When I was a teenager, I was head-deep in the Church of God denomination. I was leading praise and worship, speaking at our youth group, going on mission trips, and more. There was this book that fascinated me. It was Godchasers by Tommy Tenney, and it recounted a revival that happened in a church where the presence of God was so heavy that people literally pulled off of the roads and wandered into the church not totally aware of why they felt the desire to do so. They just knew that whatever was in that church was something that they needed.
Other than the compelling testimony, there was one line that was riveting: “God, may my hunger for you far exceed my reach.” And I still carry that prayer with me today.
I never would have imagined—as a passionate pastor’s kid, daughter of a missionary, and heavily involved Protestant youth—that I would find myself where I am today. But I know that the Eucharist led me here.
It was Easter morning, and I really didn’t know what to expect. Mass began at 11 a.m., and when we strolled into the place around 10:55, we found ourselves in the back of the choir loft, high enough to not be able to see anything going on down below. I don’t remember what hymns were sung, but I do remember the clang of the thurible and the smell of the incense. I remember the unified shuffling when the people would stand, sit, or kneel, and I remember the Liturgy of the Eucharist most of all.
There was this pregnant silence that filled the place when the Liturgy of the Eucharist began. Bells were rung, and incense once again wafted through the room into the rafters. I was overwhelmed. In that moment, I had no idea why my heart felt such peace, such joy. I just took it all in.
Hunger for Christ. Reach for Christ.
When Mass ended, I climbed into my boyfriend’s car as we headed to his parents’ house for Easter dinner, a short ten-minute drive away. I didn’t say a word. In my mind, I think I was still sitting in the pew and taking all of the Mass into my heart, and when we got to his parents’ driveway, my boyfriend couldn’t handle the silence anymore. As we got out of the car, he said, “Okay. What’s going on? You haven’t said a word since we left the church. Did you hate it? Are we breaking up now?”
A few weeks before this, we had made a sort of pact. After figuring out that there is a great chasm between his Catholic faith and my Protestant faith, five little words set us on this mission: “We both can’t be right.” Those words that I had spoken without haste or worry, I clearly see now as the work of the Holy Spirit. We decided to go to each other’s churches, read some books, and seek counsel.
And there we were, in his parents’ circle driveway, where I hadn’t spoken a word, and he’s anxious to know what brought on the silence. “What’s going on?” he had asked.
My eyes began to well up with tears, and I responded, “I found home. I don’t know what it was, but I found everything my heart has longed for in that Mass.”
It felt as if I had been on a spiritual quest my entire life, unsure of what I was looking for, knowing that it was the Lord but also knowing that what I had discovered thus far was not enough. Growing up, I was a part of some beautiful churches. They were all hyperfocused on Scripture as the only source of truth, and most services included lively music, an altar call (a call to repentance), prayer, and a sermon. But I still found myself with a deep question: “Is it possible to be closer to God than this?” Not just closer spiritually—as that didn’t seem to be enough—but closer in proximity and tangibly. I needed something I could touch. And that lingering question was answered that day in the Mass.
In Sacramentum Caritatis, 35, it says,
The liturgy is inherently linked to beauty: it is veritatis splendor. The liturgy is a radiant expression of the paschal mystery, in which Christ draws us to himself and calls us to communion. As Saint Bonaventure would say, in Jesus we contemplate beauty and splendor at their source. This is no mere aestheticism, but the concrete way in which the truth of God’s love in Christ encounters us, attracts us and delights us, enabling us to emerge from ourselves and drawing us towards our true vocation, which is love.
Shortly thereafter, I came into communion with the Church, and I can truly attest to the conversion that began in my heart at that particular Mass and continues at every Mass since.
In the Gospel of Mark, a father brought his son to Christ. His son was possessed by demons, and the father told Jesus that this had been going on for years. Then he said, “If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.”
Jesus said to him, “‘If you can!’ Everything is possible to one who has faith.”
And the father’s response has been mine on occasion too: “I do believe, help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:21-24).
It seems like a strange dichotomy to, on one hand, admit belief, and on the other, to ask for help with unbelief. I think this is the same prayer that’s said by many Catholics today. As we gaze upon the Host, we are to believe that it is Christ, but to believe requires a certain level of suffering, a call to change the way we live, and that’s a suffering that many cannot bear.
Christ in the Eucharist provides us with a “here but not yet” encounter. We receive who we desire to imitate, and we pray to become more and more like that which we receive. We run to the altar with pain and longing, receive the Host, and then enter back into the longing and pain with redemption pumping through our veins.
The prayer of the aforementioned Protestant spiritual book is still mine today: May my hunger for you far exceed my reach. So, too, with the Eucharist—that this Bread may satiate for a moment, but inevitably it awakens within me a longing to be closer, an eternal closeness that the saints called beatitude. And when you receive the Host at the next Mass that you attend, may your entire person be renewed beneath the weight of his glory. We all know that there are many among us who do not believe in the Real Presence, and my brothers and sisters, that burden is ours to bear. For if we are not transformed by the reception of him who we profess to be present under the appearance of bread, then how does one become convinced of the renewal offered therein?
Hunger for Christ. Reach for Christ. And may our collective hunger far exceed our reach so much so that all of our lives will be leaning toward eternity with him so that we may finally be filled with the food that we long for.