Corpus Christi

Readings: Gen 14:18-20; 1 Cor 11:23-26; Lk 9:11b-17

VIDEO

Let’s talk about Melchizedek.

We don’t talk about Melchizedek very often,
partly because Scripture 
doesn’t talk about him very often.
In fact, today’s brief first reading 
tells pretty much the whole story of Melchizedek.
He, the King of Salem,
appears in the story of Abraham out of nowhere 
with an offering of bread and wine,
and blesses Abraham, 
who then offers him a tenth 
of the loot he has just won in battle.
Having received his tithe,
Melchizedek then vanishes from the story.
He comes up again in the New Testament,
in the Letter to the Hebrews,
where he is seen as a prefiguration 
of Christ’s royal priesthood,
a priesthood far surpassing
the priesthood of the old covenant.
but, again, he remains a shadowy figure;
as Hebrews puts it: 
“Without father, mother, or ancestry, 
without beginning of days or end of life” (7:2).

So why do we hear about Melchizedek 
on this feast of the Body and Blood of Christ?
Well, he makes an offering of bread and wine,
prefiguring the Eucharist
even as he himself prefigures Christ.
But Melchizedek not only 
points us toward the Eucharist,
he also tells us something important 
about the Eucharist and our sharing in it.

The letter to the Hebrews explains 
that the name Melchizedek 
means king of justice (in Hebrew tsedek)
and the title of King of Salem
means king of peace (in Hebrew shalem).
Commenting on this passage from Hebrews,
St. Thomas Aquinas says, 
“It is good that he unites justice and peace,
since nothing makes for peace
that does not preserve justice” (In Heb. §332).
Or, as Pope Saint Paul VI put it back in 1972,
“If you want peace, work for justice.”

A peace not founded on justice 
is not a true peace;
it is merely the suppression 
of obvious forms of violence
by less-obvious forms of violence,
as a quick glance at both human history
and the world of today will tell us.
The world is filled with those 
whose offers of false peace 
ring in our ears,
who say, “give me power 
and I will give you peace.”
But peace as the world gives it
is all too often a matter of one group
dominating another,
whether through force of arms
or economic exploitation.
Peace as the world gives it 
is the peace brought by
the boot that tramps in battle,
and the cloak rolled in blood,
the peace of the gallows and the ghetto,
the peace of walls and of razor wire.

But Melchizedek—
king of justice and king of peace—
points us toward Christ,
whose priestly kingdom is one
of eternal peace built on justice:
a justice that is exercised not
in repression and domination
but in mercy and reconciliation,
a justice that believes not 
that we must grab for ourselves
the scarce resources of the world,
but that five loaves and two fish,
blessed and broken in the hands of Christ,
could feed a multitude.

Now you might say that the evidence 
tends to favor the kind of peace the world gives
more than the peace of Christ’s kingdom.
You might say that talk of mercy and abundance
is all very nice and everything,
but the real world is about hard choices,
about ceaselessly holding our enemies at bay,
about guaranteeing our own peace and security
by any means necessary.
You might say this.
Many people do say this. 
The devil on your shoulder says this.

But Jesus says something different.
On the night before he died,
a night poised on the edge 
of the most unjust act 
in the history of the cosmos—
the judicial murder of God incarnate—
Christ did not decide that the time had come
to get tough with his enemies;
he did not decide that he had to do
whatever was necessary to secure his own safety;
he did not decide to start acting
as if God’s goodness were not abundantly present,
as if God’s mercy were not the true way of justice.
No, amid the world’s injustice and violence 
he held fast to his ministry
as the true and eternal king of justice and peace,
by giving himself away for the life of the world,
bringing forth the bread and wine of blessing
to feed us with the food of undying life. 
And as often as we eat the bread 
offered by the king of justice 
and drink of the cup 
offered of the king of peace
we proclaim the reality of the kingdom
that springs from his death and resurrection,
appearing seemingly from nowhere,
like the figure of Melchizedek himself.
In this feast we taste 
the truth of mercy and abundance
even amid violence and greed,
and we take him into ourselves.
We commit ourselves to his path,
joining our lives to his
so that we too might become 
an offering to God for the life of the world.

The world is filled with evidence 
of the need to grab what we can,
of the demand to do whatever is necessary
to gain our own security and prosperity,
of the wisdom of sacrificing justice for others
for the sake of peace for ourselves.
But Jesus points us toward 
a different sort of evidence,
what the Letter to the Hebrews calls
the evidence of things not seen.
We say we believe that bread and wine 
become the body and blood of Christ,
no matter what our seeing or smelling 
or touching or tasting tells us;
can we not also believe 
that the deepest truth of the world
is mercy and abundance,
even as we live surrounded by evidence
of violence and greed?
We say we believe that Christ’s body broken
and his blood poured out for the life of the world
are truly here under sacramental signs;
can we not also believe
that his kingdom of justice and peace
is present even now as we partake of his feast?
We say we believe.
So let us pray that Christ
would make us true members of his body,
true servants of the king of justice and peace.
Let us pray that he would bless us 
in the name of God most high,
and that God in his mercy
would have mercy on us all.

Corpus Christi

Readings: Genesis 14:18-22; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; Luke 9:11b-17

On Friday I read a report that, 

due to a combination

of a mismanaged national economy

and externally imposed import restrictions,

the Catholic Church in Venezuela

is facing a shortage of bread and wine 

for the celebration of Mass

(the nation is also facing a toilet paper shortage,

but that’s another matter).

It reminded me of how much what we do 

within the walls of the church

is connected to the world outside the Church,

the network of economic and political relations 

that shape our lives.

This shortage of bread and wine in Venezuela

is an example of what people sometimes refer to 

as the “law of scarcity.”

The basic idea is that the less of something there is

the more its value increases:

if supply goes down and demand remains steady,

value – or at least prices – go up.

The presumptions of the law of scarcity

is so woven into the fabric of our daily lives

that they come to seem unquestionable to us:

of course something that is rare

is more valuable than something that is abundant;

of course we are in competition, 

even conflict, 

with each other

for these valuable, limited goods.

It seems unquestionable.

In our reading today from Luke’s Gospel, however,

we are invited to question this law of scarcity.

The story of the feeding of the multitudes begins in scarcity

but, rather than ending in conflict 

and competition for those scarce goods,

it ends in an abundant feast for all who are there:

“they all ate and were satisfied.”

In fact, more was left over than they began with.

In addition to being a sign of the divine power incarnate in Jesus,

this story of the feeding of the multitudes tells us something

about the kingdom of God that Jesus comes to proclaim.

The economy of this kingdom

does not run according to the law of scarcity

but according to a law of abundance:

God provides us with more than enough

of God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s grace.

And these things do not become any less valuable

on account of being supplied in abundance

or any less abundant 

on account of being shared among many people.

St. Augustine noted that the citizens of earthly kingdoms

fight with each other for things that are in short supply:

glory, power, wealth, honor.

But in the case of divine goodness:

“Anyone who refuses to share this possession cannot have it;

and one who is most willing to let others share it in love

will have the greatest abundance” (Civ. Dei 15.5).

We should reflect on this story of scarcity and abundance

in the context of our celebration of the feast of Corpus Christi.

And as in today’s Gospel reading,

bread will be taken, 

and blessed, 

and broken, 

and shared.

We will receive Christ’s body and blood, 

his soul and divinity,

under the sacramental signs 

of bread and wine;

we will feed upon him spiritually

and, as in today’s Gospel, 

we will be satisfied.

Indeed, not only will we be satisfied,

but the grace that is bestowed on us

is so abundant that there will be

twelve baskets left over: grace upon grace,

which we will take with us into a world

that is starving for both material food 

and the food of God’s mercy.

While the bread and wine shortages in Venezuela show

that the Church is not removed 

from the economic forces at work in the world,

in the end the Eucharist is not ruled by the law of scarcity.

The value of the Eucharist is determined

not by what market forces do 

to the price of bread and wine

but by what the Holy Spirit does with them:

transforming them into 

the body and blood of God incarnate,

the food of immortality, 

the cup of eternal salvation.

And the grace we receive in this sacrament

only increases as we leave this building

to share the love that we have received with others.

On this our feast of Corpus Christ,

it is right and just that we reflect 

on the great gift of the body and blood of Christ

through with which we as a community 

have been abundantly blessed

for over a century and a quarter.

It is right and just to give thanks 

for the thousands of Masses

that have been celebrated on our altars:

the bread of life that has been shared,

the hungry souls that have been satisfied.

It is right and just that we pause to adore 

the God who bestows on us a gift so great 

and in such abundance.

And it is right and just that we leave here

to share with others 

the goodness that has filled our hearts.