Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
By
Bishop
Robert
Barron
The
fathers
of
the
Second
Vatican
Council
referred
to
the
Eucharist
as
the
source
and
summit
of
the
Christian
life,
that
from
which
authentic
Christianity
flows
and
that
toward
which
it
tends.
It
is
the
alpha
and
the
omega,
the
be-all
and
the
end-all
of
Catholicism.
Therefore,
understanding
the
Eucharist
is
key
to
the
renewal
of
Catholic
catechesis
and
evangelization.
If
we
get
our
Eucharistic
theology
wrong,
the
entire
Christian
project
will
go
off
the
rails.
Many
years
ago,
I
had
the
privilege
of
distributing
Communion
in
St.
Peters
Square
at
Easter
Mass.
As
the
people
surged
toward
me,
they
stretched
out
their
hands
and
pleaded,
Padre,
per
favore,
per
favore.
They
seemed,
for
all
the
world,
as
though
they
were
starving
and
this
is
precisely
the
correct
spiritual
attitude
toward
the
Bread
of
Life.
If
we
dont
take
it
in,
we
will,
in
short
order,
starve
to
death
spiritually.
The
great
English
apologist
Ronald
Knox
made
the
trenchant
observation
that,
though
practically
all
of
Jesus
commands
are
honored,
for
the
most
part,
in
the
breach,
there
is
one
dominical
command
which
has
been
consistently
and
faithfully
observed
up
and
down
the
centuries:
Do
this
in
memory
of
me.
Despite
our
stupidity,
weakness,
corruption,
and
moral
blindness,
Christians
have,
strangely
enough,
followed
this
particular
prescription.
It
is
as
though
the
Lord
knew
that
he
had
to
intervene
to
assure
the
endurance
of
the
Eucharist.
What
I
should
like
to
do
in
the
course
of
this
talk
is
to
examine
this
great
mystery
under
three
classic
rubrics:
meal,
real
presence,
and
sacrifice.
I
will
do
so
by
examining
three
beautiful
passages
from
the
New
Testament,
one
from
Luke,
one
from
John,
and
one
from
Matthew.
My
hope
is
to
clarify
your
minds,
but
above
all
to
awaken
your
hunger.
The
Road
to
Emmaus
One
of
the
most
compelling
Eucharistic
texts
that
we
have
is
the
story
of
the
two
disciples
on
the
road
to
Emmaus.
This
narrative,
found
in
the
twenty-fourth
chapter
of
the
Gospel
of
Luke
is
a
masterpiece
at
so
many
levels:
literary,
dramatic,
psychological,
and
above
all,
spiritual.
It
has
inspired
poets
and
painters
and
spiritual
teachers
up
and
down
the
Christian
centuries,
and
its
central
theme
is
the
Eucharist.
In
point
of
fact,
it
is
a
remarkably
beautiful
iconic
display
of
what
we
do
at
the
Mass.
Therefore,
it
rewards
a
very
careful
reading.
The
story
opens
on
Easter
Sunday,
the
day
of
resurrection,
and
it
focuses
on
two
disciples
of
Jesus
who
are
going
the
wrong
way.
Everything
in
the
Gospel
of
Luke
centers
on
the
holy
city
of
Jerusalem.
The
Gospel
begins
and
ends
in
the
Jerusalem
Temple,
and
the
entire
ministry
of
Jesus
culminates
in
his
journey
to
the
capital.
Even
after
they
have
seen
the
risen
Jesus,
the
apostles
are
told
to
stay
in
Jerusalem
until
they
receive
the
Holy
Spiritand
this
reception
indeed
occurs
in
that
city
on
Pentecost.
Therefore,
as
they
walk
dejectedly
away
from
the
Holy
City,
the
erstwhile
followers
of
Jesus
give
unmistakable
evidence
arent
following
the
Lord
anymore.
We
are
meant
to
identify
with
these
two
people,
for
most
of
us,
who
profess
to
be
disciples
of
Jesus,
end
up
walking
the
wrong
way
as
well,
operating
at
cross
purposes
to
the
one
we
claim
to
be
our
Lord.
It
is
of
supreme
importance
that,
at
the
beginning
of
the
Mass,
just
after
the
sign
of
the
cross
and
the
greeting,
we
are
invited
to
call
to
mind
our
sins.
And
then,
echoing
the
language
of
the
blind
Bartimaeus
from
the
tenth
chapter
of
the
Gospel
of
Mark,
we
say
Kyrie
eleison,
Christe
eleison,
Kyrie
Eleison
(Lord,
have
mercy;
Christ,
have
mercy;
Lord,
have
mercy).
This
move
stands
athwart
all
programs
of
perfectibility
and
any
attitude
of
self-sufficiency
or
self-
complacency.
As
we
enter
into
the
drama
of
the
Mass,
we
realize
that
we
are
broken,
blind,
incapable
of
saving
ourselves,
wandering
in
the
wrong
direction.
Through
a
thousand
different
means
of
communication
today,
we
are
told
that
all
is
well
with
us,
that
we
are
beautiful
in
every
single
way,
that
we
have
the
right
to
invent
ourselves
according
to
our
whims.
A
philosophy
of
self-esteem
indeed
holds
sway
in
our
culture,
but
it
is
repugnant
to
a
salvation
religion
such
as
Christianity.
We
are
then
told,
Jesus
himself
came
up
and
walked
along
with
them,
but
they
were
kept
from
recognizing
him.
It
is
a
curious
feature
of
many
of
the
resurrection
narratives
that
the
disciples
have
a
hard
time
recognizing
the
risen
Lord.
We
recall
that,
in
Matthews
account
of
the
Ascension,
the
followers
of
Jesus
worshipped,
and
nevertheless
doubted.
In
Lukes
description
of
the
first
appearance
to
the
disciples
in
the
Upper
Room,
we
are
told
that
they
thought
they
were
seeing
a
ghost,
and
in
Johns
narrative
of
the
post-resurrection
breakfast
by
the
Sea
of
Galilee,
the
Beloved
Disciples
has
to
reassure
his
somewhat
puzzled
colleagues
It
is
the
Lord!
Some
of
this
confusion
was
certainly
a
function
of
the
sheer
novelty
of
the
experience:
they
literally
could
not
believe
what
they
were
seeing.
But
to
a
degree,
it
was
also
a
function
of
their
moral
and
spiritual
incapacity
to
take
in
the
truth
of
the
resurrection.
The
fallen
mind
contributes
to
the
fallenness
of
the
will
to
be
sure,
but
the
causal
influence
runs
in
the
opposite
direction
as
well,
the
twisted
will
conducing
toward
the
warping
of
the
mind.
In
short,
those
who
walk
the
wrong
way
dont
see
aright,
and
not
seeing
aright,
they
tend
to
speak
incorrectly.
Therefore,
moving
away
from
Jerusalem,
the
two
disciples
cannot
recognize
the
crucified
and
risen
oneand
their
speech
about
him
is
muddled
and
incoherent.
Jesus
gently
asks
them
what
they
are
talking
about,
and
they
respond,
Are
you
the
only
one
visiting
Jerusalem
who
does
not
know
the
things
that
have
happened
there
in
these
days
(Lk.
24:18)?
With
delicious
irony,
the
Lord
asks,
What
things
(Lk.
24:19)?
They
then
proceed
to
lay
out,
with
admirable
precision,
the
salient
facts
of
Jesus
life
and
career:
He
was
a
prophet,
powerful
in
word
and
deed
before
God
and
all
the
people.
The
chief
priests
and
our
rulers
handed
him
over
to
be
sentenced
to
death,
and
they
crucified
him;
And
what
is
more,
it
is
the
third
day
since
all
this
took
placesome
of
our
women
amazed
us.
They
went
to
the
tomb
early
this
morning
but
didnt
find
his
body.
They
came
and
told
us
that
they
had
seen
a
vision
of
angels,
who
said
he
was
alive
(Lk.
24:19-23).
They
had
the
data
correct,
including
the
insinuation
of
resurrection,
yet
they
were
walking
dejectedly
away
from
Jerusalem.
This
was
because
they
lacked
the
unifying
pattern
that
could
gather
the
hard
facts
into
a
meaningful
whole.
The
philosopher
Ludwig
Wittgenstein
commented
that
one
of
the
most
puzzling
problems
in
philosophy
is
how
to
see
something
as
something.
One
might
see
every
element
of
a
clever
cartoonall
of
the
characters,
all
of
the
attendant
objects,
the
caption,
etc.but
might
nevertheless
not
get
the
joke.
For
getting
a
cartoon
is
not
a
function
of
seeing
any
new
element;
it
is
instead
a
function
of
grasping
a
form,
having
an
insight,
seeing
it
as
something.
We
indicate
this
process
through
the
symbol
of
a
light-bulb
going
on,
and
this
is
apt,
for
light
is
not
so
much
another
element
in
a
composition,
but
rather
the
condition
for
the
possibility
of
truly
seeing
the
composition
as
a
whole.
The
one
who
referred
to
himself
as
the
light
of
the
world
then
speaks:
How
foolish
you
are,
and
slow
to
believe
all
that
the
prophets
have
spoken!
Did
not
the
Messiah
have
to
suffer
these
things
and
so
enter
his
glory
(Lk.
24:25)?
Then
taking
them
through
the
whole
of
the
Jewish
scripturesMoses
and
all
the
prophetshe
revealed
the
pattern
of
redemptive
suffering,
which
renders
coherent
the
Bible
as
such
and
which
makes
sense
of
his
own
Messianic
career.
The
Mass
commences
with
an
acknowledgement
that
we
are
lost
and
in
need
of
a
savior;
it
continues
with
the
liturgy
of
the
word,
Christs
own
explication
of
the
Scriptures.
Vatican
II
reminds
us
that
when
the
Bible
is
proclaimed
and
the
homily
is
delivered,
it
is
indeed
Christ
who
is
speaking
to
us
and
disclosing
the
great
pattern.
As
they
approach
Emmaus,
Jesus
gives
an
indication
that
he
would
go
on
further,
but
they
press
him
to
stay.
This
is
the
strangely
compelling
power
of
Jesus.
Inauthentic
and
superficial
versions
of
Jesus
come
and
go,
but
when
the
real
Christ
is
on
display,
people
will
crowd
around
him
as
surely
as
they
hemmed
him
in
during
his
earthly
ministry.
Stay
with
us,
say
the
disciples
of
Emmaus,
and
men
and
women
today
echo
these
same
words,
once
they
get
even
a
glimpse
of
Jesus.
At
table
with
the
two
disciples,
Jesus
takes
bread,
gives
thanks,
and
offers
it
to
them,
repeating
precisely
the
words
and
rhythms
of
the
Last
Supper,
and
in
that
moment,
they
recognize
him,
at
which
point
he
disappears
from
their
sight.
Though
they
had
undoubtedly
begun
to
see
in
the
course
of
Christs
own
Scriptural
exegesis,
they
truly
and
completely
saw
in
the
great
Eucharistic
act
of
blessing
and
breaking
bread.
This
of
course
corresponds
to
the
liturgy
of
the
Eucharist,
the
climactic
moment
of
the
Mass
during
which
Jesus
becomes
really,
truly,
and
substantially
present
to
his
people
under
the
appearances
of
bread
and
wine.
I
will
return
to
this
theme
of
the
real
presence
in
detail
later
in
this
presentation,
but
suffice
it
to
say
for
now
that
the
Eucharist
is
the
revelation
of
the
form
par
excellence.
There
is
no
more
complete
way
to
know
Jesus
in
this
life
than
in
and
through
the
Eucharist,
which
is
precisely
why
Vatican
II
referred
to
the
this
sacrament
as
the
source
and
summit
of
the
Christian
life
and
why
St.
Thomas
Aquinas
said
that,
while
in
the
other
sacraments,
the
virtus
Christi
(the
power
of
Christ)
is
present,
in
the
Eucharist
ipse
Christus
(Christ
himself)
is
on
offer.
This
is
why
the
goal
of
all
evangelization
is
ultimately
to
bring
people
to
the
Eucharist.
Showing
the
beauty
of
Catholicism
is
indispensable,
but
it
is
not
enough;
awakening
interest
in
the
faith
is
required,
but
it
is
not
enough;
exciting
active
seeking
on
the
part
of
a
prospective
believer
is
essential,
but
it
is
not
enough;
firing
the
hearts
of
people
with
inspiring
preaching
is
wonderful,
but
it
is
not
enough.
Evangelization
reaches
its
fulfillment
only
at
the
Eucharist,
when
a
believer
is
brought
to
a
full
encounter
with
ipse
Christus.
What
sense
can
we
make
of
the
fact
that
Jesus,
upon
being
recognized,
immediately
disappears?
Von
Balthasars
comment
is
illuminating:
He
disappears
into
the
mission
of
the
Church.
The
risen
Jesus
has
taken
to
himself
a
new
body,
which
the
Church
refers
to
as
his
mystical
body.
This
is
none
other
than
the
Church
spread
across
space
and
time,
which
functions
as
his
eyes,
ears,
hands,
mouth,
and
heart.
The
Jesus
who
was
physically
present
walking
the
roads
of
Galilee,
healing
the
sick,
preaching
the
Kingdom,
mounting
the
cross,
and
rising
from
the
dead
has
gone
to
the
Father,
but
he
still
walks
among
us
and
heals
and
preaches
and
suffers
and
rises
precisely
in
and
through
his
mystical
body.
Into
this
body,
he
has,
as
it
were,
disappeared.
And
we
see
what
this
looks
like:
They
got
up
at
once
and
returned
to
Jerusalem
(Lk.
24:33).
The
narrative
began
with
the
two
of
them
going
the
wrong
way,
and
it
ends
with
their
definitive
and
enthusiastic
turn
around.
Despite
the
lateness
of
the
hour
and
the
danger
of
the
road
and
the
threat
hanging
over
them
as
disciples
in
Jerusalem,
they
return
in
haste
to
the
Holy
City.
They
make
a
beeline
for
the
Church:
There
they
found
the
Eleven
and
those
with
them
assembled
together
(Lk.
24:33).
Gods
consistent
promise
to
Israel
was
that
he
would
gather
them
together
from
where
they
had
been
scattered.
The
Church
of
Jesus
is
the
new
Israel,
and
shared
mission
is
what
keeps
it
together.
Henri
de
Lubac,
one
of
the
most
influential
theologians
at
Vatican
II,
said
that,
after
the
words
of
consecration,
the
most
sacred
words
of
the
Mass
are
Ite,
missa
est:
Go,
the
Mass
is
ended.
He
meant
that
the
Eucharist
finds
its
fulfillment
in
the
sending
out
on
mission
of
those
who
have
received
the
body
and
blood
of
the
Lord.
Vatican
II
emphatically
taught
that
the
purpose
of
the
Church
is
to
Christify
the
world,
to
bring
the
Lumen
of
Christ
to
the
Gentes
(the
nations).
This
happens
precisely
in
the
measure
that
allow
Christ
to
disappear
into
our
various
missions.
John
6
The
ancient
symbol
for
John
the
Evangelist
is
the
eagle,
so
chosen
because
that
bird
was
believed
to
be
able
to
fly
closest
to
the
sun
with
open
eye.
This
signaled
the
fact
that,
of
all
the
evangelists,
John
saw
the
light
most
clearly,
that
his
mystical
vision
was
keenest.
The
most
penetrating
and
thorough
Biblical
presentation
of
the
Churchs
Eucharistic
faith
is
found
in
the
extraordinary
sixth
chapter
of
Johns
Gospel,
which
commences
with
an
account
of
the
miraculous
feeding
of
the
five
thousand
and
concludes
with
the
inexhaustibly
rich
discourse
of
Jesus
on
the
bread
of
life.
As
is
the
case
with
the
account
of
the
road
to
Emmaus,
there
are
many
links
between
this
Johannine
narrative
and
the
celebration
of
the
Mass.
The
story
begins
with
a
statement
of
Jesus
magnetic
attractiveness:
Jesus
went
across
the
Sea
of
Galilee.
A
large
crowd
followed
him,
because
they
saw
the
signs
he
was
performing
on
the
sick
(Jn.
6:1).
Once
again,
the
authentic
Jesus
is
always
compellingeven
to
people
in
our
increasingly
secularized
world.
The
conviction
of
the
Church
is
that
everyone
is
seeking
Jesus
at
least
implicitly,
since
he
is
the
very
Logos
of
God
and
hence
the
fulfillment
of
the
deepest
longing
of
the
human
heart.
We
are
told
that
Jesus
went
up
on
a
mountain
and
there
sat
down
with
his
disciples.
On
the
Biblical
reading,
mountains
are
places
of
encounter
between
God
and
human
beings,
where
God,
as
it
were,
comes
down
and
men
and
women
go
up.
Sinai,
Moriah,
Tabor,
Isaiahs
Holy
Mountain,
Mt.
Zion,
etc.
are
all
sacred
trysting
places.
The
Mass
is
the
privileged
place
of
encounter
and
hence
it
is
the
mountain
par
excellence.
The
posture
that
Jesus
assumes
on
the
mountain
is
not
insignificant.
In
the
ancient
world,
a
teacher
sat,
and
his
disciples
arranged
themselves
at
the
feet
of
the
master.
Therefore
seated
on
the
mountain,
the
Lord
is
in
the
attitude
of
the
teacher,
and
thus
we
are
meant
to
understand
that
an
instruction
of
some
weightiness
is
about
to
unfold.
Here
another
link
to
the
Mass
is
evident.
The
first
major
section
of
that
great
prayer
is
called
the
liturgy
of
the
Word,
and
Jesus
himself,
as
we
saw,
is
seen
as
the
speaker
and
interpreter
of
that
Word.
Looking
up
from
his
seated
position,
Jesus
sees
the
enormous
multitude
that
had
been
drawn
to
him,
and
he
muses
aloud,
Where
can
we
buy
enough
food
for
them
to
eat
(Jn.
6:5)?
We
come
to
learn
thereby
that
Jesus
is
interested
not
only
in
instructing
the
crowds
but
feeding
them
as
well.
Copying
this
rhythm
from
teaching
to
feeding,
the
Mass
moves
from
the
Liturgy
of
the
Word
to
the
Liturgy
of
the
Eucharist.
The
disciples
bring
forth
a
poor
pittancefive
barley
loaves
and
two
fishand
make
the
commonsensical
observation
that
this
is
woefully
inadequate
for
so
many.
But
Jesus
presses
forward,
making
the
customary
Eucharistic
moves
in
regard
to
the
bread:
taking,
giving
thanks,
and
distributing.
And
everyone
is
fed.
There
is
a
theological
principle
in
play
here
that
is
of
crucial
significance,
namely,
that
God
has
no
need
vis--vis
the
world
that
he
has
made.
The
Creator
of
the
universe
is
rightly
described
as
self-
sufficient,
utterly
perfect
and
happy
in
himself.
Precisely
because
he
stands
to
gain
nothing
from
the
world,
whatever
is
given
to
him
breaks
against
the
rock
of
the
divine
self-sufficiency
and
redounds
to
the
benefit
of
the
giver.
From
this
principle
follows
as
a
corollary
what
St.
John
Paul
II
called
the
law
of
the
gift,
namely,
that
ones
being
increases
in
the
measure
that
one
gives
oneself
away.
During
the
Berakah
prayer
at
the
sacred
liturgy,
the
priest,
on
behalf
of
the
people,
offers
to
God
the
small
pittance
that
had
been
brought
forward:
some
wafers
of
bread
and
some
wine
and
water.
But
precisely
because
God
has
no
need
of
these
gifts,
they
come
back
infinitely
multiplied
for
the
benefit
of
those
who
made
the
offering.
Through
the
power
of
Christs
word,
those
gifts
become
his
very
body
and
blood,
the
only
food
capable
of
feeding
the
deepest
hunger
of
the
human
heart.
This
liturgical
rhythm
is
beautifully
conveyed
by
the
laconic
lines,
Jesus
took
the
bread,
gave
thanks
to
God,
and
distributed
it
to
the
people
who
were
sitting
there.
He
did
the
same
with
the
fish,
and
they
all
had
as
much
as
they
wanted
(Jn.
6:11).
When
the
sacred
banquet
is
finished,
we
are
told,
they
gathered
up
twelve
baskets
of
fragments
that
had
been
left
over.
No
number
in
the
Gospel
of
John
is
ever
without
significance,
and
this
one
indicates
the
twelve
tribes
of
Israel,
implying
that
the
entire
nation
is
meant
to
be
fed
in
this
way,
and
by
extension,
the
whole
of
the
new
Israel
which
is
the
Church.
This
scene
is
also
meant
to
remind
us
of
the
Eucharistic
liturgy,
at
the
close
of
which
the
fragments
of
the
consecrated
bread
and
remainder
of
the
consecrated
wine
are
carefully
gathered
up
and
preserved
for
the
upbuiding
of
the
community.
We
are
told
that,
immediately
following
this
miracle,
the
people
wanted
to
make
Jesus
king.
But
the
Lord,
sensing
the
inadequacy
of
their
conception
of
kingliness,
crossed
over
to
the
other
side
of
the
Sea
of
Galilee.
Tracking
him
down
in
the
synagogue
at
Capernaum,
the
people
press
in
upon
him
and
commence
to
interrogate
him.
He
tells
them,
in
no
uncertain
terms,
that
they
should
not
be
questing
after
earthly
bread
but
rather
the
food
that
lasts
for
eternal
life
(Jn.
6:27).
This
is,
of
course,
a
delicious
echo
of
Jesus
words
to
the
Samaritan
Woman
at
the
Well,
to
whom
he
promises
water
bubbling
up
in
you
to
eternal
life.
When
they
press
him
to
specify
what
he
means,
he
clarifies:
I
am
the
bread
of
life;
those
who
come
to
me
will
never
be
hungry;
those
who
believe
in
me
will
never
be
thirsty
(Jn.6:35).
And
then
he
becomes
even
more
explicit:
I
am
the
living
bread
come
down
from
heaven.
If
you
eat
this
bread,
you
will
live
forever.
The
bread
that
I
will
give
you
is
my
flesh
for
the
life
of
the
world
(Jn.
6:51).
At
this
point,
the
crowd
balks
and
protests,
and
understandably
so:
How
can
this
man
give
us
his
flesh
to
eat?
(Jn.
6:52).
I
characterize
their
reaction
as
understandable,
given
the
assumptions
that
any
pious
first-century
Jew
would
have
had
concerning
the
consuming
of
flesh
and
blood.
Several
times
throughout
the
Old
Testament,
the
eating
of
an
animals
flesh
with
blood
still
in
it
was
explicitly
forbidden,
for
blood
was
appreciated
as
the
life
force
and
hence
as
belonging
uniquely
to
God.
Therefore,
it
would
have
been
all
the
more
disgusting
and
theologically
objectionable
to
suggest
that
human
flesh
and
blood
should
be
offered
for
consumption.
Given
every
opportunity,
therefore,
to
soften
his
words
or
to
give
them
a
more
the
dead
man
came
out.
Little
girl
get
up!
And
she
got
up.
Pick
up
your
mat
and
walk,
and
the
man
picked
up
his
mat
and
went
home.
Jesus
is
not
one
more
speaker
of
the
divine
word;
he
is
the
divine
word
and
thus
what
he
says,
is.
On
the
night
before
he
died,
Jesus
sat
at
table
with
his
disciples.
In
the
course
of
that
meal,
he
took
bread,
broke
it,
and
said
over
it,
This
is
my
body,
which
will
be
given
up
for
you.
Toward
the
end
of
the
supper,
he
took
a
cup
of
wine
and
pronounced
over
it
the
words,
This
is
the
cup
of
my
blood,
the
blood
of
the
new
and
everlasting
covenant.
If
he
were
merely
a
human
being,
his
words
would
appropriately
be
taken
to
have
a
symbolic
value,
but
since
he
is
God
from
God,
light
from
light,
true
God
from
true
God,
his
words
do
not
merely
describe
or
assign
meaning;
they
create;
they
make
something
new.
To
put
this
in
classical
terms
of
the
Churchs
theology,
Jesus
words
affect
a
transsubstantion
of
the
bread
and
wine
into
his
body
and
blood.
This
technical
term
designates
a
change
of
reality
at
the
deepest
ontological
level,
even
as
the
appearances
of
bread
and
wine
remain
unchanged.
Although
this
might
strike
us
as
a
bit
of
philosophical
sleight
of
hand,
we
must
remember
that
philosophies
both
ancient
and
modern
reverence
the
distinction
between
appearance
and
reality
and
affirm
that
the
two
sometimes
diverge
in
dramatic
ways.
When
we
gaze
up
into
the
night
sky
and
spy
the
most
distant
stars,
we
are,
in
point
of
fact,
looking,
not
at
the
way
things
are,
but
rather
as
they
were,
for
the
light
from
those
stars
takes
enormous
amounts
of
time
to
reach
our
eyes.
Or
to
use
a
more
mundane
comparison,
often
a
first
impression
of
a
person
is
at
wide
variance
from
the
substance
of
that
person,
who
he
really
is.
The
Churchs
conviction
is
that,
precisely
because
of
the
transformative
value
of
Jesus
words,
the
appearance
of
the
Eucharistic
elements
is
not
indicative
of
their
deepest
reality.
Matthew
26
If
the
Emmaus
story
speaks
to
us
of
the
meal
aspect
of
the
Eucharist
and
the
sixth
chapter
of
John
of
the
real
presence
of
Christ
in
the
Eucharist,
then
Matthew
26
tells
of
the
dimension
of
the
Eucharist
most
overlooked
today,
namely,
the
sacrificial.
Though
sacrifice
is
a
concept
strange
to
many
in
the
contemporary
West,
it
was
taken
for
granted
by
ancient
peoples.
Indeed,
anthropologists
have
suggested
that
if
a
modern
person
were
transported
by
time
machine
to
the
first
century,
what
would
strike
him
most
would
be
the
prevalence
of
religious
sacrifice.
The
logic
of
sacrifice
is
actually
rather
straightforward.
One
takes
an
aspect
of
Gods
good
creation
and
returns
it
to
the
Creator
as
a
sign
of
gratitude
or
an
expression
of
communion
or
as
a
reparation.
At
least
in
the
Biblical
context,
the
sacrificer
does
not
labor
under
the
assumption
that
God
needs
this
sacrifice
in
any
way.
Indeed,
how
could
the
Creator
of
everything
in
the
world
possibly
stand
in
need
of
any
feature
of
the
world?
But
the
sacrifice
benefits
the
one
who
makes
it,
establishing
the
right
relation
between
him
and
his
Creator.
For
the
Jewish
sages
of
the
intertestamental
period,
Adam
before
the
Fall
was
construed
as
the
first
priest,
for
he
stood
in
the
attitude
of
adoratio
before
God,
literally,
mouth
to
mouth
with
him,
all
of
his
energies
and
purposes
aligned
to
Gods
energies
and
purposes.
Once
we
understand
this,
we
see
that
sin
is
rightly
conceived
as
bad
worship,
the
placing
of
something
or
someone
less
than
God
in
the
place
of
God.
Read
through
chapters
three
through
eleven
of
the
book
of
Genesis
to
see
what
happens
as
a
result
of
this
faulty
praise:
violence,
jealousy,
murder,
imperialism,
etc.,
all
of
the
permutations
and
combinations
of
human
dysfunction.
What
was
the
Creators
manner
of
dealing
with
this
problem?
He
called
Abraham
and
through
him
formed
a
people
after
his
own
heart,
a
priestly
people,
who
knew,
above
all,
how
to
give
him
right
praise.
The
wager
of
the
Lord,
as
the
prophets
and
patriarchs
of
Israel
knew,
was
that
the
orthodoxy
(lit.
right
praise)
of
Israel
would
attract
the
other
nations
of
the
world,
so
that
all
the
peoples
would
eventually
be
gathered
unto
God:
Mt
Zion,
true
pole
of
the
earth,
there
all
the
tribes
go
up,
the
tribes
of
the
Lord.
We
notice
that
all
of
the
great
covenants
of
Israel,
those
of
Noah,
Abraham,
Moses,
and
David,
are
all
accompanied
by
sacrifice,
the
slaughter
of
an
animal
and
an
offering
unto
God.
Why
the
necessity
of
blood?
As
Matthew
Levering
has
put
it,
in
a
world
gone
wrong,
there
is
no
communion
without
sacrifice.
In
a
perfect
world,
in
the
Garden
of
Eden
before
the
Fall,
there
would
be
no
need
of
bloody
or
painful
sacrifice,
since
adoration
would
be
effortless.
But
once
we
have
been
bent
out
of
shape
through
bad
praise,
orthodoxy
will
cost.
Cultural
anthropologists
tell
us
that
the
attitude
of
the
ancient
Israelite
presenting
a
blood
sacrifice
would
be
along
these
lines:
what
is
happening
to
this
animal
by
rights
should
be
happening
to
me.
Nowhere
was
sacrifice
on
clearer
display
in
ancient
Israel
than
in
the
great
Temple
of
Jerusalem,
constructed
by
Davids
son
Solomon.
To
this
place
came,
for
nearly
a
thousand
years,
pious
Jews
seeking
reconciliation
with
God.
It
is
absolutely
no
accident
that
Solomons
temple
was
adorned,
inside
and
out,
with
depictions
of
trees,
plants,
animals,
even
the
planets
and
stars,
for
it
was
meant
to
represent
the
recovery
of
the
Garden
of
Eden,
the
knitting
back
together
of
a
disintegrated
creation.
Now
despite
a
millennium
of
sacrifice,
it
remained
clear
that
Israel
was
a
spiritually
imperfect
people.
Listen
as
the
prophets
regularly
rail
against
the
corruption
of
the
Temple
and
the
infidelity
of
the
covenant
people.
And
therefore,
Israel
began
to
dream
of
a
perfect
act
of
sacrifice
that
would
finally
and
completely
bring
divinity
and
humanity
together.
For
evidence
of
this,
look
at
chapters
51-53
of
the
book
of
the
prophet
Isaiah,
those
mysterious
passages
dealing
with
a
suffering
servant
who
by
his
stripes
would
heal
the
nation.
And
for
the
result
of
this
sacrificial
suffering,
turn
to
the
thirty-first
chapter
of
the
book
of
the
prophet
Jeremiah:
Behold
the
days
are
coming,
says
the
Lord,
when
I
will
make
a
new
covenant
with
the
house
of
Israel
and
with
the
house
of
Jacob.
It
will
not
be
like
the
covenant
I
made
with
their
fathers
This
is
the
covenant
I
will
make
with
the
people
of
Israel
after
that
time,
says
the
Lord.
I
will
put
my
law
in
their
minds
and
write
it
on
their
hearts.
I
will
be
their
God,
and
they
will
be
my
people
(Jer.
31:3133).
The
intimacy
between
Adam
and
God,
lost
through
sin,
would
be
re-established
through
a
bloody
sacrifice,
a
necessarily
painful
realignment.
It
is
only
against
this
textured
background
that
we
will
begin
to
understand
the
priestly
and
sacrificial
reading
of
Jesus
given
consistently
by
the
Gospels.
In
all
four
Gospels,
we
are
compelled
to
see
Jesus
through
the
lens
of
John
the
Baptist,
whose
parents
both
had
a
priestly
lineage
and
whose
ministry
was
essentially
priestly
in
form.
In
the
desert,
John
was
launching
an
alternative
Temple
movement,
offering
the
forgiveness
of
sins
usually
sought
in
the
Temple
and
providing
a
sort
of
Mikvah
bath
of
preparation
for
those
willing
to
enter
into
communion
with
the
Lord.
When
this
desert
priest
spied
Jesus
coming
for
baptism
he
exclaimed,
Behold,
the
Lamb
of
God!
To
first
century
Jewish
ears
this
description
would
have
been
unmistakably
clear:
here
is
the
one
who
has
come
to
be
sacrificed.
In
line
with
this
hermeneutic,
Jesus,
again
and
again,
presented
himself
under
a
priestly
rubric.
One
typically
came
to
the
Temple
and
its
priests
to
have
ones
sins
forgiven,
to
be
instructed
in
the
law,
and
to
be
healed.
Jesus
ministry
was,
from
beginning
to
end,
one
of
forgiveness,
teaching,
and
healing,
and
this
is
precisely
why
he
could
say,
in
reference
to
himself,
you
have
a
greater
than
the
Temple
here.
It
is
also
why,
at
the
climax
of
his
life,
he
could
enter
the
holy
Temple,
the
place
where
God
himself
was
believed
to
dwell,
and
could
say,
I
will
tear
down
this
place
and
in
three
days
rebuild
it,
referring
thereby
to
his
own
body.
He
was
implying
that
he
himself
would
be
the
suffering
servant,
that
he
himself
would
be
the
place
where,
through
bloody
sacrifice,
divinity
and
humanity
would
be
brought
together.
With
all
of
this
context
in
mind,
let
us
turn
to
the
great
text
in
the
twenty-sixth
chapter
of
Matthew,
which
describes
the
institution
of
the
Eucharist.
In
this
passage,
we
certainly
see
the
themes
of
meal
and
real
presence,
but
we
also
see,
with
unmistakable
clarity,
the
motif
of
sacrifice.
We
are
told
that
Jesus
asks
his
disciples
to
go
into
Jerusalem
and
prepare
a
Passover
supper.
At
the
heart
of
the
Passover
meal,
of
course,
was
the
eating
of
a
lamb,
which
had
been
sacrificed,
in
remembrance
of
the
lambs
of
the
original
Passover
whose
blood
had
been
smeared
on
the
doorposts
of
the
Israelites
in
Egypt.
Making
his
Last
Supper
a
Passover
meal,
Jesus
was
signaling
the
fulfillment
of
John
the
Baptists
prophecy
that
he,
Jesus,
would
be
the
definitive
Lamb
of
God.
After
blessing
and
breaking
the
unleavened
bread
of
the
Passover
meal,
Jesus
pronounced
these
words:
Take
and
eat;
this
is
my
body.
And
then
taking
the
third
cup,
toward
the
end
of
the
supper,
he
said,
Drink
from
it,
all
of
you,
for
this
is
my
blood
of
the
covenant,
which
will
be
shed
on
behalf
of
many
for
the
forgiveness
of
sins.
The
language
of
body
and
blood
offered
on
behalf
of
others
has,
of
course,
an
obvious
sacrificial
overtone.
But
this
emphasis
becomes
even
clearer
when
we
meditate
on
the
image
of
the
disciples
drinking
the
blood
of
Jesus
from
a
cup.
When
someone
came
to
the
Temple
to
offer
sacrifice,
he
would
cut
the
throat
of
the
animal,
and
a
priest
would
catch
the
victims
blood
in
a
cup
before
carrying
it
in
for
the
holocaust.
Who
could
miss
the
implication
that
Jesus
is
referring
to
his
own
shed
blood
and
that
he
is,
effectively,
commissioning
his
disciples
as
priests
of
this
new
ritual.
And
we
must
not
overlook
the
explicit
reference
that
Jesus
makes
to
Jeremiah
31:31,
speaking
of
the
new
covenant
for
the
forgiveness
of
sins.
All
of
the
covenants
and
their
accompanying
sacrifices
will
be
drawn
together
and
recapitulated
in
the
final
covenantal
sacrifice
of
Jesus.
The
great
actions
of
the
cleansing
of
the
Temple
and
the
Last
Supper
were
intended
to
provide
the
interpretive
key
to
what
Jesus
would
do
on
the
last
day
of
his
earthly
life.
Indeed,
without
the
symbolic
matrix
of
those
two
events,
the
death
of
Jesus
would
be
no
more
than
a
Roman
crucifixion.
But
once
we
understand
that
he
himself
is
the
Temple,
we
can
see
that
his
body
is
both
the
sacrificed
lamb
and
the
scapegoat
upon
whom
the
sins
of
the
entire
nation
have
been
placed.
And
we
can
see
that
his
blood
is
blood
that
the
high
priest
would
sprinkle
around
the
Holy
of
Holies
and
on
the
people
on
the
Day
of
Atonement.
We
can
appreciate
that
the
crucifixion
of
Jesus
is
the
sacrificial
act
by
which
a
sinful
humanity
is
painfully
brought
back
on
line
with
the
purposes
of
God:
by
his
stripes
you
are
healed.
Just
after
Jesus
died,
a
Roman
soldier
pierced
his
side
with
a
spear
and
out
flowed
blood
and
water.
The
Church
fathers
read
this
as
a
symbolic
indication
of
the
water
of
baptism
and
the
blood
of
the
Eucharist,
but
there
is
another
dimension
to
the
symbolism
that
no
first
century
Jew
would
have
missed.
In
the
typical
prophetic
manner,
Ezekiel
had
criticized
the
corruption
of
the
Temple.
Indeed,
he
envisioned
the
glory
of
the
Lord
leaving
the
holy
place
and
relocating
itself
to
the
East.
But
then
he
prophesied
that
one
day
the
glory
of
Yahweh
would
return
to
his
Temple
and
on
that
day
water
would
stream
from
the
side
of
the
building
for
the
renewal
of
creation.
The
water
surging
from
the
side
of
the
dead
Christ
is
the
fulfillment
of
Ezekiels
prophecy:
the
perfect
sacrifice
has
been
made;
the
Temple
has
been
restored;
renewing
waters
accordingly
come
forth.
In
the
pre-conciliar
period,
Catholics
were
accustomed
to
referring
to
the
Eucharistic
liturgy
as
the
sacrifice
of
the
Mass.
Though
it
is
certainly
good
that
we
have
an
enhanced
and
more
textured
understanding
of
the
Mass
as
meal
and
communion,
it
is
regrettable
that
we
are
less
attuned
than
our
forebears
in
the
faith
to
the
sacrificial
element.
For
every
Mass
is
a
representation
of
the
sacrifice
of
Jesusnot
for
the
sake
of
God,
who
has
no
need
of
itbut
for
our
sake.
We
participate
in
the
act
by
which
divinity
and
humanity
are
reconciled,
and
we
eat
the
sacrificed
body
and
drink
the
poured-out
blood
of
the
Lamb
of
God.
***
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