In Remembrance

Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ; John 6:51-58

For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink.

There is a couple who are very public about remembering the birthdays, anniversaries, and death dates of their departed parents. From posts to emails and texts, they remember their parents in an open, constant, and lively manner. At first, I ignored these posts. It was their parents being remembered, not mine. And then, I began to “like” the posts, just to acknowledge the importance they felt in recalling the memories of their family members. Then, I ignored the posts all together. It was sorta like, “Okay, okay, I get it. You miss your mom.”

Now, however, I think I am beginning to understand the constant recollection of their parents. By noting the various dates throughout the year, this couple is making their parents truly immortal. They live on in the posts and remembrances that are very public. They are not posting for the sake of others. They post for their own sake, to allow their loved ones to live on in a day-to-day fashion.

I realized that I am doing the same, only differently. I wear a ring that belonged to my father and have pineapple stuff all over my house in honor of my mom’s compulsion. My parents live on in my heart and mind, just as my friends parents live on in theirs. We do this in remembrance of them.

Each time I come to Mass and receive the Body and Blood of Christ, something in me settles. It’s a moment that feels less like ritual and more like coming home. I’m reminded, again, that I am held by a God who knows me, loves me, and wants to be close. It’s never just a box to check before heading to the social hall for coffee and cake. It’s joy. It’s connection. It’s grace showing up right on time.

Over the years, the Eucharist has become a kind of anchor for me. It heals what’s wounded, both in me and in the community gathered around me. It nudges me toward justice. It reminds me that every human life is sacred, that we belong to one another, and that we are meant to live as one body in this beautiful, complicated creation God entrusted to us. That truth is worth celebrating, especially in a world where social media and news feeds seem determined to split us into opposing teams and profit from the fallout.

And let’s be clear: the Eucharist is not some cosmic transaction meant to calm an angry God. That’s old thinking, and it misses the point entirely. Jesus pouring out his life was never about appeasement. It was about tearing down the systems that harm, exclude, and divide. It was about forgiveness that doesn’t keep score and love that refuses to be earned.

When we break the bread and share the cup, we’re stepping into the same open-table fellowship Jesus practiced. A table where everyone—everyone—is welcome. No matter your story, your identity, your background, or the labels the world sticks on you. This sacred meal stands as a bold “no” to the exclusion Jesus spent his life challenging.

And when we talk about the “body” of Christ, we’re talking about something astonishing: God chose to take on flesh. Which means each and every body carries holiness. Every person. Every corner of creation. The Eucharist sharpens my vision so I can see God’s presence in the people and places we’re too quick to overlook; the poor, the oppressed, the earth itself.

So when Jesus says, “Do this in remembrance of me,” he isn’t asking for a polite memorial service. He’s giving me a mission. To take his life into my own. To let myself be broken open and poured out for others. To leave Mass ready to confront poverty, defend human dignity, and work for justice in all its forms.

Because the Eucharist doesn’t end at the altar. It begins there.

Every Day.

© 2026 by Timothy J. Doppel

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