Mike
Houlihan is a raconteur of Chicago neighborhoods and a columnist for Irish American News. One column wisely
begins: “A good story never really ends. Maybe you’ve heard a few from me
before, but like the story of our lives, it continues to unravel in directions
we never imagined.” Another column, as found in his collection More Hooliganism Stories (Book Bullet,
2014), advises us that “this story is true, only the names have been changed,
as well as the embellishment and complete fabrication of all the actual facts.”
Although teasingly phrased, Houlihan’s sentence is worth pondering.
We moderns presume that something is
either a phony myth or a verifiable fact. We moderns thus have difficulty
appreciating the meaning of life because it really resides somewhere in between
fantasy and the scientific. We moderns have trouble with faith because it is
supposed to be true but it cannot be proven; so maybe it is false. Or, maybe
faith is somehow true if it can be sequestered from tangible daily life in the
classroom, the office, the legislature, and the community at large.
Despite the modern dualism of absolutely
false vs. demonstrated fact, there is a large and significant realm of life
that resides in between fairy tales or legends and the pages of scientific
journals. It is a true realm, though not one given to laboratory experiments.
It is a realm held in tension and often accessed by way of story. It is the realm of true marital love, of patriotism, of
family loyalty, of shared symbols, of long term friendship, and of authentic,
engaged, relational, active faith.
The Eucharist is a true story; a love
story; a revealed word. The Eucharist, like all good stories, is set in all
time. It is existential; although it refers to a historical reality, it is
freshly present for those who participate in its story on Sunday morning and
during the week as they attend to job, family and community responsibilities.
We moderns don’t fully get into the Eucharist because during the week we are
oblivious to the stories and meaning embedded in our routines and our
institutions. And consequently on Sunday the Eucharist is not all that
compelling, which is why many people make it a low priority—or no priority at
all. So maybe the Sunday worship would be more attractive if it could be
connected to our everyday work and relationships. Maybe it is possible that,
let’s say through a regular, small support group, the hour of Sunday Eucharist
could be informed by week-long job decisions, community action, and the juggling
act of family life.
The
Riddle Song is a 15th century English
lullaby. One of its riddles goes like this: “I gave my love a story that has no
end… How can there be a story with no ending? …The story of I love you never ends.” And that story,
at least to me and again despite the modern dualism of fallacious vs.
verifiable, is proof of heaven. And again at least to me, the Eucharist—Sunday
through Saturday—is a story of heavenly love. I've invested so much in the
story already that it will not end at the funeral parlor. And, by the way, God
has invested so much more.
As the Psalmist says, “Day unto day
takes up the story and night unto night makes known the message.” (19:2 Grail Psalms)
Droel is the author of Monday Eucharist (National Center for
the Laity, PO Box 291102, Chicago, IL 60629; $9 pre-paid includes postage).