In 1920, my maternal grandfather purchased a small valley just north of Mossyrock, Washington. He paid the astounding price of $50 for many acres of land that extended from a spring of water up into the surrounding forested hills, a small enclosed paradise nestled in the western reaches of Mount Rainier. On my fortieth birthday, I received a gift from my maternal uncle, Arnold, a gift of one acre of that land my mother’s brother had received from their father. I now hold the deed to the land and the record of the property taxes I’ve paid to the county treasurer’s office. Indeed, Lewis County and the State of Washington recognize me as the owner this small wooded plot in the hills. That is, from a legal perspective, the land, its trees, ferns, and stones are mine. Perhaps if I felt the need and had the money, I could convince my sister and my cousins to give me or sell me their adjoining acres of land. I could become a small-time land baron.

Such is the world in which we live where it is considered normal to purchase parcels of the earth and believe that you and I and others are the owners of the plot, the yard, the acre, the house, the condo, the cabin. Such is the world in which we live where it is considered normal to acquire – to acquire land or capital or stocks, all of these extensions of our need and perhaps our desire, our desire for just a little more. Yes, we are well-schooled to the point where you and I may consider it not only normal but worthwhile to gain more and perhaps more, such acquisition sanctioned by family practice, by the government, by the market, by the very cultural air we breathe in and out, in and out, every day. We are well-trained, I would say, in the gesture of the acquisitive hand – grasping and taking and believing, quite sincerely, that whatever I am holding is mine, is ours. But for a moment, let us ask: Is that so?

You see, the buyer, the landowner, the naïve capitalist within me is also a Christian, a Christian who is faced with these words: “The land is mine, [says the Lord your God]; with me you [humans] are but aliens and tenants” (Lev. 25:23); and this: “The sea is God’s, for he made it, and the dry land, which his hands have formed” (Ps. 95:5); and this: “We believe in one God … the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.” Such words which course through our holy book and our liturgy can be troubling words, troubling for me the owner of a tidbit of land, for they prompt me to ask: What would it be like if we lived in a world not our own, a world not our own? Would we not experience the tension between the legal fiction of human ownership and the biblical vision of God’s ownership and God’s instructions concerning the use of this rich and diverse treasure we call the sea and the land -- all that is, seen and unseen? Would it not be possible to recognize that if the land is owned by the divine creator, then the produce of the land belongs to the “the eternal and divine gardener”? And if the produce of the land, if food and drink, the very things which sustain life, belong to the divine harvester and vine grower, do not the tables of the earth – where God’s food and drink are set forth – also belong to the Host rather than the guests, the aliens, and the tenants, you, and me? The Psalmist sings into our ears: “All creatures look to you, O God, to give them their food in due season; you open wide your hand and feed every living thing (Ps. 104: 27-28). All creatures – the woman, the fish, the bird, the child, the beloved dog and the purring cat, the honey bee, the man, the lamb …  

What would it be like if we lived in a world not our own, in a world where we, the beloved creatures of the loving Creator, learned deeply and led others to share food and drink equitably and justly, lovingly and gracefully with each other and especially with those who have little food and little drink? It should come as no surprise to us that the One whose body and blood we call the Bread of Heaven and the Cup of Salvation is, at the same time, the One who was first questioned and criticized, then mocked and betrayed, and finally tortured and crucified because he enacted throughout his public life a meal practice in which God’s food and drink, in which the basic necessities of life, were shared equitably and lovingly. This he did in a culture not unlike our own, a culture which thought it normal that the few enjoy much and the many live with little. Is it any wonder, then, that the image of his suffering among and with the many is juxtaposed next to this table, this altar, where he, the Host, shares with us Bread and Cup in a hungry and thirsty world, in our world, in this place where the hungry homeless sleep in our parish garden and underneath our covered portico?

What would it be like if we lived in a world not our own, where  food and drink, that is, where the treasures of creation spilling forth daily from the benevolent hands of the Sacred Three, were offered according to need rather than status, gender, or race? Would we not encounter questions if not some modest resistance to our Christian practice? Would not the Last Supper of the Lord Jesus become, in truth, for us the First Supper – the First Supper – in which each receives according to need, in which no one receives more or less because of gender, ethnicity, physical or mental capacity, orientation, age, or spiritual vitality? And would not our participation in this First Supper of God’s justice and God’s love, would not eating this fragment of bread and sipping this taste of wine also be our personal and communal assent, our solemn commitment to this eucharistic economy? In contrast to the grasping and acquiring hand, how different is the gesture we make here, here where your hand and mine are open -- open, waiting expectantly to receive, our hands open wide because they cling to nothing else.

You see, for me, the ringing of bells in our liturgy, the smoking incense pot, the rich garments, the bowing and open-handed gesturing as we gather around bread and wine – around food and drink at this table – are not, they are not quaint echoes of an imagined medieval liturgy which draws us out of this world. No, the bell, the incense, the garments, and the gestures all serve this one purpose: they solemnize for us this divine and remarkable mystery – the One who is our Host, paradoxically, gives himself away in this world, for this world, as our nourishment in this world and for this world.

Here, then, is the most stunning of gestures we experience in this solemn ritual: he places himself in our hands and pours himself into our mouths – the most intimate of gestures – so that we might be formed, so that we might learn again and again the solemn ritual and sacred practice of sharing food and drink in a world of astonishing need.

James Moore, in his poem, “On the Train to Venice,” offers these words in the midst of this solemn liturgy:

The first and least important mistake
was to take the train on Sunday, September 1st,
the last day of vacation for millions of Italians.
Though the train was packed,
we had thought to bring sandwiches.
We ate while everyone around us – sitting, standing,
filling every possible inch of floor space –
went profoundly silent and watched
as if we were demonstrating a new technique
for brain surgery, one never tried before, gone horribly wrong.
Not long after we finished, out of nowhere
came sandwiches, water, and fruit,
every last bit of it offered all around,
especially to those who had brought nothing with
them. Such kindness
and pleasure, and gratitude, except
on the part of the two Americans
who had eaten their fill alone,
in silence,
as if the world was empty
of everything but themselves …

(Graywolf Press; © Jim Moore)

How holy is this feast in which Christ is our food.
His passion is recalled, grace fills our hearts,
And we receive a pledge of the glorious feast to come

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