I often wonder where our religious customs and beliefs come from, and why they have drifted so far from their true origins.
Where did the practice of receiving the Eucharist in one's hands or on the tongue come from? The delicate ritual of carrying it to the palate and waiting for it to dissolve on its own.
Some priest, nun, or catechist must have taught it to my grandparents, who taught it to my parents, and they taught it to me. During my First Communion, they explained and repeated the careful, respectful procedure a thousand times.
Probably I would never have stopped to think about any of this if I hadn't faced my own difficulties. I might have simply continued performing these familiar gestures, passing them on to others in turn. But I have spastic tetraparesis with dystonia, and the procedure is extremely hard for me. I have to maintain the best posture I can while standing in line with the other faithful, work within tight timeframes, sometimes deal with hurried priests, and watch carefully not to stumble or fall. There are so many things to manage.
Because of all this, I have developed various strategies over the years to approach Jesus in the best way I can and avoid embarrassing mishaps. Yet I still approach the Eucharist with anxiety and dread, and something always goes wrong. Sometimes the bread gets stuck between my lips. Sometimes I bite it, or swallow it in an improper way. I live through all of this with deep guilt, real discomfort, and frustration.
Thinking about these feelings, I found myself returning to the words of the Consecration, when the priest repeats the gestures and words of Jesus: "Take and eat." I stopped on the verb "eat"—the very word Jesus used. He said "eat," which means "eat Me." Eating means biting, chewing, moving your mouth and jaw—sometimes in ways that are not refined, not careful about propriety.
I try to picture that Last Supper, all of his gestures. And I believe that the Twelve, because they were simple men and because of the great love, friendship, and trust they shared with Jesus, simply ate that bread and that body. They didn't worry. They didn't fuss. They didn't take precautions.
I think of Judas, lost in his own thoughts, surely eating and chewing very quickly, without any refinement at all.
I think of our modern dinner tables, my own family meals with friends, where love, friendship, familiarity, trust, and intimacy allow us to be informal. They let us live through small, ungraceful, unrefined incidents at the table with more peace, without shame.
Maybe when Jesus commanded us to eat, he meant to establish a true communion with us—founded on love and friendship, a bond so unique, so strong, so deep, so intimate that it could transcend all the barriers of formality, etiquette, and hollow ceremony. Perhaps all my reflection will never free me from my guilt and sense of inadequacy. But even in my difficult moments, I feel united with him—in my unease, in my smallness, in my struggle to receive him. And perhaps it is from this suffering that a true, deep communion with Jesus can take root.
- Sílvia Tamberi, 2003
