In his novel The Gates of the Forest, Elie Wiesel tells a story about a wise and holy Rabbi who lived long ago.  When the Rabbi’s congregation faced a great calamity, the Rabbi went to a favorite spot in a nearby forest.  He lit a fire and said a special prayer to ask God’s help for the People.  Then, the Rabbi went home to find that the impending disaster had been averted by means of a miraculous Divine intervention. 

Some years after the Rabbi’s death, another disaster threatened the People.  A disciple of the wise and holy Rabbi went to the Rabbi’s favorite spot in the forest. He prayed, “I don’t know how to light the fire, but I am able to say the prayer; I trust that this is sufficient.”  It was sufficient, and God worked another miracle to preserve the People. 

Many years passed, a disciple of the first disciple had occasion to intercede for another miracle.  He went to the special place in the forest and prayed, “I do not know how to light the fire or how to say the prayer, but I know the place, and this must be sufficient.”  It was sufficient, and the People were saved again by a miracle. 

Finally, a disciple of the disciple of the disciple of the Rabbi was faced with a calamity threatening his People.  Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he prayed, “I am unable to light the fire, and I do not know the prayer.  I cannot even find the place in the forest.  All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient.  It was, and the People were saved. 

Our celebration of the Eucharist is much like the plea for Divine help made by the successive generations of rabbis in the story. That is to say, much has changed since the first celebration of the Eucharist. 

For the first several centuries of the Church’s life, the celebration of the Eucharist took place within the context of a communal meal.  Christians would gather in someone’s home.  Each household would bring food and drink sufficient for the members of the household; they would also bring bread and wine for the celebration of the Eucharist.  A member of the community would bless the meal, and the congregation would dine.  After the meal, the Scriptures were read, and someone preached about the message of the Scriptures; the preacher was encouraged to preach as long as he could do.  Then, a member of the congregation would repeat or paraphrase Jesus’ words at the Last Supper.  The bread and wine would be returned to those who had brought it.  They would receive the Eucharist, and take home some of their Eucharist for the sick or imprisoned family members. 

In the intervening centuries, we’ve lost both the communal meal and the comradery that it produced.  We’ve lost the hunger for God’s Word that inspired our ancestors in the faith to make their weekly worship a whole night’s endeavor.  To a noticeable degree, we’ve lost an awareness that Eucharist is our self-sacrifice to God that allows us to receive Jesus’ self-sacrifice on our behalf; rather than a sacrifice, Eucharist is treated very often as a commodity to be obtained.  We attempt still to take Eucharist to the sick and to make the Eucharist the guiding principle of our lives, but these are often sporadic activities rather than habits. 

Despite the fact that some Catholics treat Mass attendance as an obligation akin to paying taxes, and despite the fact that some treat Mass attendance as a game that is won by making the least possible effort, we are still able to tell the story with some degree of accuracy, and this must be sufficient.  Despite our moral failings and lack of faith, we are able to remember that Jesus is “the living bread that came down from heaven, and whoever eats this bread will live forever.” (Jn. 6:51) 

At a Mass I said recently, I instructed one of the volunteer ministers to retrieve the ciborium from the Tabernacle at the Sign of Peace.  The volunteer responded that he didn’t feel worthy to remove the Eucharist from the Tabernacle.  He was correct; none of us are worthy.  No pope, no bishop, no priest, no deacon, no cardinal, no baptized person is worthy to celebrate the Liturgy of the Eucharist, receive the Eucharist, hold the Eucharist, or take the Eucharist to the sick.  We do all those things, however, because we are commanded to celebrate Eucharist in the Lord’s memory and to live in a way that brings the presence of Jesus to the world.  We do all those things, not because we are worthy, but because we are required by our faith to tell the story of redemption to the Church and the world.   

Today, the Church doesn’t quite measure up to the standards set by the first generations of Jesus’ disciples. Rather than a cause for despair, this is an invitation to renew our faith and hope. Because of God’s great mercy, we are obliged to redouble our efforts to express our gratitude to God. Because of God’s great mercy, we are obliged to be the presence of the Risen Lord to our fellow baptized and to the world. Because of God’s great mercy, we are obliged to trust that our feeble efforts are sufficient. 

Our telling of the story of redemption is much diminished from what it was during the first few centuries of the Church’s life, and this must be sufficient.