In 2000, the great millennial year, June 25 was also a Sunday. And, a great day for Catholics: the Feast of Corpus Christi, the most holy body and blood of Christ. At the time, I was pastor at Corpus Christi parish in Elsmere and the faith community celebrated that day’s masses with joy and exuberance.

Grateful and yet tired after Sunday masses, I drove to a home in Newark, Delaware to be with my 19-year-old friend Justin Jennings. Justin had been suffering from brain cancer during the previous three years and we knew the end was coming.

Justin was a remarkable human being, gentle and kind. He loved playing golf, which I consider the sport of Elders… those with a wisdom and grace that comes with age. There was no pretense about him. He was easy-going and funny, with just a bit of sarcastic prowess that he no doubt picked up in his adolescence. He also loved Penn State and was proud to be a student there.

He was in his second year as a “Nittany Lion” when the brain cancer he had previously beaten, returned. And yet, Justin welcomed each new day with gratitude and a deliberate kindness toward all whom he might meet that day.

I learned as a boy that my Catholic Irish elders (my family!) prayed fervently for a happy death. That line, “pray for us now and at the hour of our death,” is like a mantra for the Irish. I didn’t understand then why there was such a focus on a happy death. But I learned about its importance from the peaceful deaths I have been blessed to witness. Even more so, I understand its importance from being with those who have not died peacefully. Justin did not die “a happy death.”

His last hours were filled with tremendous anguish. His suffering was unbearable. It was overwhelming for us, his family and myself, to be with him and not be able to provide any comfort that might ease the torment he was experiencing. The threshold between this life and the next was like a violent storm against which his final passage seemed impossible. The pain he endured felt endless. It was heart-breaking.

The body and blood of Christ. It can mean different things to different people. For some, it is a host received at mass. Some receive the sacrament with great devotion. For others, it is an empty ritual, something as mindless as tying one’s shoes or brushing their teeth. I’ve been a priest for many years, and I’ve seen so many people receiving a host at mass as if they were standing in a line at McDonalds.

In truth, the sacrament of the body and blood of Christ is about presence, participation, and gratitude. To be sure, it can be experienced at a catholic mass. But a Catholic mass does not guarantee that those in attendance will experience the body of Christ. For some mysterious reason, the experience of receiving and becoming and sharing the body of Christ, can happen at a bar or a bar mitzvah—or any time and place where one is truly present.

On June 25, 2000, completely “united” with Justin as he fought the last fight, something extraordinary happened. We were all “one with” Justin in his suffering. I know this doesn’t make sense, but in some ineffable way, we all “participated” in his dying. We were not outsiders or observers. We were truly “one with” him.

Often, I can get lost in “thinking.” Thus, I can easily miss what is happening around me. And yet, despite my many mistakes and flaws, what took place that day could not be missed… it was an epiphany. Something “opened up,” with an energy that was palpable. I admit I have yet to plumb the depths of what fully happened that day… that June 25, 2000… the feast of Corpus Christi.
I was privileged to have been invited to an experience so intimate. And I don’t know if I was able to offer give back goodness in return.

But I continue to look back and remember. I remember well the moment angels received his Spirit.

I also remember feeling worn-out and confused as we later stood outside at dusk. There was profound silence. Brother Sun was finishing his days work as the funeral home attendants carried the body of our Justin from his home to the hearse.

In his dying, Justin Jennings was “one with” Christ. Christ was “one with” Justin. And we who were present, privileged guests at the banquet of his death, were (are) “one with” Justin. And, through a holy cosmic bond–something I cannot comprehend–we were (are) “one with” Christ.

That’s Eucharist! That’s “holy” communion. When every part of your being is swelling with gratitude, that’s Eucharist… that’s Corpus Christi!