Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (Corpus Christi)

On this solemn feast of Corpus Christi, we gather not only to remember a sacred event but to receive a living Person. We come not merely to observe, but to be drawn into the quiet centre of our faith: the Body and Blood of Christ, given for us.

The Scriptures today do not speak in definitions. They speak in gestures. In bread offered, in blessing spoken, in hands raised, in baskets filled. Each reading is an open door into the mystery of the Eucharist—not as a concept, but as a relationship, a rhythm of divine self-giving that pulses through all of salvation history.

In the Book of Genesis, we meet a mysterious priest-king: Melchizedek, who blesses Abram and offers bread and wine. He is a figure who appears out of nowhere, without any genealogy, and blesses Abraham. Jewish tradition considers him a priest of God. He appears without lineage or explanation—an early shadow of Christ, the High Priest to come. In this brief encounter, we see a sign of what the Eucharist will one day become: bread and wine raised not merely in offering, but in blessing—a gesture of generosity flowing from a heart that desires communion.

The Psalm answers this image with a solemn promise: “You are a priest forever, in the line of Melchizedek.” This is no ordinary priesthood. It is eternal, heavenly, unending. And in Christ Jesus, that promise is fulfilled. He is priest and victim, host and banquet, the one who offers and is offered.

Saint Paul, writing to the Corinthians, speaks words that echo through every Mass: “This is my body, which is for you… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” These are not simply sacred formulas. They are a divine trust. Paul does not offer an interpretation of the Eucharist—he hands on a tradition. He invites the Church not to analyse, but to remember. And in this remembering, to become.

And then we come to Luke’s Gospel. A hungry crowd. A late hour. Little food. And yet, Jesus—so calm, so rooted in the Father—takes what is offered, blesses it, breaks it, and gives. He took… He blessed… He broke… He gave. The same four verbs we hear at every Mass. The same rhythm He uses with our lives.

This is not just a miracle of multiplication. It is a miracle of transformation. Scarcity becomes abundance. The meagre becomes miraculous. And all are satisfied.

And still—twelve baskets remain. More than enough.

This is the Eucharist: an overflow of divine love that cannot be exhausted. And yet it comes to us in the simplest form—bread in our hands, wine on our lips, Christ within. Not easily grasped, but endlessly profound. Present. Real. Intimate.

As sons of St Ignatius, we are taught to find God in all things—and today, we find Him where He most wants to be found: in the food of the poor, the simplicity of the host, the silence of adoration. But we are also called to become what we receive. The Eucharist is not the end of our journey—it is its beginning.

For the Body of Christ is not only on the altar. It is also in the poor. In the one who knocks at our gate. In the neighbour whose sorrow is unseen. In the ones whose dignity has been stripped by poverty, isolation, or injustice. To receive the Eucharist while ignoring the wounded body of Christ in our world is to forget who we are.

The same hands that receive Christ must become His hands in the world—blessing, breaking, giving.

This is the true miracle: not only that God becomes bread, but that we, receiving Him, become like Him. Broken open in love. Poured out for others. Offered without condition.

So let us come to this altar today not only with reverence, but with readiness. Readiness to be changed. Readiness to carry this mystery in our bones. Readiness to live Eucharist beyond the sanctuary—in action, in justice, in mercy.

Let us pray:

Jesus, Living Bread,
in every generation you have fed your people,
not only with manna, but with mercy.
Not only with wheat, but with love.
Let this holy sacrament draw us ever closer to your heart.
Make us, like you, a blessing in the hands of the Father—
blessed, broken, and given—
for the life of the world.
Amen.

For our prayer and reflection this week I invite us to consider the following questions:

• What part of my life do I need Christ to take, bless, break, and give?
• Where am I being called to recognise the Body of Christ in the suffering around me?
• How can I allow the rhythm of the Eucharist to shape the rhythm of my daily life?

In preparing this homily, I consulted various resources to deepen my understanding of today’s readings, including using Magisterium AI for assistance. The final content remains the responsibility of the author.