The Body of Christ for the Life of the World

Homily for The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ 

Fr. John Franck (2025)

Today, on this wonderful feast of Corpus Christi, we gather to contemplate the mystery that lies at the very heart of our Catholic faith: the real, substantial, and abiding presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist—body, blood, soul, and divinity. If we grasp this mystery even faintly, our lives cannot remain the same. The Eucharist is not merely a symbol, not simply a reminder, not just a ritual—no, it is him. As St. Paul reminds us in today’s second reading, “This is my body that is for you… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.”

Let’s begin there—with St. Paul. It’s striking how early this testimony appears. The First Letter to the Corinthians was written around the year 55 A.D., which means Paul is handing on a tradition that he himself received, going back to the very earliest Christian communities. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” This is the language of sacred tradition—paradosis—the handing on of what is most precious.

Think about that. Within about twenty years of Jesus’ death and resurrection, the practice of the Eucharist was already central, normative, and clearly understood as something directly instituted by Christ himself. Paul is not innovating. He’s preserving. He’s reverencing a mystery that already had pride of place in the life of the Church.

Now, notice what he says: “Do this in remembrance of me.” That word—remembrance—in Greek, is anamnesis. It doesn’t mean simply to call something to mind, like remembering your cousin’s birthday or your high school graduation. No, anamnesis is a liturgical term. It means to make present, sacramentally, a past event in its saving power. In the Eucharist, the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ on the cross is made present to us—not re-sacrificed, but re-presented—in a mysterious, sacramental mode.

Let me illustrate this with a story from the Jewish tradition. At a Passover Seder, that is, a Passover meal, the youngest child asks, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And the father replies not, “Because once upon a time our ancestors were freed from Egypt,” but, “Because this night, we were freed from Egypt.” In other words, the past becomes alive again. This is what we do every time we come to Mass. We do not simply recall what Jesus did on Holy Thursday or Good Friday. We step into that very mystery. We enter the upper room. We kneel at the foot of the cross. We receive the risen Lord into our own bodies.

That leads us to today’s Gospel—the miraculous feeding of the five thousand from Luke, chapter 9. Now at first glance, you might think, “Nice miracle story. Jesus has compassion. He feeds the hungry.” Yes—but oh, so much more. The Church has always read this miracle as a profound anticipation of the Eucharist.

Notice the verbs Luke uses: Jesus takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it. The same four verbs appear in the account of the Last Supper. The same four appear in the Emmaus story when the disciples finally recognize the risen Christ in the breaking of the bread. These are Eucharistic verbs. What Jesus is doing here is not just satisfying physical hunger—though he does that—but he’s revealing himself as the bread of life who will satisfy the deepest hunger of the human heart.

Let me tell you this true story. Quite a few years ago now, I was visiting a mission chapel in a slum on the outskirts of Mexico City. The church, if you would call it that, had maybe 50 or 60 people. There were no walls, just a metal roof. There were no doors, no windows. Some people sat on old, shaky benches; most were standing. But when I elevated the host at the consecration, the silence in that chapel was powerful. A little girl sitting near the altar whispered to her younger brother, “Look, that’s Jesus!” And the boy nodded solemnly, as if to say, “I know.”

Friends, those children understood something that even many educated adults in our Western world have forgotten. The Eucharist is not a symbol of Christ. It is Christ. And the proper response is not analysis but adoration. St. Thomas Aquinas, whose feast is often celebrated near this time, wrote one of the great hymns of Corpus Christi: Adoro Te Devote, in which he says, “Sight, touch, taste are all deceived in their judgment of you. But hearing suffices firmly to believe.” In other words, I trust in the word of the Lord who says, “This is my body… This is my blood.”

Now think of the aftermath of the miracle in today’s Gospel. Jesus tells the disciples to “Give them something to eat.” They are bewildered. “We have only five loaves and two fish.” But when they offer that little bit, Jesus blesses it, multiplies it, and feeds thousands. That’s the Eucharist too. We bring the simple gifts of bread and wine—basic elements of human labor and nature—and in the hands of Christ, they become something divine. What we offer is transformed.

This is the rhythm of the Christian life. We offer our poverty—our brokenness, our fatigue, our sin, our small efforts—and Christ does something miraculous. He multiplies our offering and makes it a banquet for the world.

St. Teresa of Calcutta used to say, “The Eucharist and the poor are inseparable.” And she was right. Once we have been transformed by the body of Christ, the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, we are sent out to find him in the face of the poor, the abandoned, the lonely, the suffering. We cannot receive the bread of life without becoming broken bread for others.

So what does this feast ask of us today?

First, reverence. Let us never approach the altar casually. Prepare your hearts before Mass. Go to confession. Fast an hour beforehand. And when you receive the Eucharist, remember who it is you are receiving.

Second, adoration. Find time for Eucharistic adoration. Spend even fifteen minutes before the Blessed Sacrament in silence. Bring your burdens. Rest in his presence. As St. John Vianney said of the Eucharist, “He looks at me, and I look at him.”

Third, mission. Become Eucharist for the world. Allow yourself to be taken, blessed, broken, and given. Feed the hungry. Console the lonely. Speak truth in love. The Christ you receive is the Christ you are sent to become.

I’ll close with the words of Pope Benedict XVI: “The Eucharist is not a prize for the perfect but a powerful medicine for the weak.” We are not worthy to receive him. But in his mercy, he comes to us anyway. And when we say “Amen,” we are saying, “Yes, Lord, I believe. Let it be done to me according to your word.”

Today, on this feast of Corpus Christi, may we fall in love again with the Eucharist. May we become what we receive. And may the bread of life transform us into the body of Christ for the life of the world.