On the Feast of Corpus Christi, we are invited to see Jesus hidden in the simple form of bread and wine, so that we might also see Jesus hidden in the simple form of our neighbor.

June 7th, 2026: The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, Year A
Deuteronomy 8:2–3, 14b–16a
Psalm 147:12–15, 19–20
1 Corinthians 10:16–17
John 6:51–58

A Signpost on the Way

I remember sitting in adoration one evening. The bright lights of the chapel fell on the dark wood of the altar with its little wooden canopy, where a large, ornate monstrance stood. My eyes drifted around the decorative flourishes that filled the space and finally landed on the center of it all, a little round host that looked just like a piece of bread. There was this feeling of irony that something so simple was surrounded by things trying to make it look so magnificent.

This weekend is Corpus Christi Sunday, and the same odd juxtaposition will take place in the streets of many towns and cities as local churches process through their neighborhoods, draped in long vestments, tall cloth canopies, and wafting incense. And yet at the heart of all of it will still be that little host. So often, Catholics approach the Eucharist with a sense of defensiveness, needing to protect and defend the sacrament, needing to defend Jesus. But I think the very nature of the Eucharist shows us something different, because Jesus has never needed defending.

From the very beginning, vulnerability was the strategy. When Jesus came to this earth, he came in the most vulnerable form possible – a baby. Defenseless, fragile, and dependent. As a newborn, he couldn't even be left alone for a few hours, and yet that is the way he decided to show up. Even in death, he was naked and mocked while hanging on a cross. He didn’t fight and conquer, but suffered and remained.

And now, the act of remembering that Jesus gave us – the act of participating in his life, death, and resurrection – is an oddly human invitation to eat together. It is the simple practice of taking the most common elements of his day, bread and wine, and making him actually present. God still comes to earth sacramentally in a form that can so easily be broken, crushed, and forgotten. Try as we might to surround it in gold and glory, we can't deny the ordinary nature of Jesus appearing as bread.

In this weekend’s gospel, Jesus speaks of himself as "true bread," a food that will sustain and satisfy. And we see throughout his preaching, as he contrasts food and water that satisfy with those that leave us wanting more. On a human level, I think of the difference between going to a high-end restaurant and a good home-cooked meal. At the restaurant, everything looks beautiful: the presentation, the ambiance, the service. I savor the food, and yet I know that for everything I ate, it was probably more decadence than nourishment. A good meal made at home (perhaps with many of the same ingredients) is something different. One looks like good food. The other often is true food.

I think sometimes when there is all of this focus on the procession, the image, the spectacle of the Eucharist, for all the substance of Jesus being present, it starts to look more like that decadent fine dining than true, substantive food. The issue is not the gold or the vestments, but whether we see them as an end in themselves or pointing to something larger.

Because Jesus did not promise he would return only in bread and wine. He promised that he would be with us always, in the poor, in the worshiping community, in the face of any person in need. Those same people and spaces that are overlooked, vulnerable, and forgotten. The Eucharist, then, is not a destination but a signpost to a deeper reality we are each called to participate in so that by seeing Jesus hidden in the simple form of bread and wine, we might begin to see Jesus hidden in the simple form of our neighbor.

And yet, as Pope Francis has reminded us, to focus only on Jesus in the poor risks making us little more than humanitarians. Because what we are each searching for, at the deepest level, is to be known and loved. Yes, we experience that through one another. But Jesus also gives us himself directly, without a mediator or the face of another standing between us, because he desires simply to be with us and remain.

This Corpus Christi, maybe the question isn't which monstrance is better: the gold one or the face of your neighbor. Perhaps they are both gifts and windows into the profound ways that Jesus remains here on earth. The spiritual life was never meant to be a battle of choosing which option is best. We have always been a faith of both. We love God and receive God in our neighbor just as we love God and receive God at the table. That juxtaposition I felt in that adoration chapel all those years ago wasn’t a distraction, but a reminder of the beauty and the tangible reality of the Body of Christ.  

Justin Telthorst is a speaker, writer, and content creator who is passionate about LGBT+ and Catholic dialogue. He has over a decade of experience navigating Church ministry, including five years as a missionary with FOCUS. Drawing from his rich background in philosophy, theology, and psychology, he offers a thoughtful and compassionate approach to the pastoral care and inclusion of LGBT+ Catholics, rooted in years of deep formation and pastoral experience. He is dedicated to fostering community among LGBT+ Catholics and making the Church a safe and welcoming place for all. When not working as a nurse, the Colorado-based advocate enjoys hiking and trail running. You can find his work at Empty Chairs.