Franciscan at Home

En nuestro número anterior, Dr. Kreeft exploró varios asuntos importantes que se suscitan cuando consideramos las preguntas de “¿quién?” y “¿dónde?” en cuanto se refieran a Cristo en la Eucaristía. En este artículo, el autor examina las tres preguntas finales con tal de ayudarnos a mejor comprender la enseñanza de la Iglesia sobre nuestro Señor Eucarístico.

¿Qué?
¿Qué actividad realiza Cristo en la Eucaristía? Obviamente, Él actúa sobre nosotros y dentro de nosotros en la Sagrada Comunión, tanto en nuestro cuerpo como en nuestra alma, ya que Él nos penetra en Cuerpo y Alma, no solamente para estar allí, para ser actual, sino para ser activo también en nosotros. Nos hace cosas. Nos salva de nosotros mismos, nos lava quitando nuestros pecados, nos justifica y santifica, y nos glorifica. Nos da toda gracia, nos hace, de forma gradual, lo que le hizo a María repentina y totalmente, es decir “llena de gracia”. En nuestro caso, este proceso no es completado y perfeccionado en esta vida, como lo fue para María. Pero lo que le hizo Dios, nos lo hace a nosotros. Hace – está ahora manos a la obra haciendo – una obra mucho mayor que el hacer el universo entero desde la nada: está haciendo santos de pecadores. El mundo entero es como aquella caja-más-que-mágica a la que llamamos el confesionario: Adán entra y Jesús sale. Cristo hace lo que únicamente Dios puede hacer: crea en nosotros un corazón puro. Nos está operando el corazón. Él es quien T.S. Eliot llamó “el cirujano herido”. La Sagrada Comunión es cirugía cardíaca.

Pero, ¿qué hace Cristo en la Eucaristía todo el tiempo, aun cuando no estamos recibiendo la Sagrada Comunión y cuando no estamos ofreciendo su Cuerpo y su Sangre al Padre para la salvación del mundo cuando asistimos a Misa? ¿Qué hace durante la Adoración Eucarística? ¿Qué está haciendo ahorita mismo?

Santo Tomás contesta esa pregunta con una sola palabra, una palabra maravillosa, en el himno eucarístico más perfecto que se haya escrito. El primer renglón es “Adoro Te devote, latens deitas, quae sub his figuris, vere latitas” (Devotamente te adoro, Dios escondido, oculto verdaderamente bajo estas apariencias). Aquella palabra, latitas, es la respuesta a nuestra pregunta, “¿Qué está haciendo Cristo allí?” Se está ocultando.

Ocultarse es un acto, no solo un estado estático de ser, sino una acción, una actividad, un acto libremente deseado que hace una diferencia, que cambia algo. Cuando nos ocultamos, cambiamos nuestra apariencia. Si no nos ocultáramos, estaríamos visibles; cuando nos ocultamos, hacemos algo, cambiamos algo, nos volvemos invisibles. Nos retiramos de las apariencias. Cuando dejamos de ocultarnos, no le sumamos nada a nuestro ser, sino que nos quitamos algo: nos quitamos nuestro disfraz, o nuestro escondite. Cesamos la acción de ocultarnos.

n our previous issue, Dr. Kreeft explored several important issues that arise when we consider the questions of “who” and “when” as they relate to Christ in the Eucharist. In this article, he will examine three final questions, to help us better understand the Church’s teaching concerning our Eucharistic Lord.

What?

What activity is Christ performing in the Eucharist? Obviously, he is acting on us and in us in Holy Communion, both in body and soul, since he enters us both in body and soul not just in order to be there, to be actual, but also to be active in us. He does stuff to us. He saves us from ourselves, he washes away our sins, he justifies and sanctifies us, and glorifies us. He gives us all graces, he makes us, gradually, what he made Mary suddenly and totally, namely “full of grace.” For us, this process is not completed and perfected in this life, as it was for Mary. But what God did to her, he does to us. He does—he is now at work doing—a far greater work than making the entire universe out of nothing: he is making saints out of sinners. The whole world is like that more-than-magical-box we call the confessional: Adam walks in and Jesus walks out. Christ does what only God can do: he creates in us a clean heart. He is performing heart surgery on us. He is what T.S. Eliot called “the wounded surgeon.” Holy Communion is heart surgery.

But what is Christ doing there in the Eucharist all the time, even when we are not receiving Holy Communion and when we are not offering his Body and Blood to the Father for the salvation of the world as we assist at the Mass? What is he doing there during Eucharistic adoration? And what is he doing right now?

St. Thomas answers that question in a single word, a wonderful word, in the most perfect and beautiful Eucharistic hymn ever written. The first line is “Adora te devote, latens deitas, quae sub his figuris vere latitas.” (Devoutly I adore thee, hidden deity, Who beneath these figures hideth there from me.) That word latitas is the answer to our question, “What is Christ doing there?” He is hiding.

In what is perhaps the most foundational statement in all the Catechism of the Catholic Church, we read something puzzling: “The ultimate end of the whole divine economy is the entry of God's creatures into the perfect unity of the Blessed Trinity.”

Nearly every teacher of the Faith has access to a church building; and a richly designed church offers more than an art history lesson or the record of a particular parish. In its deep theology, every church building is meant to be an architectural image of the Mystical Body of Christ brought to its heavenly glory, that is, Christ and his members joined with all of creation in the perfect worship of the Father. While it first may seem odd to compare a building to the union of God with his people, Scripture proves full of architectural analogies. In the Old Testament, God dwells in the Jerusalem Temple, abiding with his creation in a highly symbolic building. In the New Testament, Christ’s body becomes the new Temple, the new place where God dwells with his creation, an idea famously echoed in the Gospel of John: “he was speaking of the temple of his body” (Jn 2:21). Christians themselves now form the stones of the temple of Christ’s body, “quarried” and shaped by the Holy Spirit and assembled by Christ himself. The First Epistle of Peter minces no words in calling his Christian readers “living stones” being built up into a spiritual house (1 Pt 2:4), and Saint Paul calls the Christian community “God’s building.” Even though it may sound ordinary today, Paul’s claim is quite extraordinary: the holiest and most important building of Jewish history is now replaced by Christians themselves since they are now “God’s temple” where the Spirit dwells (1 Cor 3: 9, 16). Later, Paul calls the very same Corinthians “members” baptized into the one body of Christ (1 Cor 12:12, 17), a concept that eventually gained the name “Mystical Body.” The Mystical Body is the Church, the continuing action of Christ at work on earth through his members, hierarchically arranged to manifest the Body’s reality and its headship under Christ. Catholic church architecture and its related arts draw directly from this pre-existing spiritual reality and every church building refers to that reality in at least three ways. First, it shows the fulfillment of God’s great deeds and promises that began with the Chosen People. Second, it signifies and makes visible “the Church living in this place, the dwelling of God with men reconciled and united in Christ.”[i] Lastly, it gives a foretaste of the Christian’s heavenly future by way of a sacramental encounter with heavenly things. These concepts remain deeply profound truths of the Christian mystery, yet their artistic expressions are remarkably familiar and largely accessible for interested adults or the youngest students who delight in looking for clues. The aim of this article, then, is to provide seven interpretive lenses that can turn any tour guide into a mystagogical catechist, allowing the church building and its art to lead up to the heavenly realities they signify.

One of the words particularly beloved of Pope Francis, is the Greek parrhēsia.[i] It is also a significant word for all who hand on the faith of the Church: parents, priests and religious, catechists in parishes, and teachers in schools. We could go so far as to say that it sums up for us how we should learn to catechize for the new evangelization.

Every page of the Catechism’s text is characterized by this quality of parrhēsia. The Catechism explains that the word means “straightforward simplicity, filial trust, joyous assurance, humble boldness, the certainty of being loved,”[ii] reminding us that we can speak with “straightforward simplicity” precisely because of our filial trust in the Lord; we can speak with “humble boldness” because of the certainty we have of his love for us.

In an essay on literature, C.S. Lewis praised the genre of fantasy or myth, which he, J.R.R. Tolkien, and others had embraced. Lewis writes: The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’ The child enjoys his cold meat, otherwise dull to him, by pretending it is buffalo, just killed with his own bow and arrow. And the child is wise. The real meat comes back to him more savory for having been dipped in a story….by putting bread, gold, horse, apple, or the very roads into a myth, we do not retreat from reality: we rediscover it.[i] The fact that we have seen an apple many times before does not have to render it ordinary; in other words, by “dipping that apple” in a story that makes us see it differently, not only can we actually appreciate it more but we may, in fact, see it properly for the first time. Lewis, of course, “dipped the apple” of Christianity in many of his books, leading readers to reconsider key aspects of Christianity due to the unique way in which he presented them. That metaphor is also a fitting one to describe the repeated, and often surprising, manner in which we encounter the living Word in our lives after our initial conversion—and the manner in which catechesis should seek to frame its presentation of that Word.

Hablando por mí, debo admitir que mi mente a menudo divaga durante la Misa, especialmente durante la Misa diaria. Generalmente me dejo caer en un banco de la iglesia unos treinta segundos antes o después de que el sacerdote haya entrado. Mi mente anda dando vueltas y estoy distraído por miles de pequeñas preocupaciones. Para cuando haya terminado el Evangelio, a menudo me doy cuenta que apenas he escuchado una palabra. Mi respuesta, "Gloria a Ti, Señor Jesús" a veces me provoca una risita silenciosa ya que viene pegada al final de un chorro de pensamientos que nada tenían que ver con Jesús. Luego, a pesar de mi sincera intención de concentrarme en la homilía, de nuevo se me va la mente. Sin embargo, a lo largo de los años, he descubierto unas técnicas que me han ayudado a lidiar con este problema.

Before I became Catholic, if there was one word that summed up my evangelical Pentecostal Protestant experience, it was “spontaneous.” If there was one word that summed up my perception of the Catholic experience, it was “rubric.” My perception was that Protestants were spontaneous and therefore “authentic,” while Catholics had rubrics and were therefore “lifeless.” After I became Catholic, I began to work with RCIA and discovered that apparently I’m not alone. While concluding an RCIA inquiry meeting one year, I closed in an extemporaneous prayer and, when finished, one of the inquirers said out loud, “Wow! I had no idea you could pray like that. I thought Catholics could only pray memorized prayers.” As I have settled into being Catholic, I’ve learned the key to “authenticity” in prayer is not spontaneity but sincerity. Yes, there are many rubrics and prewritten prayers, but these are given to ensure that the faithful will hear more than an individual’s personal insights. As the tears streamed down my face during the Mass where my wife and I were received into full communion, there was nothing “spontaneous” about the event. The fact that I knew what was coming did not make it any less powerful or life giving. I’ve also learned that there is room for spontaneity. Like most things in the Church, it is both/and, with everything being done in its proper place and time. This article will examine aspects in the Church’s RCIA that allow for “planned spontaneity.” I use the phrase “planned spontaneity” because they are not truly spontaneous, but areas where the Church gives the celebrant freedom to adapt a particular part of the rite. I hope this article will inform those who direct RCIA and inspire priests to be more pastorally effective.

The central theme of Pope Saint John’s Paul II’s post-synodal apostolic exhortation, Ecclesia in America, is the encounter with the living Jesus Christ.