his hand through it all, hardly able to comprehend the holiness of the moment. We prayed the Lord’s Prayer together one last time.

The storm’s winds that had been blowing so fiercely died down, and Dad rested peacefully through the night.

Winds of Doubt Continue to Blow

But, like the disciples, there was a part of me that still doubted. Was Dad resting comfortably because of the grace of the sacraments or the newly-installed morphine pump (the machine that administered the drug that relieved pain and gave the sensation of being able to breathe)?  

Several times that long night, I got out of the recliner and walked over to Dad’s side to adjust the oxygen mask, knowing how hard it was for Dad to breathe without it and wanting to make him as comfortable as possible. During one of my bedside vigils, the nurse came into the room lit only by the glow of a light in the side of the wall and stood next to me, gently and quietly taking Dad’s vital signs. She and I both commented how peacefully he was resting.  

“That morphine must be doing the trick,” I whispered. Startled, she glanced over at me and said,

“He hasn’t used that pump all night.”

What? How was that possible? He was in so much pain and struggling so hard to breathe before the priest came. What had changed?

Peace in God's Perfect Timing

Jesus had shown up. His grace was present in the sacraments that gave Dad the peace he needed. And that’s when I, like the disciples in the boat in the storm-tossed sea, was completely astounded.

Dad passed away a few hours later: calmly, peacefully, and prayerfully.

God had answered my prayer brought before him in the Eucharist at the perfect time and in the perfect way. And I realized: God doesn’t come too early, and he doesn’t come too late. He comes just when we need him the most.

‍

Barb Schmitz is a parishioner at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Brooks, MN.

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What is the Eucharist?

The Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian life. The term “Eucharist” originates from the Greek word eucharistia, meaning thanksgiving.

In the celebration of the Eucharist, bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit and the instrumentality of the priest. The whole Christ is truly present -- body, blood, soul, and divinity -- under the appearances of bread and wine, the glorified Christ who rose from the dead. This is what the Church means when she speaks of the "Real Presence" of Christ in the Eucharist.

Where is the Eucharist mentioned in the Bible?

The Lord Jesus, on the night before he suffered on the cross, shared one last meal with his disciples. During this meal our Savior instituted the sacrament of his Body and Blood. He did this in order to perpetuate the sacrifice of the Cross throughout the ages and to entrust to the Church a memorial of his death and resurrection. The Institution of the Eucharist is written down in the four Gospels below: 

Matthew 26:26-30

Mark 14:22-26

Luke 22:14-20

John 6:22-59 (The Bread of Life Discourse)

Revive with Fr. Agustino Torres