That One More Step
A Real "Present"
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash
...had this thought, yet again, while on my morning walk.
Now, don't get me wrong...I often have this thought. There are just so many darn good reasons why I'm happy to be a Catholic, as opposed to the 43,000 other denominations I could have landed in.
But one of them always comes home to me, all over again, when I read most Christian fiction.
Because at one point or another, if the plot leads us to a church services, the protagonist will often wax eloquent about how much he or she enjoys a particular church communion service, with the music, and the spirit, and the "symbolism of Christ's body and blood," and how uplifting it all is.
At which point I always think, Oh, honey, too bad you aren’t having the real thing!
Yep, that's the best, most wonderful, most meaningful, and most basic thing that sets Catholicism apart: what we call the Real Presence. Jesus present, Body, Blood, Soul, Divinity...in the Eucharist. So when we receive, we receive Him.
We don't "commemorate" Him.
We don't "symbolize" Him.
We take Him in.
And for those moments, and for a long time afterward, He is literally present in our physical bodies. We are one with Him. United in a way that no one else on earth can claim. Even the angels can’t; as one of our holy priests puts it, “If angels could be envious of us in any way, this is what they’d be envious of. They cannot receive Jesus the way we can. Only we, for the limited time we have on earth, can do this in this real way.”
There's a wonderful line in one of Jan Karon’s Mitford books, when the bishop is giving Father Tim the Eucharist in a home visit, and he refers to "touching God." Because—while they don’t have the fullness of faith—high Anglicans, Lutherans, and more than a few other mainline denominations believe, as Catholics do, in the Real Presence. Therefore, they believe they are "touching God." And if no one ever convinces them of the fullness of faith they’re missing, I believe they’re still “not far from the Kingdom of God.” No, I don’t believe in empty ecumenism. But I do believe that God honors those who sincerely seek Him.
As for the rest?
I try to (often) urge my other Christian brothers and sisters to investigate the “something more.” The something that’s an even better edification than the "symbolism" of Jesus and His Last Supper.
Way better.
Ain't nothing like the real thing, and we've got it. And it's yet another of many, many reasons I'm—yet again—so glad to be Catholic.
Come on and join us. See for yourself.
Once you experience the Real Presence, "commemorations" and symbolism will never again be enough.
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About the Author
Janet W. Butler is a writer, editor, and editorial consultant by day and a “small soprano” by night. She is the author of “the best two little books almost no one ever heard of”—sweet romances, both published with small presses, and both orphaned—as well as several more manuscripts presently being shopped. In response to requests from “mentees,” she’s also produced an e-book version of the popular workshop series 12 Weeks to Your First (or Next) Novel, available through Kindle Direct.
A cradle Catholic who briefly “jumped the Tiber,” she spent time on the evangelical side of the fence before “reverting” to the Church again—because she was “dying of malnutrition” without the Eucharist. She’s a member of St. Peter Church in Volo, Illinois, where she serves as a member of the St. Anne Sodality board, and even was a guest on a podcast episode in October of 2020.
She is a Chicago area native, now back home once more after a stint in northeast Indiana (where she was an editor for Our Sunday Visitor Books), and lives near one of the Chain o’ Lakes with Maisie, Fur Diva and Office Cat Extraordinaire. When she’s not writing, she’s baking the annual Christmas Cookie Extravaganza, sampling new wines, or spending quality time at the piano trying to unravel the mysteries of Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy, Elgar, Mendelssohn, Rachmaninoff, and Schubert. She’s also a member of various choral organizations in the Chicago area, in which occasionally she hits notes only dogs can hear.
