food’s taste and consistency are accidental qualities, Mark, not of its essence or substance. The food and drink you consume become a part of you, and give your body physical nourishment, independently of how they taste or feel, do they not?”
“They do.”
“Why, then, should you judge their ability to give your soul spiritual nourishment by such accidental qualities?”
“I understand that much, Timothy. And in truth, I feel my soul nourished, even now, after consuming the blessed meal. But is the spiritual nourishment simply a function of the consumer’s faith that the bread and wine have such effects, or is there a real transformation of bread and wine into a different substance—the body and blood of our Lord?”
“The transformation is real enough, Mark. Your faith does not make it so; your faith is the belief that it is so. It is God Himself who makes it so. Yet it is by faith that you appropriate the benefits of the transformation, for if you did not believe that the bread and wine had become spiritual nourishment, it would not be spiritually nourishing for you.”
“Then whether it is the faith of the believer alone, or the actual intervention of God producing a change of substance that renders the bread and wine spiritually nourishing, the ultimate effect seems indistinguishable. Either way, it seems the faith is needed to secure the benefit.”
“That is true, but misses the point. We cannot make something so simply by believing it to be so.”
“Why, then, do we need faith in the transformation at all in order to enjoy its benefits? If the bread and wine are the true body and blood of our Lord independently of our faith that it is so, could not a nonbeliever such as this boatswain obtain the same spiritual benefits of the meal simply by eating with us?”
“The beliefs of the worshippers are no less important for their inability to bring about any change in substance, Mark. For example, we do not eat meat which has been sacrificed to idols, although its characteristics are unchanged by that sacrifice, because to partake of it would amount to confessing communion with idolaters. Similarly do we eat the bread and wine that has become the sacrifice of our Lord’s body and blood to confess communion with all believers, although that confession does not convert bread and wine into flesh and blood. The difference between the meat sacrificed to idols and the bread and wine which recalls the sacrifice of our Lord involves precisely what we were discussing earlier—the sense in which man can partake of God’s divinity.”
“Explain.”
“Tell me, my Jewish brother: what is it, above all else, that unites all Jews everywhere, whatever their place of birth, language, or vagaries of their individual beliefs?”
Surprised though I was by the question, I did not need to think for even a second to come up with the answer. “The sacrifice regularly offered in the inner court of the Temple on Mount Zion.”
“And what is sacrificed there? Is it not the flesh and blood of an unblemished animal?”
“Yes.”
“And for whom is that sacrifice offered? For Jews only, or for Gentiles as well?”
“Only for Jews, Timothy. The sacrifice is prescribed by the Law, and Gentiles are not bound by the Law. Paul’s teachings have made that much consistently clear, I would think.” Only later would I think of the inconsistency with this teaching that Paul had exhibited in having Timothy himself circumcised. But Timothy, the ultimate logician, made no mention of it here.
“Then what is the sacrifice which unites Christian believers as well? Is it not our Lord’s death?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“And how are these believers to partake of that sacrifice? Can there be a better way than in consuming the very bread and wine—the very flesh and blood—which commemorates that death, and having consumed it, allow it to become a part of our very bodies?”
For a moment, I was without words; all I could do was nod my assent.
“Let us go further: is it not a commandment of the law of Moses—indeed, from the time of God’s admonition to Noah—that blood must never be consumed?”
“That is so; the blood of an animal is deemed to contain its life essence, which belongs to God. Thus no animal killed by strangulation may be eaten, for such means of slaughter leaves blood in the meat. As it is sacred to God, all blood must be poured out and not be consumed.”
“Yet our Lord commands us to drink his very blood—a sharing, then, in his life essence. But only if he is truly God will his blood, his life essence, represent eternal life, and allow those who consume it to partake of that eternal life. And since God is pure spirit and not flesh and blood, it was necessary for God to become incarnate for this to occur. It was necessary for God to take on flesh and blood, and for God-become-man to become the sacrificial lamb, to accomplish this.”
Once again I could only nod my agreement; I was far too excited by Timothy’s insight to speak.
“Do you not see it all, Mark? Man’s sharing in the divine essence; Christ as God-become-man; his death as a sacrifice for the sins of man; the bread and wine as his flesh and blood; the communion of his church; all are facets of the same single truth, the same identity!”
My pulse was racing! I knew to a certainty that Timothy’s words contained a great and transforming message. I did not want to lose the moment, but somehow I knew that I needed time to digest what I had just heard. It was as though pieces of a puzzle had been thrust so close in front of my eyes that the picture they formed could not come into focus without a step back. Although putting them into a coherent whole was all that mattered to me at that moment, I knew the moment could not be rushed.
Timothy obliged me, albeit unknowingly. “We will discuss this again later, Mark,” he said as he rose. “But right now, I must speak further with the boatswain.”
This was to be a night of very little sleep for me.
Chapter 8
In the morning we headed north again toward the island of Corcyra, named for the beautiful nymph with whom Poseidon fell in love. According to Homer, this was where Odysseus had washed ashore after being shipwrecked, the penultimate stop on his twenty-year journey back to Ithaca. If the winds for our crossing were favorable, it would also be our final stop before heading to Brundisium in southeastern Italy.
After eating a few of the corncakes and cheese we had brought on board at Pylos, Timothy and I were ready to resume our discussion, and again made our way to the stern of the ship, sitting with our backs to the cross-breeze out of the west, which was particularly strong today, creaking the timbers of the boat as it titled off the wind. Today, Timothy seemed even more anxious to open the conversation than I—albeit with a question that I did not expect.
“Do you feel the love of God, Mark?”
My hesitation in answering so simple yet disarming a question was fueled by equal parts of surprise and embarrassment. “I . . . I . . . often do feel it, yes. Yes, of course, Timothy!” My words did not sound convincing to myself, and I was sure that they did not convince Timothy, either.
“Tell me, then: what does it feel like?”
It was obvious that Timothy was looking for a more profound
