Eucharist

By Ola Tjørhom

The Eucharist is the sacrament of Christ's presence, his real presence. Here he comes to us in bread and wine, through outward and material signs that are accessible to all. This is an expression of infinite grace. However, when Jesus gives himself to us, we are called to share ourselves and what we have with others. Thus, the Eucharist also becomes the sacrament of fellowship and unity. It is a sacrament in and for our wounded world, a sacrament of life in the widest sense. The reflections in this book are grounded in the Lutheran tradition, combined with an open ecumenical approach. They aim at unfolding some of the wealth of the Lord's Supper in a concise and accessible way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cascade Books
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666746334

Ola Tjørhom

Ola Tjørhom was born in 1953 in Stavanger, Norway. He was a doctor of theology at the University of Oslo, now professor emeritus of dogmatics and ecumenical theology. Tjørhom has held chairs and taught widely in Norway and across Europe. His publications chiefly deal with the nature and mission of the church, and with church unity.

Book preview

1. The Sacrament of Christ’s Presence

I grew up with the notion that the key concern in the Christian life is to provide space for Jesus and let him dwell in your heart. Surely, there is nothing wrong with this—as far as it goes. However, our hearts can also be packed and cramped for space. A host of questions demand our attention; there is so much we are expected to have an opinion on, so many debates we are challenged to engage in—not least within the churches. Accordingly, a longing for something more durable, more stable gradually grew. I longed for something that was less dependent on shifting emotions and changing circumstances. The Eucharist became the answer to this longing.

Several expressions are used to describe the sacrament. The Norwegian word nattverd simply means evening meal and compares to the Lord’s Supper. These terms allude to the last meal of Jesus with his disciples. Eucharist focuses on our thanksgiving to the Father, which continues the thanksgiving prayer of Jesus during his last meal, in compliance with the Jewish Passover rite. This act of thanksgiving played a key role when the church’s liturgy was formed. Communion or Holy Communion emphasizes another crucial aspect: the nature and aim of the sacrament as a vertically grounded and horizontally directed fellowship. Along these lines, the perspective is widened—reflecting the richness of the Eucharist.

At the core of this, however, is the meal. In gathering at a table and joining in a simple repast consisting of bread and wine, something truly great happens: we share in Christ and all his benefactions to us. Nothing less. Thus seen, this act remains a meal, but it takes us beyond ordinary meals. It provides sustainable nourishment for our lives on earth and for eternity: I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world (John 6:51).

The meal with Jesus—a wonder in our empty hands

In Georges Bernanos’s captivating novel The Diary of a Country Priest (1936), the central theme of a wonder or miracle in empty hands primarily refers to the wonder of grace. Or more precisely to the potential of the young and desolate, struggling and eventually dying priest to be able to convey to others what he does not possess himself. This also makes sense as an expression of what occurs in the Eucharist. At the table, we receive Christ—literally—in our empty hands. And this marvel, this miracle, is founded on the ultimate wonder of grace.

However, the eucharistic wonder is not some sort of hocus, pocus, filiocus-magic—even if this formula is said to have roots in the words of distribution: Hoc est corpus (meum); this is my body. And it is certainly miles apart from witchcraft. In its outward form, it is a simple act of sharing bread and wine. But in this act, we are united with Christ—our savior. Without him, grace vanishes—and so does the Eucharist, the meal of grace.

Now, the Lord’s Supper is not solely about Jesus in a narrow sense: it relates to and unfolds the whole Trinity. The sacrament is thanksgiving to God the Father (eucharistia). It is our memorial of Christ’s work (anamnesis). It comprises our invocation of the Holy Spirit (epiclesis). It is celebrated in the midst of God’s people, as an inclusive act of fellowship—knitting the vertical and the horizontal dimensions together (communio). It relates to God’s world and the whole of creation, not least through bread and wine—being gifts from creation. At the same time, it points towards the heavenly banquet that will take place when death is defeated and God’s work in Christ is completed (eschatologia). And as a wonder of grace, it calls us to share our bread with others, especially those in need (diakonia). At the table, the threads of our faith life are gathered. These concerns will be further explored later.

Yet, the Eucharist is first and foremost the meal of Jesus and with Jesus. He invites everyone; he even compels us to join (Luke 14:23). He prepares the meal and is himself the food that is offered—the bread is his body and the wine his blood. A more direct form of presence can hardly be imagined. And this presence is complete; nothing is lacking. He is present as truly human and true God, as the crucified and risen, as our brother and our Lord. In the Eucharist, Christ is mainly present as the body that at Calvary was broken for our and the world’s sake. Or as stated by Francis Moloney: a body broken for a broken people.¹

Comfort for all who are weary and burdened

Wherever Christ is, there is love and solidarity, atonement and reconciliation, restoration and new life. This applies to the sacrament of his presence as well. Especially in troubled times, there is great comfort in being able to receive Christ on the tongue—by eating and drinking, through elementary empirical perception. Hardly any of us are vaccinated against periods of doubt, also concerning the question whether or not the bread and wine of the Eucharist are capable of delivering what they pledge. Such doubt is legitimate and must be granted space; shallow prosperity theology is far from being sustainable. However, the promise of the gospel stands: This [bread] is my body given for you, do this in remembrance of me (Luke 22:19). These words offer dependable consolation to all who are weary and burdened.

This point is strongly emphasized and further developed by Martin Luther:

If now I seek the forgiveness of sins, I do not run to the cross, for I will not find it given there. Nor must I hold to the suffering of Christ, . . . in knowledge or remembrance, for I will not find it there either. But I will find in the sacrament or gospel the word which distributes, presents, offers, and gives to me that forgiveness which was won on the cross.²

When Luther speaks about the sacrament, he refers to the Lord’s Supper together with its grounding in the gospel. And he insists that the words of institution, which he took very literally, were of great help for all who hear them—not least for tormented and struggling souls. I will later return to Luther’s account of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. But it should be noted already at this stage that the is of the words of institution means is and nothing less: the bread is Christ’s body, and the wine is his blood. To the resolute Reformer, this was more than a doctrine. It was a fundamental condition of Christian life.

Something similar applies to the Catholic writer Flannery O’Connor (1925–1964). She was also strongly concerned with the material nature and crucial significance of the Eucharist, insisting on a concrete perception of Christ’s presence. During a posh and sophisticated dinner party, an event which the rather blunt author loathed, one of the guests spoke of the sacrament as a lovely symbol. In a letter to a friend, O’Connor commented that she had responded in a very shaky voice: Well, if it’s (only) a symbol, to hell with it. Having later cooled down a bit, she added: For me [the Eucharist] is the center of existence; all the rest of life is expendable.³ I assume Luther would have agreed.

The shape of the Eucharist—profusion in simplicity

Instantly and considered from the outside, the Eucharist comes across as a modest thing. We live in a time when loud, boisterous, and shallow events get the most attention. Neil Postman’s highly prophetic book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business primarily discusses the development in the media field, but it can also be read as a depressingly fulfilled dystopia regarding the direction of major parts of our social and cultural life—at least in the materially richer nations. We are amusing ourselves to death, while the world is bleeding.⁴ Terrifying events like the climate crisis, the corona pandemic, and the war in Ukraine may have caused shocking truths to dawn on quite a few. But this is obviously not enough to make us realize that a new direction, a veritable revolution, is needed. And the populist propensity towards shallowness and superficiality lingers.

Seen in light of the craving to be entertained that has shaped much of our mentality and culture, a stylized repast where we are offered a tiny wafer or an oblate and a mouthful of wine—rarely of high quality—appears embarrassingly unspectacular. The Danish author Karen Blixen’s short story Babette’s Feast (1950) is sometimes interpreted as an example of a cultural appreciation of the profusion of the Eucharist. However, this story deals with the power of good food and drink, the refugee Babette’s generosity towards the local community, and the contrast between her delicious dishes and the congregation’s sad life.

On the surface, our gathering at the altar table is unglamorous. And we should avoid talking too loudly about this low-key event. Yet, we must never stop reminding each other what this is all about: the Eucharist is the sacrament of Christ’s presence, his unfailing presence. Rarely, probably never, does Christ come closer to us than at his table. Here his presence is not purely spiritual, in the sense of abstract and vague. It is real, taking place above and independently of shifting emotions. Through simple, but outwardly visible signs—bread and wine—Christ meets us in a concrete manner. Here he can be sensed, empirically. In reflecting on the Lord’s Supper, our taste for the grandiose and glorious must be restrained. We must learn to appreciate the wealth in the apparently trivial and humble.

The simple shape of the Eucharist is vital of several reasons. It corresponds to a rule in the church as well as God’s kingdom, the rule of hidden greatness or greatness through meekness. It helps us to focus on essentials, in accordance with the crucial principle that less is more. It also makes it easier for all of us to join at the table—regardless of how lacking food at home may be. And most importantly, it transcends the deep gap between the excessive affluence of the privileged and the desperate poverty of the deprived. At the table of Jesus, incredible things happen through simple means: a wonder in our empty hands.

The real presence—embodied and material

Real presence means nothing less than real presence. The point is that Christ is truly, wholly, and unfailingly present in the bread and wine of the Eucharist. The bread is his body, and the wine is his blood. And from the elements of bread and wine, being gifts of creation, explicit lines can and should be drawn to God’s presence in the world.⁵

Surely, this is not the only thing that can be said about the Lord’s Supper. There are cases when an exaggerated emphasis on the signs or elements leads to a narrow approach, at the cost of the many other gifts of the Eucharist. Furthermore, Christ’s presence is not exclusively limited to bread and wine. He is present in the whole sacramental act, not least in its nature as an expression of communion and fellowship. If our sole focus is on the elements, there is a danger that the vast richness of the sacrament will be lost to us.

Yet, the essence of Christ’s presence is what occurs in, with, and under bread and wine. And his real presence in the elements provides the foundation of everything else that is given to us in the Eucharist. This is due to the fact that the events at the Lord’s table are not merely symbolic—they are far more than a recollection of incidents in a distant past. The sacramental signs or species of bread and wine are concrete and tangible entities. They signify that the Lord is present in our midst today, in embodied and material form.

The doctrine of the real presence should not be considered as a detailed rational explanation of how Christ’s presence in the Eucharist takes place. When Jesus in his last meal with the disciples spoke about the bread as his body and the wine as his blood, we must relate to these assertions through faith. The real presence is, therefore, a part of the sacramental mystery. Still, it confirms that this mystery is perceptible and substantial.

The incarnation, in which God’s only son [took] the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness (Phil 2:7), is crucial to Christian faith. It provides the basis of the doctrine of Christ’s two natures—as true God and truly human. It holds together creation and redemption and it affirms that in Christ, God recognizes all genuine humanity. While the slogan do like God, become human may have become a little worn, it does hold true. The incarnation is essential to sacramental theology as a whole, but particularly to the Eucharist. The real presence is anchored in and derives from this magnificent act of God.

Since the Son of God became human—our brother in everything, if without sin—he is also fully capable of coming to us through gifts from the created world. Accordingly, Christ’s presence in the Eucharist can be interpreted as a manifestation and, in some sense, a continuation of the incarnation. In light of the incarnation, his presence in the sacrament becomes real and close; he enters our lives and relates to us as family and friends. Christ’s infinite solidarity with us marks the Eucharist as a deeply compassionate act.

The real presence has its biblical basis in Christ’s words of institution as transmitted in the gospel: This is my body given for you; [t]his cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you (Luke 22:19–20). Augustine (354–461) took this to mean that when we eat the body of Christ, we—the fellowship of the church—become his body.⁶ This parallels Paul’s vigorous description of the church as the body of Christ in 1 Corinthians 12. As already mentioned, Martin Luther read the words of institution very