COVID has taught me something about my understanding of Christian faith.

Well I actually knew it already, but these weeks of physical distancing have reminded me with renewed force that Christian faith is, at its core, incarnational. Christianity is a physical faith.

At the centre of Christian belief is a flesh and blood man who lived in a particular time, in a particular place, with particular people. He walked on the earth, got tired, slept, ate and rose in the morning to see the sun breaking over the hills. He had real human relationships; he ate with people, talked with them, loved them, and got frustrated with them. He touched people.

When Jesus had come down from the mountain, great crowds followed him; 2and there was a leper who came to him and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, if you choose, you can make me clean.’ 3He stretched out his hand and touched him. (Matthew 8:1-3)

I understand that, in our current context, the discipline of avoiding physical contact beyond our immediate household is essential. But Jesus did not practice physical distancing, even from those who most people would have deemed to be totally untouchable.

Jesus broke down distancing barriers; he demonstrated that God comes to us disguised in the physical.

When Jesus was getting ready to leave his physical body, he wanted to reassure his followers that, even in his physical absence, he would always be present in their lives. He sat with them at a table and shared bread and wine saying,

This is my body; this is my blood. Do this to remember me.

Jesus did not leave a book, a catechism, a finely worked out theology, or an elaborately structured organization to convey his presence. Jesus left bread and wine and a group of people gathered around a table.

Those who shared in that first Lord’s Supper could hear the sound of Jesus’ voice. They could see the sadness in his eyes. They could feel his closeness as he presided at the table. But, equally important, each person could feel the physical presence of those with whom they shared this meal. They could watch as the bread was passed around the table and as each person drank from the cup. They could sense the awkward shuffling as people shifted nervously, uncertain how to respond to this unfamiliar ritual. They could hear the sounds of eating and drinking and feel the uneasy silence in the face of a vast mystery.

Physical presence is the heart of Eucharist. Jesus calls us to embody our faith in bread and wine. But he calls us also to recognize him in the physical presence of the worshiping community.

I am deeply aware of Jesus’ presence not through some magical alchemy that takes place in bread and wine, but through the gathering of God’s people around the table to share in the action Jesus left.

I see Christ in you as you kneel or stand at the table with outstretched hands and an open heart. I hear the voice of Christ in the harmony of singing. I hear the sound of the divine as we join in prayer, hear Scriptures read, and sit in the patterns of refracted light spilling through stained glass.

Eucharist is not a ritual in which a priest is the only actor doing something to passive spectators. Eucharist takes place because everyone is an active participant. We are all the celebrants. We join together at the table to make real in a deep way the presence of that love and power that was manifest in the historical particular presence of Jesus.

The absence of physical presence is a great loss in Christian faith. But, I trust that, as we hold the pain of this absence, we will return in time with greater depth to a renewed awareness of the sacred presence that comes to us embodied in the physical stuff of life.