Reflection for June 22, 2025

Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (C)

Genesis 14:18-20 | Psalm 110:1, 2, 3, 4 | 1 Corinthians 11:23-26 | Luke 9:11b-17

​Today we celebrate the Feast of Corpus Christi—the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ. This feast traces its roots to 1263, when Hochwürden Peer von Praga, a German priest on pilgrimage to Rome, stopped to celebrate Mass at the Basilica of Saint Christina in Bolsena, Italy. Struggling with doubt about the Real Presence, he witnessed the Host bleed during the consecration, with blood staining his hands, the corporal, and even the marble floor—marks still visible today. Moved by this miracle, Pope Urban IV established this feast to honor the great gift of the Eucharist. As we reflect today, may we be renewed in faith and reverence for this great gift.

​After church, my wife Bessie, our daughter Jill, and I went on a sacred mission—to feed Bessie’s stomach, which was growling louder than the church choir’s final hymn. We stumbled upon Dami’s, a high-end bakeshop where the Avocado Bravo was priced at ₱1,800. I whispered, “For that price, it better lower my cholesterol and fix my blood pressure.” We backed away like it was a haunted relic. Then, like a sign from heaven, we saw it—Amazing Grace: Chocolate Baffle. Hope flickered! Until we saw the tag: ₱1,700. Jill clutched her chest. “That’s like three McJolly meals with extra rice and gravy—enough to feed a dozen people!” Bessie squinted at the display and muttered, “What is this, chocolate imported from heaven?” We knew it was time to give up the luxurious lifestyle we never had. But just as we were heading home, hallelujah—Rosa Panaderja. Glorious pandesal at ₱2 a piece! A can of ArgenFoods corned beef later, we were back home, gathered at the table, laughing, feasting like royalty. Sometimes, the most divine meals aren’t served on marble plates or priced like rent—they’re warm, simple, shared with the people you love… and they leave you with change from a hundred-peso bill.

​Jesus, our Eternal High Priest, could have chosen anything grand or majestic to represent Himself—but He chose bread and wine. Simple. Ordinary. Familiar. In our first reading from Genesis, we meet Melchizedek, the king of Salem and priest of God Most High. After Abram’s victory, Melchizedek brings out bread and wine and blesses him in the name of the Lord. It may seem like an ordinary gesture, but in the hands of a priest, that simple offering becomes sacred. This moment becomes a powerful foreshadowing of what we now celebrate in the Eucharist. Jesus—our true Priest, Prophet, and King—takes the same humble elements and, through them, offers us His very Body and Blood for the salvation of the world. Again and again throughout Scripture, we see this same pattern. Jesus reveals who He is not through displays of might, but through the simple, the lowly, and the familiar. He comes to us not as a warrior or a king in royal robes, but as a newborn child—fragile, vulnerable, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Why? Because God chooses to meet us in our weakness, not in power and distance, but in nearness and tenderness. He calls Himself the Good Shepherd—not a ruler to be feared, but a guide who knows each of His sheep by name and lays down His life for them. He uses water to symbolize new life in baptism, and then stoops to wash His disciples’ feet with that same water, giving us a model of humble service. He names Himself the Light of the World—using the most common and comforting element to show His desire to bring hope and direction into our darkness. And in His miracles, He often works with whatever is available: mud made with saliva to heal a blind man’s eyes, water turned into wine to bless a wedding, five loaves and two fish to feed the hungry. Each time, Jesus shows us the same truth: God does not wait for us to become impressive or perfect. He meets us in the ordinary, in the small, in the everyday. That’s why He chooses bread and wine once more—so ordinary we almost take them for granted. But in the Eucharist, He transforms them into Himself. And in doing so, He invites us to draw near without fear. He hides His glory in simplicity so that everyone—rich or poor, weak or strong—can come to Him. This is the heart of the Eucharist: a God who stoops low in love so that He might raise us up. Just as Melchizedek offered bread and wine as a sacred gift, we too are invited to offer what we have, no matter how small. Our time, our talents, our possessions, even the hidden acts of kindness no one else sees—when given in love, God takes them, blesses them, and makes them holy. So today, let us not underestimate what seems simple. In the hands of Christ, even the most ordinary things—like bread and wine—become instruments of grace. And so can we.

A few years ago, I attended the titular feast of a certain parish that proudly hosted a Salu-Salong Bayan. That day, the hermano and hermana arranged over twenty lunch tables lined up like a runway—no chairs, no forks, no spoons, no knives. Just glorious heaps of food laid out on banana leaves, the way God (and the Philippine military) intended. It was what they called a boodle fight—a joyous chaos where we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, ate with our hands, and chatted with whoever ended up across from us. But alas, not everyone was on board the unity train. Some of the parish elites came equipped like they were attending a five-star buffet—complete with plates, utensils, and a deep fear of touching rice. They sectioned off their food like they were building edible fences. Others skipped the whole thing entirely, hiding in an air-conditioned room, enjoying pizza and something cold, like witnesses in a food-related witness protection program. And then came the grand finale: one parishioner calmly scooped up food into plastic containers… and left. To eat alone. At home. In peace. And probably with a fork. The whole point of the event was to eat the same meal, at the same time, as one parish community. But in practice? Epic fail. The food meant to break barriers and build bridges somehow ended up exposing divisions—faster than you could say, “Penge po ng kanin.”

In the final part of today’s reading from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he gives a strong reminder: “Let each one examine themselves before eating the bread and drinking from the cup. For those who eat and drink without discerning the body eat and drink judgment upon themselves.” While the Corinthians were regularly sharing in the bread and cup, their behavior during these gatherings deeply concerned Paul. He questioned whether what they were doing could still be considered the “Lord’s Supper” at all. Though their words may have echoed the events of the Last Supper, their actions told a very different story. The wealthier members arrived early with lavish meals, ate their fill, and even overindulged in wine—some to the point of drunkenness. Meanwhile, the poor and the enslaved, who arrived later, were left with nothing. What was meant to be a sacred moment of unity became a scene of exclusion and inequality. In doing so, they completely missed the heart of the Lord’s Supper. Instead of letting Christ’s example shape their behavior, they allowed social status to divide them. But the Lord’s table is meant to unite, not separate. It is a place where all distinctions—whether of wealth, race, gender, or social standing—are erased in the presence of Christ. So, when Paul calls us to examine ourselves, it’s not just about personal sin or private guilt. It’s also about looking around: Are we treating one another the way Jesus commanded us to? Are we making room at the table for everyone? Because if we truly recognize the Body of Christ—not just in the bread and cup, but in each other—then the Supper becomes what it was always meant to be: a meal of love, unity, and grace.

A few years ago, I witnessed something I still can’t explain—but I know, without a doubt, that God was behind it. We were hosting a feeding program in a very poor community. I only had food good for 100 children—just enough egg lugaw and a piece of cheese pandesal each. So we gave out stubs to 100 of the poorest kids. Simple plan. But on the day itself, word must’ve spread. Kids came from everywhere. Not 120. Not 200. Over 300. My heart dropped. I thought, “Lord, what do I do?” Still, I told the volunteers, “Let them all in. Let’s trust God.” And as each child was served, I kept praying, “Lord, please let it be enough.” Then came the moment: “Kuya Jeff, do you want some lugaw?” a volunteer asked. I said, “No, feed the kids first. We’ll figure something out later.” But he said, “They’re done. All the kids ate. And there’s still enough for us.” I was stunned. “Are you sure?” I asked. They even counted the used bowls—312. We only prepared for 100. Yet every child got a bowl of lugaw and a piece of bread. To this day, I honestly can’t explain how that happened. It makes no sense mathematically. But deep in my heart, I believe God multiplied what little we had. It was grace. Pure mercy. A miracle disguised as breakfast. And I will never, ever forget it.

Our Gospel today offers a moving reminder of what God can do with even the smallest offering. Just like the young boy in the story, God invites us to bring whatever we have to Him—no matter how modest it may seem. That boy’s lunch looked ridiculously small compared to the massive crowd, and he likely felt just as unimportant in the sea of people. Yet, in Jesus’ hands, that little offering became more than enough. In the same way, our time, talents, and treasures may seem inadequate when weighed against the world’s enormous needs. But the Gospel, especially in Luke’s telling, encourages us to trust Jesus with our “little”—because that’s where miracles begin. Maybe all you have is an hour a week. Yet an hour spent tutoring a child, comforting the lonely, or serving in parish ministry can truly change a life. Like the boy who simply showed up with lunch, your presence and willingness matter. Perhaps you're not a great singer or preacher, but you know how to cook, clean, repair things, organize, draw, or write. When shared in love, even these “ordinary” skills can touch souls. A simple sketch, a kind social media post, or a home-cooked meal may speak louder than any sermon. And even if you don’t have much money, small acts of generosity—like donating school supplies, sponsoring a meal, covering someone’s fare, or donating tiles and cement (https://tinyurl.com/SPEDSanFernando)—can have lasting impact. Just like the five loaves, when offered with love, these small gifts can bless many. God doesn’t expect us to fix everything. He simply asks us to offer what we have and trust Him with the rest. It’s not the size of the gift that matters—it’s the faith behind it. And when we surrender even our little to Him, God can make it more than enough.

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