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Contents © 1999
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

The Thought Of Eating God

by Broderick Barker

My brother is something of a theologian; doubtless, he can anticipate some objections to this line of argument. But there is something powerful -- something essential -- in it, and also something extremely attractive to me. Rather than stumbling over the idea of the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity appearing under the aspect of the host, I relish the thought of eating God, achieving the most perfect union with Him I can while in this life. "He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him."

Attending Mass has always been my most fruitful spiritual exercise. There may be in this some vestige of a childish attitude that religion should occur at the proper time and place, instead of informing one's whole life, but there is more to it than that. The Mass is where I get the Eucharist.

Part of the attraction, that fruitfulness, no doubt, comes from my earthy temperament -- I often find myself mired in the concrete, immediate particular. Until I achieve a more intimate relationship with Christ, this can make prayer difficult. Mostly, I still experience prayer as missives to a far-off God who hears my prayers after they float up to heaven instead of receiving them into His dwelling place within me. But at Mass, bolstered by the anticipation or the memory of communion, I do better. I am better disposed to turn my attention from the sensible world toward the spiritual, since the spiritual has become physical. God is physically within me, and that makes it easier to talk to Him.

I feel more familiar with Him as I kneel and recite the Altar Prayer, which my mother taught me before my first communion, years ago: "Lord, I Adore you for... I Love you for... I Thank you for... I Ask you for... I Resolve to...."

Even at Mass, however, my attention slips, and I am drawn to churches that show some sensitivity to this tendency. I dread the blank walls and barren demeanor of some modern churches, churches that hesitate to show me a beautiful holy face or statue. When my eye wanders, I want it to find tangible reminders of my magnificent God and His saints, something to latch on to. I think these reminders are sympathetic the way the Eucharist is sympathetic -- they acknowledge the power and immediacy of the incarnate.

Last night, I read the chapter in C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters, where Screwtape scolds Wormwood by saying, "Surely you know that if a man can't be cured of churchgoing, the next best thing is to send him all over the neighborhood looking for a church that 'suits' him until he becomes a taster or connoisseur of churches." He points to the diabolical delight in faction and a critical spirit in place of a docile one. Lewis makes an excellent point here, and I was unsettled by it. But I do not think it wholly wrong to attend this or that church in part for its physical appeal. That appeal is part of the reason I attend Our Lady of the Sacred Heart in City Heights.

I have a two-year-old son. When does he pay attention at Mass? When Father Rich, the pastor, intones certain of the prayers, his raspy voice taking on resonance and power. When Father Rich or the acolyte waves the thurible over the altar, the pulpit, or the congregation, sending sweet clouds of smoke towards heaven. When he hears the bells at consecration rung long and strong. (For months, I have been pointing toward the Host at the elevation and whispering to him, "Look! There's Jesus!" Now, he points himself, whispering, "What's that?" "Jesus," I reply. "Jesus," he repeats, his voice sweet with wonder -- Jesus after all, he knows from pictures.) The Mass is full of signs meant to draw us into the mystery, and Fin responds to those signs.

After Mass, my wife, my son, and I walk over to the side altar, where Joseph stands next to Mary, and Mary cradles the baby Jesus. We say a prayer to St. Joseph, "placing all our earthly cares before him," and then I hold my son up to touch the infant Christ. "Baby Jesus," he smiles. "Daddy Joseph. Mommy Mary." Children are perhaps more affected by the sensible world than adults, but adults are not free from sense, nor should they be. We are men, not angels.

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