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The Fullness of Life

Like any other child of the ‘90s raised by budget-conscious parents, I’ve spent my fair share of Sunday mornings in line at an Old Country Buffet, hot plate in hand. Kids ate for chump change on Sundays, and I never left that fine establishment without getting our money’s worth. I always came away stuffed to the gills.

But I never, ever remember feeling satisfied.

In fact, if I recall correctly, most of the time I felt rather empty. I was always thinking about the food I didn’t get to eat — whatever I couldn’t fit on my plate, or whatever they were bringing out from the kitchen just as we were about to leave.

As I’ve gotten older, it’s a feeling I’ve encountered again and again, and not just at buffets. Haven’t we all? The people you think are prefect reveal themselves to be deeply flawed. The things you want the most are never as satisfying to possess as they are to long for. The experiences you anticipate the most end up being letdowns, when instead it’s the ordinary moments — maybe even the hard moments, the painful moments — that stand out, that become cherished memories.

Today’s scripture readings equate wisdom and fullness with an acceptance of something that makes no sense, that defies scientific explanation, cultural norms, and even common sense: the Real Presence of our God in the Eucharist.

Is it strange to believe that we are consuming the Body and Blood of Christ in our worship, and that only by doing so will we ever achieve everlasting life?

Perhaps. But we are asked to do many strange things as Christians. We are asked to love when we do not feel like loving, when the object of that love has not earned it. We are asked to forgive even when the recipient of that forgiveness does not seek it or merit it. We are asked to believe, in moments when belief feels impossible.

Socrates says that the only wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing. Perhaps the only spiritual fullness is in knowing that there is only emptiness to be had here in this world, that there is no physical experience or indulgence that can really make you feel satisfied and strong. That the only food that really nourishes you in a way that lasts is a small white Host you can barely taste on your tongue.

“My flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.” — John 6:55

Reflection contributed by: By Colleen Jurkiewicz Dorman

©LPi

Readings for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time: Lectionary 119