Fishers of Men

Pray for vocations.

If Jesus Knew, Then Why? A Question on the Real Presence in the Eucharist

Here's a question I've been wondering about.  But before I ask it, let's lay out some Scriptural facts.

FACT 1:  Jesus knew the thoughts and hearts of the people He interacted with while He was on earth.  (Mark 2:6-9; Luke 9:47; Luke 24:38; Matthew 9:4, Matthew 12:25, Luke 6:8, Luke 11:7) 

FACT 2:  Jesus knew the future while He was on earth.  (John 13:11, Matthew 17:27, Matthew 26:34, Luke 22:10-12, John 6:64, Mark 13:1-2)

FACT 3:  Jesus spoke the words given to Him by God the Father.  (John 14:10, John 14:24, John 14:31)

FACT 4:  God the Father knows the future.  (Isaiah 46:9-12, Psalm 139:1-6, Hebrews 4:12-13, Isaiah 42:9)

OK, with these facts established, let's get to the question:  IF Jesus knew the hearts and thoughts of His hearers and IF Jesus knew the future and IF Jesus only spoke the words given Him by the Father, then why would Jesus allow all of Christianity to misunderstand His teaching regarding the Eucharist for over 1500 years?

When we look at early historical documents, it is clear that the early Church all the way up until the Reformation believed that Christ was really teaching in John 6 that Christians needed to eat His body and drink His blood in the Eucharist.  

So that brings us back to the question:  IF Jesus knew how the Church would interpret His teachings, why did He let them interpret these teachings so incorrectly for so many years? 

As far as I can see, there are only a few possible answers to this question:

ANSWER 1:  The early Church DID NOT misinterpret the teachings, but instead held to a view on communion and the Eucharist much like the views held by modern-day non-Catholics.  Therefore, Jesus taught and the Church interpreted as God intended.  The current Catholic view was later adopted by the "Romanized" Catholic Church.

The first potential answer is the "Catholics changed the teaching of the Church later" answer.  Unfortunately, this answer doesn't truly deal with the historical record.  Even a cursory glance into Church history will reveal that the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist was a standard belief of the Church from the very beginning. 

"Consider how contrary to the mind of God are the heterodox in regard to the grace of God which has come to us. They have no regard for charity, none for the widow, the orphan, the oppressed, none for the man in prison, the hungry or the thirsty. They abstain from the Eucharist and from prayer, because they do not admit that the Eucharist is the flesh of our Savior Jesus Christ, the flesh which suffered for our sins and which the Father, in His graciousness, raised from the dead."  (St. Ignatius, Letter to the Smyrneans, paragraph 6, 80-110 AD)

 Notice, St. Ignatius says the Eucharist is the flesh "which suffered for our sins and which the Father...raised from the dead."  If the Eucharistic presence of Christ's flesh is symbolic to St. Ignatius, then so was the suffering and resurrection of Christ.

Here's another quote, from St. Justin Martyr as he describes "Church" to the Romans:

"We call this food Eucharist, and no one else is permitted to partake of it, except one who believes our teaching to be true and who has been washed in the washing which is for the remission of sins and for regeneration [i.e., has received baptism] and is thereby living as Christ enjoined. For not as common bread nor common drink do we receive these; but since Jesus Christ our Savior was made incarnate by the word of God and had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so too, as we have been taught, the food which has been made into the Eucharist by the Eucharistic prayer set down by him, and by the change of which our blood and flesh is nurtured, is both the flesh and the blood of that incarnated Jesus" (St. Justin Martyr, First Apology, 66 [AD151]).

There are many quotes to choose from, but here's one last one:

 "If the Lord were from other than the Father, how could he rightly take bread, which is of the same creation as our own, and confess it to be his body and affirm that the mixture in the cup is his blood?" (St. Irenaeus, Against Heresies, 4:33-32 [AD189]).

Notice here that St. Ireneaus isn't debating the Real Presence in the Eucharist.  Instead, he's using it as a proof that Jesus is God.  The basic gist of his argument is this:  if Jesus wasn't of the same substance of the Father, how could he take bread and turn it into his body?  He starts with an obvious assumption that must have been an accepted belief everywhere--the body and blood of the Lord are truly present in the Eucharist--and he uses it to further develop a deeper understanding of Christ.

Now, it could be argued that I'm cherry-picking quotes--that the early Church really didn't believe in the Real Presence except in a few unusual writings of a few unusual writers.  Well, we don't have the time to go through the entire written record of the Early Church Fathers.  But we can appeal to as unbiased a source as I can think of:  the renowned Protestant historian, J.N.D. Kelly.  Kelly explains, in his book entitled Early Christian Doctrines:  "Eucharistic teaching, it should be understood at the outset, was in general unquestioningly realist, i.e., the consecrated bread and wine were taken to be, and were treated and designated as, the Savior’s body and blood" (p. 440).

So, even a renowned Protestant historian (who has nothing to gain and much to lose by admitting the early Church clung to starkly Catholic beliefs regarding the Eucharist) readily admits that the witness of history is clear:  the early Church believed in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist.

Thus, our question still stands:  Why would Jesus give us a teaching which He knew would be misunderstood by so many Christians for so long?

ANSWER 2:  The second potential answer to this dilemma is to argue that God simply allowed the Christians to be wrong in the same way that He allows the Jehovah's Witnesses (for example) to interpret the Scriptures their way and come up with false ideas.  After all, there is no limit to the number of groups who have interpreted scripture on their own to come up with contrary ideas.  God doesn't stop all of these either.  In regards to the Real Presence in the Eucharist, He simply gave a teaching and the early Church screwed it up until Martin Luther and the other Reformers set it right.  Sad for all those early Christians, but "thems the breaks".

The problem with this answer is that indeed, much of Scripture can be interpreted to mean many different things and God is, by no means, responsible for our bending and twisting scripture to fit our doctrines.  However, with the doctrine of the Real Presence in the Eucharist, that's not really the case.  

The reason is this:  All we have to go on Biblically regarding the Real Presence are very clear passages in which Jesus says "I am the living bread that came down from heaven; whoever eats this bread will live forever."  So, he starts by saying He's the living bread.  Sounds symbolic.  But then he follows it up immediately, in the same verse, with:  "the bread I will give is my flesh for the life of the world"  (John 6:51).

Think about that verse for a second:  "the bread I will give is my flesh for the life of the world."  So the bread we must eat is what?  Is the flesh given for the life of the world.  Was his flesh symbolically given?  No.  Then how can we shift gears, break the analogy given by the Son of God, and say "the bread, the flesh, must be symbolic." 

We fall into the desire to make the passage symbolic because we, along with the early listeners of this discourse, don't understand.  We respond (as they did) with incredulity:  "You can't really mean we need to eat your body and drink your blood, right?  You've gotta be speaking symbolically, right?" (John John 6:52, paraphrased).  

To which Jesus says (and goes on to repeat himself 4 times):  "unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you" (John 6:53).  He even changes the Greek word from one which was the normal word for dining or eating, to one that was much more coarse and meant to "gnaw or to chew."  He says that this idea is a salvation issue--we must eat His flesh if we are to have life in us--and He lets people (followers) leave him (presumably forever) over this concept.  All He had to say was, "Wait!  I'm being symbolic!  Don't you get it?  It's just bread, but it represents my body."  Had He just said those simple words, the disciples (for disciples they were--see John 6:66) would never have left Him.

If Jesus had gone on to explain that He was speaking symbolically, then Catholics could be faulted for ignoring the clear words of Jesus and clinging to the metaphor instead.  However, He didn't say He was being symbolic.  In fact, He seemed to go out of His way to let everyone know He meant what He said.  And so, we have Jesus in Scripture giving us every inclination that He meant this literally.  If Catholics interpret this literally--as He implied it was meant--and they are wrong, are they to blame?  No.  The teacher is to blame.

Think about it this way:  if a teacher presents students with a lesson in class and uses heavy symbolism to make a point, and, when the students react and say the teacher can't be serious, only goes on to reiterate (over and over) that yes, indeed he is serious . . . well, are the students to blame for eventually taking him at his word?  Any responsible teacher, realizing the students had mistaken his intentions and the lesson, would have put the brakes on and made the symbolism clear. Any teacher who would stubbornly cling to symbolic language even when it was clear that the students didn't understand, has no right to feel angry or disappointed when those same students accept the teaching as true.

It's the same situation here:  with Jesus' teaching regarding the Eucharist, there is no interpretation of Christ's words needed to arrive at the Catholic concept that we must eat his flesh and drink his blood in the Eucharist.  If Catholics have taken Jesus at His word, they are not to blame if they are mistaken:  Jesus would be to blame for failing to clarify his teaching, especially since He (knowing the future and the hearts of men) would know that His stubborn refusal to admit to His followers He was being symbolic caused all of early Christianity to believe Him literally.

Finally, that brings us to Answer 3...

ANSWER 3:  He said it this way and let the early Church and all of the Church believe it in this manner because He truly meant it in this manner.  There was no other way to convey what He meant other than to simply say it as He did.  There was no clarification to make, so He gave none.  He said what He meant and meant what He said and He said it knowing that the Church, His Church, would understand exactly what He meant.

Of all the possible answers to the question posed at the beginning, the only one that makes sense logically and Scripturally is answer 3.  Jesus didn't mislead the Church.  He didn't give us a teaching that He knew we would misinterpret.  He knew the Church would get it right because He is God.  He knows our hearts, our thoughts and our futures.  Nothing surprises Him.  And so, when He spoke in John 6 about eating His flesh and drinking His blood and when He instituted the Lord's Supper with "This is my body", He knew how His people would interpret His words. 

A Far Green Country Under a Swift Sunrise

As [my wife] and I struggled and talked and prayed all through that autumn of 1984, the tug-of-war inside of me was between "Am I mad?" and "Show me, dear Christ, Thy spouse so bright and clear."  Could I introduce this fissure into our very household?  How could I possibly head for a Table other than the one at which my dear lady made her communion from week to week, and at which I had brought up my children, and, indeed, at which I myself had worshipped for twenty-five years?

--Thomas Howard, Lead, Kindly Light (p. 64-65 )

So writes Thomas Howard, an Anglican convert to Catholicism, about his journey to Rome.  And I find myself echoing his thoughts, though certainly not his prose, as I weigh the same decision and mull the same looming consequences:  what will happen to my children if I pull up stakes and head for that strange and ancient country?  What about my wife?  

My dream was always to be a father and to live in a comfortable little house and close enough to a small Baptist or Reformed church that we could walk there on crisp, sunny Sunday mornings.  That's what I pictured, what I wanted.  And that's what I have:  a thriving church filled with kind, friendly and real people.  

My children are happy there.  My wife is happy there.  And I was happy there until a couple of years ago when I found myself suddenly face to face with the authentic Catholic Church. (I say "authentic" because as Archbishop Fulton Sheen once accurately wrote "There are not a hundred people in America who hate the Catholic Church. There are millions of people who hate what they wrongly believe to be the Catholic Church — which is, of course, quite a different thing.")

That certainly summed up my experience.  I had always pitied the Catholic Church and the poor Catholics with their mumbled Hail Mary's, their rote prayers, and dry, dead faith.   I knew from vast amounts of experience (which I gained by listening to various preachers talk about Catholics) that Catholic Churches were places of despair where the misinformed throng was taught to "earn their way to heaven", to "bow in worship to Mary" and to completely ignore the saving work of Jesus, replacing the "real" Christ with a sissy who was bossed around by his mother.  (I remember an ex-Catholic in one of the churches I attended explaining that the "Catholic Jesus" he'd been raised to believe in was a "namby-pamby Jesus."  And that he was glad to finally have found the "real Jesus" here.)

So, when I looked into the claims of the Catholic Church--mostly just to disprove them with my tremendous Biblical knowledge (of which I was humbly proud)--I began my search with no fear at all of being converted.  In fact, I began my study with no fear at all that it would even develop into something that could accurately be described as a "study".  I figured it would be an afternoon (maybe two) of reading and then I figured I'd step in with my great wisdom, derail the Catholic arguments easily and handily, and be back home in time for dinner.

But it didn't go that way.  Instead of finding the Catholic Church I'd always heard about, I found something all together different.  Something ancient and yet vibrant.  Something tied indelibly to history and yet current and, to use a sadly overused and twisted word, relevant.  To put it simply:  I found Christ.  And not the "namby-pamby" Christ that my ex-Catholic friend had warned me about.  I found a blood-and-bones Jesus who loved and suffered and died and rose.  In short, I found the same Jesus I'd always known about--and yet I found him in what seemed the most unlikely of all places.

Still, this didn't completely sway me.  I remember thinking that this was good news (I have a number of Catholic friends and it was a great surprise and comfort to discover that they may indeed be "saved" after all and that I needn't worry about them as much as I had been) but I still believed them to have a faith full of errors and misguided devotions.  

However, that initially startling discovery of Christ in the Catholic Church did lead me to dig a little deeper:  after all, there was no fear of my conversion to Catholicism, so I might as well try to understand their strange ways a little better.

And so I've done for the last 2 1/2 years or so.  I've read books by Protestant converts, countless conversion stories and basic introductions to the faith.  When those made more sense than I thought possible, I looked to Protestant sources to refute this belief system and get me back on track.  However, instead of finding reasoned arguments against Catholicism, what I found was sad, angry and vitriolic.  Even with my limited study, I was able to see that many of the arguments presented by "ex-Catholics who left the Church when they found Jesus" were simply not based in fact or in a firm understanding of their previous Catholic faith.  In some cases, I found what I can only believe were lies (supposed ex-Catholic priests with a poorer understanding of the Eucharistic mysteries than I myself had after reading just a few books or researching for more than 10 minutes on the internet).

Neither confirmed nor comforted by my Protestant compatriots, I went back to Catholic sources to see what they had to say about themselves.  I picked up the Catechism, dipped into the writings of various Saints and looked into the documents written by the early Church Fathers.  After that, it was time to tackle Conciliar documents and encyclicals.  All of these were rooted in Scripture and the writers, rather than having a disdain for the Word of God (as I'd been taught) actually held the Bible in high regard.

By the end of all this--or actually, part way through--I discovered that something had shifted in my thinking:  instead of reading to disprove their doctrines, I was reading to understand them better.  At some point in the journey, I'd come to the very remarkable (in my opinion) point that whenever a Catholic Doctrine or Teaching seemed bizarre and unnatural and pagan and unholy, it's very likely that I simply didn't understand it. (Afterall, when I read the love for Christ that is apparent in the writings of the Church's Saints and Doctors, who am I to so quickly and easily conclude (with my immeasurable storehouse of Biblical Knowledge) that I had succeeded where they had failed?  That Saint Thomas Aquinas, or Saint Augustine, or Saint Louis de Montfort failed to discern true Christianity whereas I, Daniel Hansen of Zeeland, Michigan, was able to grasp the fruit the giants couldn't reach?  To make that claim is a failure to think critically and honestly on my part.  Or at the very least, it gives evidence of a tremendous over-confidence in my own cognitive abilities.  For someone with my limited experience and knowledge to dispel out of hand, without more than a few moment's thought, the entire canon of St. Thomas is, to put it mildly, arrogance in the extreme).

At any rate, I found that I was no longer reading to refute, but reading for clarity, for understanding.  Before long, the strange phrases, "our Blessed Lord" the "precious body and blood" and many others felt comfortable and, more importantly, Right on my tongue.  The holy water, the icons, the statues, the rosaries, the beads, the Saints, the feasts, the liturgy, the confessional . . . all not only made sense to me but actually have become essential to the full expression of my faith.

I found myself not just looking at them with the eyes of wonder one might have at a museum filled with strange and unusual artifacts, but with real and sincere (and aching) longing.  The Catholic faith of the ages came to life before my eyes and lit a fire in my chest.  Yes, part of it's a yearning for the past--for the ancient cathedrals filled with stained-glass and symbolism and hymns that must be chewed before they can be absorbed--but that's not all.  It's also a longing for sublime and serious and weighty liturgy and for worship that is not based on a thumping beat but which is instead grounded in the once-and-for-all sacrifice of Christ "made present" in the Eucharist.  And yet, even that is not the sole reason for my longing for communion with Rome.  I feel, in a remarkable and undeniable way, that Christ is calling me.  To disobey for the sake of convenience is not an option.  I want to be obedient above all.  

And that brings me back to the quote we started with at the beginning of this ramble.  Thomas Howard was in this same place and was wondering the same things and dealing with many of the same issues.  His wife wasn't ready for the journey.  How would their relationship fare when the most important part of their lives--their faith--was something they didn't share?  And what about the children?  What would become of them? 

I find myself asking those same questions.  My wife and I have argued and discussed this long into the morning on many occasions.  My children are aware of the Struggle, the Quest (or, as it's more often called:  Dad's Catholic "Thing") and often ask, on any given Sunday, whether we're going to "Dad's" church or "Mom's"?  

I don't know, right now, what the outcome of all this will be.  And though I'm hesitant to even use this analogy because I've learned over the last couple years that I'm no "Father of Faith", neither did Abraham know the outcome of his journey up the mountain with Isaac.  He only knew God had called him to go and to be willing to give up all that made sense and abandon that to Him.  

That's what I will struggle to do in the next year as I plan to enter the Catholic Church next Easter.  And yet, like Abraham (who I'm convinced had more than just an inkling that God would "come through in the end") I'm convinced that He'll work things out to our benefit. 

Right now, the journey is dark and lonely--for all of us.  My children are floundering between faiths, my wife feels alone and I feel the weight of monumental decision-making and the fear of the Second-Guessers, the "What-if-Your-Wrongs" and my own worries that my journey is internally and personally driven.  And yet, I believe that, at the end of this, God will bring us back together--here on earth, mind you and not just in the world beyond--and I am confident that rather than being dark and dreary and frightening and empty, that place He will bring us to will instead be thriving and beautiful and unmistakably, undeniably Right--or, as J.R.R. Tolkien put it in The Lord of the Rings:  we'll see "the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and . . . rolled back, and [we'll behold] white shores and beyond . . . a far green country under a swift sunrise.” 

Jesus and the Jewish Roots of the Eucharist

Dr. Brant Pitre: Jesus and the Jewish Roots of the Eucharist

Tired of Thinking

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.

I've been tired. Really tired. Almost too tired to think.

Now, that's played out in our home with our kids who ask about 1001 questions every hour, but it's also played out in my faith.

For example, I've been exploring Catholicism for about 2 years now. Maybe longer. It's been an interesting journey, the hardest part of which has been the constant perspective shifts. Growing up in a staunchly Protestant family, I naturally have held, up until the last couple years, staunchly Protestant beliefs. So, to think Catholic thoughts is taxing. To think that those Catholic thoughts might possibly be correct is absolutely exhausting.

Earlier this week, I was hanging out in an Adoration Chapel at St. Francis parish right by my work. In the course of the time I was there, I found myself trying to come to terms with the Catholic concept of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. When my brain basically shut down at that point and said, "sorry, we're done here," I pretty much threw up my hands.

I was just too tired to think this stuff through anymore. Too tired to keep slogging uphill to overcome my previous beliefs and entertain thoughts of this new and ancient faith. I'd try to think about it, try to come to terms with what I believe, and my little brain would just shut down. No more juice.

To be honest, the whole experience made me angry. Faith shouldn't be this hard. I'm doing the best I can--I'm struggling to know the Lord better. I'm not sweating blood, but I'm sweating.

Well, I was sitting there, getting all angry and bent out of shape--you know, railing at God a little bit for making things so complicated--and then the verse above hit me: "and that (faith) not of yourselves: it is the gift of God."

Suddenly, things made sense: I've been struggling to grow my faith. I've been digging in and trying to do the lifting myself. But that's not how it works. Faith isn't something I pull off. It's a gift.

God is watching me struggle around on my own--watching my frustration and my exhaustion--and He's likely thinking: ask me, stupid. I'm waiting to help.

That all went through my head in a split second and I sat there for a few minutes longer before asking God to increase my faith. And suddenly, the load was lifted. It wasn't up to me anymore to shoulder the weight. It was only up to me to be ready and willing. God's here and he's looking for work.

The First Ringing of the Alarm

He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.

--1 John 4:8

The phone call came as a bump in my morning, a little bump in the normal, steady flow of the day. The buzz caught me off-guard--a bit of a startling intrusion that snapped me out of my own world of thoughts and got my heart thumping a little faster--the way the unexpected usually does. I looked at the caller ID, recognized the number and flipped it open.

My quick "hello" was greeted with a slower one--a quieter one--and I realized almost immediately that the reason for the call wasn't a happy one.

I listened to the bad news and I felt appropriately bad. I felt bad for the situation, bad for the people involved, bad for their kids, bad for their parents, bad for the whole stupid thing.

And then it was over. The conversation ended and I hung up the phone and I did what I had promised (because I'm such a profoundly Christian man): I said a prayer.

"Dear Lord, please be with so and so and help them with such and such. They're in a tough situation, Lord, which you, of course, know. In fact, I probably don't even need to say that. I mean, the part about their situation. You were there for the phone call--you know what's going on. In fact, now that I think about it, you were there before she even called.

In fact . . . and this is really cool, Lord . . . you were there when the situation occurred that prompted the call. Now that I think about it, you probably prompted the call to me in the first place--so I could pray for them. Wow, Lord--you're using me to be your hands and your feet. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for bringing this situation about so I could be like you. Amen."

And that was that. I didn't feel bad anymore. I'd listened. I'd prayed. I'd been Jesus to my friend on the phone.

And then I continued with my day. I dealt with work problems and work projects. I wrote a blog entry about paint, a couple radio shows for tomorrow, and I made notes and plans for a weekly Manager's Meeting.

Eventually, 2:15 pm rolled around and I decided to sneak out for lunch. Not to eat, but to pray.

I drove to St. Francis De Sales, parked outside the adoration chapel and let myself in using my card key (I feel very important with my card key and use it even when the door is not locked just because I have one).

I let myself in and glanced, as always, at the candle. (I don't know what this particular candle is called, but knowing Catholics as I'm beginning to, I am absolutely convinced that there's a special Latin name for it). Whatever it's called, it was burning and that meant the Lord was present, body and blood, soul and divinity in the Blessed Sacrament inside the tabernacle--or, as I often think of it: the little box in the center of the room.

Out of respect and adoration, I genuflected (a word that feels foreign on my tongue, but an action that feels perfectly natural given the scenario) and made my way to one of the kneeling benches.

And I began to pray. I prayed and prayed in that stifling, unventilated room. Sweat ran down my back, trickled over my arms and beaded on my forehead. At several points, I stopped and just sat there for a few seconds, wishing they had a shower here for when I left. (And then I spent a few seconds wondering if that was irreverent.)

After a long time of praying and sweating and thinking about showers and the True Nature of Irreverency, I shifted off the kneeling bench and slumped back into my chair. I checked the clock: It was almost time to head back to work. I decided that for my last few minutes, (because I'm quite big-hearted and like to let God do His thing from time to time), I'd sit silently and let God speak to me.

Now, I'll be honest and admit that God normally doesn't speak to me when I do this. I just sit there in silence for about 10 seconds and then my brain thinks it hears something and says: "Was that Him?" And then I listen really hard for about 10 more seconds. "Nope. Just a bird. Out by the window. Oh yeah, there he goes. What's that thing he's got? A cigarette? Oh, no--it's a sucker-stick. Wonder where he picked that up? What's he doing with it? Taking it to his nest? Do male birds even have nests? I bet they don't make them themselves. Probably just find one that's already done and . . . what was that? Was that Him?"

I normally do this for about 5 minutes and then I just figure God doesn't have anything to say and I go back to asking for things.

Well, today I sat there, staring at the Tabernacle, imagining Jesus standing right in front of me, trying to wrap my brain around the Catholic idea of the Eucharist. And while I sat there, doing all these things, a sudden, single thought shot through my head: "You go through all of this but don't love."

Reading it just now, it seems vague. But when I thought it today, I didn't have to ask what He was getting at or if it was really Him speaking. I knew the answer to both questions: It certainly was Him and He was talking about my phone call from earlier today. Or rather, He was using my phone call from today to make a larger point about my life in general.

It was painfully clear and painfully painful. In the 10 minutes or so that followed, I very clearly was confronted with the ugliness that our words can so easily hide. I realized how I can muster some emotion when necessity dictates. I can feel bad when I should. I can get a lump in the throat when things call for one, but that's about it.

There's no way in this world that I can say I feel another's pain as if it were my own. I don't churn and ache inside when friends struggle through tragedies. I don't lose sleep over their hurts. I rarely even lose my appetite.

Oh, I like to think that I'm Jesus' hands in this world, but I realized today how much of a sick joke that thought really is. Jesus touched lepers: I can't even google images of lepers. Jesus built His life around the needs of others: I cringe when the phone rings because I'm afraid somebody might ask something of me. Christ wept. I yawn and look at my watch.

God made it abundantly clear to me today that Love bleeds and cries. Love doesn't "feel bad". Love doesn't "say a prayer" and then move on. Love is aching muscles, blistered feet and dirty hands. Love is inconvenient. But the amazing thing is that it's only inconvenient in the beginning when it's just awakening.

When Love finally opens it's eyes, it hungers. It hungers to give and touch and heal and carry and it won't be satisfied until it's poured itself out at the feet of another.

Because that's what Love did.

For me, I've got to be honest: Love's still sleeping. But maybe morning's coming. Maybe today was the first ringing of the alarm.

Jesus Knew How We'd Take It And He Still Said It

It's important to remember who Jesus is. He is human, yes, but also God. A prophet. The Prophet. Jesus is one in being with the Father. As He Himself says, "I and the Father are one" (John 10:30).

We know that He had a tremendous knowledge of events that were to come and John writes that "He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made" (John 1:1-2).

Jesus is one with the Father. He was with the Father from the beginning. Jesus is, in every way, God. That's Christianity.

And God, as we know, knows all. He's not bound by the constraints of time. All things are NOW to God. He's omniscient. That's why Paul could write "for those whom he foreknew, he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the first-born among many brethren" (Romans 8:29).

Jesus, being one with God in nature, shares this ability. Jesus, in the beginning, was with God (John 1:1) and knew all that God knew. Sure, Jesus apparently gave up some of this knowledge temporarily when he became human (He admitted He didn't know when the last day would be--that only the Father knew). But Jesus also acknowledged "I did not speak on my own, but the Father who sent me commanded me what to say and speak. And I know that his commandment is eternal life. So what I say, I say as the Father told me” (John 12:49-50).

One of these things Jesus said "as the Father told him" was the well-known "you must eat my flesh and drink my blood" command in John 6.

We need to stop and think about that for a moment: When Jesus entered heaven after His ascension, He and God didn't get together, take note of how the early Church was interpreting Jesus' words literally, and conclude "Well, we blew that. We probably should have been a little more clear--probably shouldn't have been sooooo in love with the metaphor. Oh well, eventually--millions of souls later--we'll send some Reformers to straighten things out and get the Church back on track regarding that bread and wine thing."

Jesus knew ahead of time the impact those words would have on the Church through the first 14 or so centuries of Christianity and yet, He didn't temper them. He didn't soften them. He didn't retract them or clarify them when He was confronted except to stress the literal interpretation even more strongly.

Jesus had the ULTIMATE opportunity as a speaker and teacher: He had the ability to know ahead of time--an eternity ahead of time--how people at any given point in time would understand His words. He had an eternity to fine-tune, to hone His message.

And with all of that foreknowledge, that time, Jesus said what He said. And He did so KNOWING fully how it would be interpreted by the vast majority of Christianity. So, either Jesus was fully cool with the vast majority of Christian history misunderstanding (and blaspheming) His teachings, or . . . He said what He said because He KNEW the Church would get it right....

Symbolic or Real? St. Ireneaus Weighs In On Jesus In The Eucharist

What did the early Church Fathers think about the Eucharist? Did they think the bread of the Lord's Supper was merely a symbol of the Lord's body? That the wine was just a good way to remember that Jesus shed his real blood for us? Or, did they think the bread really became His body and the wine His blood? In short, did they hold to a Protestant interpretation or something more decidedly Catholic?

Here's a short quote from St. Ireneaus from his Adversus Haereses written sometime between 180 and 199 AD. However, first let me quickly explain that St. Ireneaus was the second Bishop of Lyons and had been a pupil, while a young man, of St. Polycarp. (St. Polycarp, just to put it all in perspective, is considered an Apostolic Church Father since he had been a hearer of the Apostle John).

Here's the quote:

If the Lord were from other than the Father, how could He rightly take bread, which is of the same creation as our own, and confess it to be His body, and affirm that the mixture in the cup is His blood? (Adversus Haereses, 4, 33, 2)

That's it. A short quote, but one that's remarkably profound in meaning. In this quote, St. Ireneaus makes it perfectly clear that he is not talking about any kind of mere "symbolic" presence of Jesus. The bread doesn't "represent" Jesus' body. It doesn't "symbolize" Jesus' body. It doesn't provide us with an amazing visual of how Jesus' body was broken for us.

No, according to Ireneaus--as early as the year 180 AD--the bread literally WAS the body of the Lord.

And we see this when we look at the logic of his argument: If Jesus didn't come from God, St. Ireneaus is saying, then how in the world could he take bread and confess it to be his body? If He wasn't from God, how could he say the mixture in the cup was His blood?

Ireneaus' argument only makes sense if he is assuming that the bread truly becomes Jesus' literal body and the wine His blood. Ireneaus' words mean nothing if he adopted a Protestant mindset about Christ's body figuratively being represented by the bread.

If he thought the Eucharist a merely symbolic representation of Christ's body (as most of us Protestants do), his argument could be summarized as such: if the Lord wasn't from God, the Father, then He couldn't say that bread figuratively represented His body.

And it doesn't take too much study or understanding to see that that statement doesn't make a lot of sense. No, there can be no merely symbolic Christ in the Eucharist for Ireneaus because ANYBODY can hold up a hunk of bread and say "this symbolizes my body." Any one of us could hold up a glass of wine and say "this is very much like my blood." However, only God could work such a miracle as to take those common elements and actually MAKE them into His body and blood. Hence his argument that Jesus HAD to be from the Father.

Now, it's important to point out that just because St. Ireneaus thought the Eucharist was Jesus' body and blood doesn't mean it really is. The writings of St. Ireneaus, while important and useful, are not necessarily inspired and are definitely not considered "scripture."

However, it is also important to understand and come to terms with the reality that many of us Protestants have been taught a tradition that might not be as true as we think. For me, that's definitely the case. I've been taught that the Protestant Church is more "authentic." That it's more like the church of the Apostles. I've read over and over that the early Protestant Reformers scraped away the barnacles that accumulated on the hull after Christianity became a "sanctioned" religion under Constantine.

And yet here we have solid proof--and believe me, there's much more where this came from--that the second and third generation Christians (and the Christians who taught them) believed in a very Catholic understanding of the Eucharist.

The Early Church and the Eucharist

Growing up, I was always taught that communion, the Lord's Supper, was simply a symbolic gesture. It's a nice little way of remembering that Jesus died for us--that His body was broken like the bread that the Pastor breaks apart in the front of the Sanctuary and that His blood was poured out like the juice in the communion trays with all those little plastic cups.

When I first ran into Catholic Theology on the issue and was informed that the bread--the little wafer--was literally the body of the Lord and the wine was literally his blood, I was, honestly, amused. I really couldn't imagine how in the world thinking people could read Jesus' words at the Last Supper (This is my Body and Blood) and come away thinking Jesus was speaking literally. I mean really, the whole thing was ridiculous. It made no sense.

Well, curious to find out what the earliest Christians believed, I started scouring the internet looking for full texts from these early Church Fathers. And what I found was amazing--something I never expected: The earliest Christians were Catholic in theology--at least in terms of the Eucharist. From what I could see, the Catholic Church in its earliest form took the doctrine of the Eucharist and preserved it just as Jesus taught it even though they didn't always understand it. We Protestants on the other hand seem to have taken that same doctrine and changed it in order to make it easier to understand.

Below you'll find just a few of the available writings. Read them for yourself and voice your disagreements or whatever in the comments. (The full texts of these documents can be found by following the links--I'm trying to quote a significant portion of text to give a feeling for the context, but, by all means, click the links and dig deeper.)

St. Ignatius of Antioch (c.50-117 AD)
Ignatius was the third Bishop of Antioch (Peter was the 1st) and it's commonly thought that he actually listened to the teaching of the Apostle John.

They abstain from the Eucharist and from prayer, because they confess not the Eucharist to be the flesh of our Saviour Jesus Christ, which suffered for our sins, and which the Father, of His goodness, raised up again. Those, therefore, who speak against this gift of God, incur death in the midst of their disputes. But it were better for them to treat it with respect, that they also might rise again.

Epistle to the Smyraens, Ch.7 (AD 110)

Ignatius states the Docetists he was writing against rejected the Eucharist because they didn't believe it was the flesh of Jesus. He then goes one step farther and shows that he's not speaking of symbolic flesh when he writes "which suffered for our sins."

To say that he's speaking symbolically would be to say that Christ's death was only symbolic. He's as convinced that the Eucharist is the actual flesh of Christ as he is that Christ died in the flesh.

Let that be deemed a proper Eucharist, which is [administered] either by the bishop, or by one to whom he has entrusted it. Wherever the bishop shall appear, there let the multitude [of the people] also be; even as, wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the Catholic Church.

Epistle to the Smyraens, Ch.8 (AD 110)

This quote is interesting because this is the earliest written reference to the Church as the Catholic Church. And the way he words it, it's pretty clear that this isn't the first time the title or name was ever used. In all likelihood it was being referred to in this manner well before the date of this writing.

Also interesting is the mention of an established church hierarchy. (Ignatius' letters to the Churches--all written quickly as he was being marched through the country toward his martyrdom--contain many references to an established hierarchy and even refer to Apostolic Succession--but that's another post.)


Justin Martyr (c.100-165 AD)
Justin Martyr was an early Christian Apologist writing around 148 - 150 AD or so.

This first quote is from his First Apology where he's writing to the Roman Emperor to explain what Christianity really was. It's interesting that there were rumors circulating that the Christians were cannibals and Justin was writing to clarify. (In all likelihood, the charges of cannibalism came from the secular world's misunderstanding of the Christian teaching of the Eucharist).

Here, Justin writes about what Church was like in early Christianity and then he goes on to describe the Eucharist:

And this food is called among us Eukaristia [the Eucharist], of which no one is allowed to partake but the man who believes that the things which we teach are true, and who has been washed with the washing that is for the remission of sins, and unto regeneration, [Baptism] and who is so living as Christ has enjoined. For not as common bread and common drink do we receive these; but in like manner as Jesus Christ our Saviour, having been made flesh by the Word of God, had both flesh and blood for our salvation, so likewise have we been taught that the food which is blessed by the prayer of His word, and from which our blood and flesh by transmutation are nourished, is the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh.

First Apology, Ch.LXVI

St. Ireneaus of Lyons (c.120-180 AD)
Ireneaus was the Bishop of Lyons. Little is known of his life, but one thing that is almost certain is that he listened to the Bishop Polycarp, who himself was a hearer of the Apostle John (the author, by the way, of the Gospel that most clearly describes the Eucharist in terms of Jesus' body and blood).

But how can they be consistent with themselves, [when they say] that the bread over which thanks have been given is the body of their Lord, and the cup His blood, if they do not call Himself the Son of the Creator of the world.

Against Heresies, Bk.4, Ch.18, Paragraph 4

When Christ visited us in his grace, he did not come to what did not belong to him: also, by shedding his true blood for us, and exhibiting to us his true flesh in the Eucharist, he conferred upon our flesh the capacity of salvation.

Against Heresies, Bk.5, Ch.2 Introduction

The one thing worth pointing out here is that Ireneaus ties together Jesus' true blood which He shed for us and Jesus' true flesh which is in the Eucharist. In his mind, Ireneaus is as sure that the flesh in the Eucharist is as authentic as the blood that was shed. If one is meant symbolically, then, by the very structure of the sentence, the other must also be symbolic.

But vain in every respect are they who despise the entire dispensation of God, and disallow the salvation of the flesh, and treat with contempt its regeneration, maintaining that it is not capable of incorruption. But if this indeed do not attain salvation, then neither did the Lord redeem us with His blood, nor is the cup of the Eucharist the communion of His blood, nor the bread which we break the communion of His body. For blood can only come from veins and flesh, and whatsoever else makes up the substance of man, such as the Word of God was actually made. By His own blood he redeemed us, as also His apostle declares, "In whom we have redemption through His blood, even the remission of sins."

Against Heresies, Bk.5, Ch.2, Paragraph 2

When, therefore, the mingled cup and the manufactured bread receives the Word of God, and the Eucharist of the blood and the body of Christ is made, from which things the substance of our flesh is increased and supported, how can they affirm that the flesh is incapable of receiving the gift of God, which is life eternal, which [flesh] is nourished from the body and blood of the Lord, and is a member of Him?

Against Heresies, Bk. 5, Ch.2, Paragraph 3

Arrogant, Elitist or Straight-Up-Honest? On Jesus and His "Eat My Flesh" Teachings

In John 6, Jesus told the hearers of his word that "unless you eat of the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you." Further on in the same chapter, he explains that "he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life."

In saying these things, Jesus made sure that everybody listening understood that "eating His flesh and drinking His blood" was a salvation issue. This means His words should be (and, consequently are) of critical interest to Christians everywhere. We need to understand exactly what Jesus is saying here.

Now, among Protestants, we typically say that Jesus was speaking metaphorically. That was always my standard interpretation of these verses. I always just assumed that Jesus was using figurative language to make a point--much like his "I am the door" and "I am the vine" statements. In fact, Protestants often point out that later, when Jesus explains that His words are "spirit" (Jn 6:63), He is basically admitting to His disciples that He was speaking figuratively.

That was my standard approach to this passage. But there's a problem. And it's a big one.

Now, first off, I want to point out that there is little or no evidence in scripture of the word "spirit" being used as a synonym for "figurative". So, when Protestants point out that Jesus said His words were "spirit", there is no real Biblical support for such a conclusion. The word "spirit" just doesn't mean "figurative". However, that's not the big problem with the passage. The big problem actually comes when you allow the figurative interpretation.

To illustrate, let's say that the Protestant approach to this passage is right and Jesus really is speaking metaphorically and these followers were just too dense to get it. So far, so good for the Protestant position. But then comes the logical consequences of that interpretation. And, as far as I can see, there are two of them. And neither one is acceptable.

We see this when we recall that Jesus made His teaching here a salvation issue. When He said "unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life in you," He was basically saying, "figure this out, or you will die eternally." And yet, when the people can't accept the teaching--when they can't figure it out--when they ask "How can this man give us His flesh to eat?"--Jesus simply repeats himself (4 times) and then lets them walk away.

We can't move past that too quickly. We need to stop and slow down and think about it: Jesus, who's mission is to save mankind from sin and open up the gates of heaven to all, let's people walk away from eternal life. He lets these people go away, potentially into eternal damnation.

But that's not the worst of it: if Jesus was speaking metaphorically--if "eating his flesh and drinking his blood" were merely symbols of "believing" and "following", then we're left with two unacceptable conclusions: Jesus either let these people leave because He was an arrogant, prideful teacher, more in love with his metaphor than in love with his audience; or, he was an intellectual elitist who wasn’t above weeding out some of the “dumb” masses.

Let's look at these conclusions one at a time:

CONCLUSION 1: JESUS WAS AN ARROGANT TEACHER

If Jesus was simply speaking metaphorically--and since the stakes were so high--why didn't He explain Himself? This is a question we must answer--all of us. We must deal with this bizarre scenario. Why didn't Jesus stop everybody and say: "Guys, hold on . . . I was just speaking figuratively. I'm not asking anybody to eat me! Come on, back--it's just bread . . . ."

Jesus could have done all of that--could have called these people back. Sure, he'd have to accept the fact that maybe his example wasn't the best--that maybe he didn't make the best choice of words when explaining himself to simple people--but really, wouldn't that be worth it? Wouldn't eating some "humble pie" be better than allowing people to walk away from a teaching that would lead them to eternal life?

If you looked out the window of your home and saw a child playing in the street and then looked down the street and saw a dump truck barreling down on him, you could shout out "Smallish Human! Smallish Human taking up residence on the asphalt path! Behind you approaches a ponderous, immense waste disposal vehicle. Flee! Flee to safety!"

Yes, you could shout that out, but it'd be a terrible choice of words. And of course, if you did shout out something that dumb, you can bet that the smallish human you were shouting to would look up at you with confusion. Now, at that point, you could do one of two things. You could either shrug and repeat yourself--word for word--knowing the child wasn't getting it; or, you could clarify yourself. You could shout: "Get out of the road! There's a truck coming!"

The matter's so important that none of us would choose the first option. In all likelihood, none of us would repeat the convoluted warning to a child who doesn't understand.

We'd own up to the idiocy of our choice of words and we'd adjust the message. We'd fine-tune our words to our audience and we'd do everything possible to save that child.

And yet, we’re ready to say that Jesus would do the opposite--that he would refuse to fine-tune his convoluted message and make it accessible for his audience. He would rather let them walk away in ignorance and confusion than clarify His teaching.

CONCLUSION 2: JESUS WAS AN ELITIST

But maybe Jesus wasn't arrogant. Maybe he just didn't like stupid people. We all know how that can be, right? Maybe these folks just got under his skin because they couldn't figure out what He was saying. Maybe He got sick and tired of explaining himself to them and figured He'd let them wander off to Hell rather than keep putting up with their incessant questions and misunderstandings.

Now, that sounds ridiculous, but, again, we need to remember that these were people who had been following Him for a while. They weren't scoffers and mockers out to catch him in a trap. These were people who believed that Jesus was special, different, somebody to whom they should pay attention. Problem was, they just didn’t understand what He was teaching.

In fact, the worst charge we can make using the Biblical evidence is that these folks were dense. They were too "slow", too "stupid" to realize that Jesus wasn't telling them to really "eat his flesh." And yet, even though the worst we can say about them is that they were dense, Jesus (apparently) figures it's enough to let them walk away from eternal life. Rather than stop them and point out the fact that they had misunderstood--rather than clarify his teaching--Jesus let them walk away from teachings that would have led them to eternal life. Maybe it was because they were so mindnumbingly dumb.

IS THERE A THIRD OPTION?

Do either of those two conclusions make any sense at all? Do either of these scenarios paint a picture of Jesus we want to hang on our walls or in our hearts? Do either of them reflect the way scripture depicts Him? That he was a snob with His metaphors? That he'd rather let people go to hell than to admit that his wording was a little convoluted? Or that he simply wanted to hang with the intellectual crowd and wasn't above weeding out the gene pool?

No, those conclusions don't mesh with the Jesus we read about in Scripture, yet that's exactly what we're left with IF Jesus was speaking metaphorically. Because IF He was speaking metaphorically, ALL He had to do was call these folks--these real, true followers--back. All it would have taken was an "I'm sorry I wasn't clear--let me explain it this way...." Yet, he didn't do that.

And when we think about it that way, we realize the whole passage doesn't really make sense. That is, unless Jesus wasn't speaking metaphorically.

If Jesus wasn't using flowery, symbolic language, but was actually speaking as clearly and literally as he could, then there was no more clarification he could make to these who wouldn't believe. In fact, that’s really the only interpretation that makes the passage understandable. IF Jesus was speaking literally, he did exactly what we'd expect him to do--what we would do in his exact situation: he repeats himself. Four times.

When they still won't believe, Jesus' hands are figuratively tied. He's tried to make them see, but they won't. Thus, they walk away from eternal life not because they're too dense to figure out his meaning, but because they don't have the faith to do the work of God and "believe in Him who He has sent" (Jn 6:29).