I can't remember why I recently shifted to keeping my eyes open and fixed on the bread and wine as I say the prayer. It coincided with Ivan, an ordinand from an evangelical Anglican church not far away, being with us on placement over the summer, as I explained to him what we did and why, and went through in some detail all the little gestures of the Mass, so it may have been something to do with that, with suddenly rethinking what I was doing and changing my mind. If I say This Is My Body and This Is My Blood, perhaps I should be looking at it as I do so. And so I now am. One changes habits as one goes on.
You should treat the Sacrament tenderly: it is Christ given into your hands, the one you love, the centre, weight and lodestone of your life; the greatest of all treasures, the summit of all miracles, the gate of heaven opened in the middle of earthly things. You should look on Christ in your hands with gentleness and great care.
Until you break him. 'We break this bread [crack!] to share in the Body of Christ.' Until you snap his flesh in two, then in four. Because you do not approach the Throne of Grace without cost: the cost of his brokenness, of the Cross.
(The priest in this photo is wearing a chasuble with really horrid gold lamé appliqué, but that probably doesn't matter very much.)
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