Homily for the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)
Today’s readings give a prominent place to leftovers. In the hands of the prophet Elisha, twenty barley loaves manage to fill a hundred people, with some left over. When Jesus feeds the five thousand, the leftovers—twelve baskets—exceed the amount of bread there was to begin with—just five loaves.
It’s worth noting that the disciples go to the trouble of collecting the leftovers after the impromptu meal. Living in an age of abundance, perhaps we are used to throwing leftovers out or letting them molder in the back of the fridge, but letting leftovers go to waste is a luxury most people in history didn’t have. Certain recipes popular today were originally invented to use stale bread—bread pudding, for example, or the Tuscan bread soup known as ribollita. The funny thing about ribollita is that what started out as a peasant dish today is served in pricey and fashionable restaurants. What was once leftovers has become high cuisine.
There’s something deeply Christian in this transformation. Ours is a faith, after all, in which the stone rejected by the builders becomes the cornerstone, the last become first, the meek inherit the earth, the poor are filled with good things while the rich go away empty, the blood of martyrs becomes the seed of faith, and in dying we are born to eternal life. We believe not just that leftover bread can be transformed into a savory dish, but that utterly ordinary bread and wine are, in the sacrament of the Eucharist, transformed into the body and blood of Jesus. Moreover, if we approach the sacrament in faith, we too are transformed into the body of Christ; our weak and too often sinful flesh becomes the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit.
I have a friend, a Filipino Jesuit who comes from a family of restauranteurs and is an amazing chef. He has a particular genius for being able to walk into any kitchen, open the refrigerator, glance over whatever leftovers are inside, spend half an hour spicing and mixing and reheating, and produce a feast that was better than the original meal. Our Christian faith is something like this. At its heart is belief in the possibility of transformation.
And it’s worth reflecting on this transformation. If we think about the transformation that takes place in the Eucharist—transubstantiation, to be precise, it’s not quite the same as the culinary magic my friend works with leftovers. My friend knows how to combine the ingredients he has in ways that brings out fresh flavors and makes them seem totally new. Transubstantiation means that what was once bread is so no more and becomes something entirely new, the body of Jesus. Transubstantiation is a word we don’t use in any other context because it is a type of change that doesn’t happen anywhere else. It’s a type of change that involves not a combination of old ingredients, but an entirely new ingredient—the power of God.
I don’t want to overcook the metaphor, but perhaps it’s better to think of what is added not as a new ingredient, but as the touch of the ultimate master chef. The important thing is that what happens in the sacraments, what our belief in the divinity of Christ means, what our Christian faith promises is that in the life and work of Jesus, in his death and resurrection, a new power enters the world—the power to transform every human life and the power to transform every moment of our existence. It also means that there are no longer any leftovers. Or rather, that even the leftovers are worth gathering, worth treasuring; that even the leftovers take on an entirely new meaning and value.
There are people we might be tempted to look upon as leftovers—the elderly and terminally ill, the mentally or physically disabled, the unborn child who arrives at an inconvenient time, the criminal, our enemies. And Christianity tells us that such people are not leftovers to be discarded but the handiwork of our Creator and the objects of his infinite love. Treat them as garbage and we might well be throwing our own salvation into the trash.
What is more, sometimes we might be tempted to look at our own lives as a spoiled meal—overcooked or underdone, ruined by our bad decisions. The recipe called for sugar but we added salt. Christianity tells us that the chef can fix that meal too. No matter the sin, no matter how fouled up we think we’ve made things, no sin is beyond forgiveness, and no sinner beyond redemption. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard confessions that began “I don’t know where to begin, Father, it’s been so long…” and then, before you know it—that’s it. Anxiety becomes a smile that hesitates at first and then grows because—that’s it. No sin is beyond forgiveness.
Sometimes there are moments in our lives we wish we could avoid—moments of suffering or disease or having to deal with people we’d rather not. And the suffering of Jesus on the cross teaches us that these moments too can be transformed, can become the moments when we draw closest to Christ because everything else is stripped away, moments of purification when we become capable of a love that doesn’t seek reward. I think of the death of my own grandfather and the care he required from the rest of the family. My dad, who can’t handle the sight of blood or just about anything medical, changed bedpans and did all the things he thought he couldn’t do because even those moments of suffering—moments none of us would choose—can be transformed by Christian love.
When we celebrate this Eucharist this morning, that is what we celebrate—a love that transforms. A love that collects the leftover pieces of bread because even they are precious. The presence—the power of God—that means no life can be discarded, no sinner is beyond redemption, and no moment is without meaning.
Readings: 2 Kings 4:42-44; Ephesians 4:1-6; John 6:1-15
July 28, 2024
St. Isaac Jogues Church, Rapid City, SD
And just a reminder, if you haven’t done so already, consider subscribing to this blog:
Tony Lusvardi, S.J. 