Do you still letyour God touch you?

As a young seminarian, I had always looked forward to catechizing children for their First Holy Communion. I wish I could give a deep theological reason for this, but honestly, I liked it because it was fun. You went through interesting activities with the kids, and when their big day came, you felt fulfilled. As a newly-ordained priest serving in the Philippine General Hospital (PGH), helping children prepare to receive the Eucharist ceased being fun. It was still fulfilling, but in a less heartwarming and more heartwrenching way.

When I first met Christian, I made him cry. I was wearing a blue clerical shirt in a shade very close to what PGH medical technicians wore. Christian hid his hands and tried his best to tuck his arms behind his back—he thought I was going to inject him with medicine or draw blood for more tests or simply prick him with another big needle. There was so much fear in his eyes as they welled up with tears.

I visited him because I was told he was supposed to have received First Communion shortly before he got sick. And he was very sick. He weighed 80+ pounds, and maybe half of that was in his tummy. Christian had a tumor in his stomach that was almost the size of a volleyball. When he finally felt comfortable enough with me, we began his lessons. But we did not get very far. Sometimes, I would go to his bedside for a short talk about the Mass, but he would be in so much pain that all we could do was pray one Our Father together.

One day, his doctors told me they had to open him up soon to try to save his life or at the very least, ease his pain. But the surgery was also full of risks given Christian’s steadily declining condition. He was getting weaker and weaker, and there was a chance he would not make it out of the operating room alive. His doctors told me it would be good to let him receive Communion as soon as possible. With time running out, I just centered on one important lesson about the Eucharist: What we receive is not just bread, but the Body of Christ; not just a symbol, but Jesus Himself. After three days of repeating this point in many different ways, his parents, doctors, and Christian himself felt ready.

I will never forget what happened right after I gave Christian Communion. I drew close to him and whispered, “Alam mo kung nasaan si Hesus?” I was about to say, “Dito,” while touching his heart, but I had to pull my hand back the moment my finger got into contact with his chest. His heart was pounding so hard I thought that it would literally jump out of his chest. This boy who was so weak he could not sit up straight in his wheel chair anymore had a heart that was galloping inside him. Was he scared? But why? My thoughts were racing almost as fast as his heart: “Because for three days, you told him nothing but that what he was receiving was God,” I scolded myself. But Christian was not scared. I looked into his big wide eyes and saw not fear, but longing. God had given His very Self to Christian.

I went back to the altar ashamed. Bread had just become God in my hands, but my heart did not even skip a beat, and it was empty of longing. But it did thirst for the desire that Christian had.

When we line up to receive Communion, do our hearts still race with excitement and expectation? Or has boredom replaced the wonder that should be there as God shamelessly gives Himself to us who could not care less?

And why does God continue to give Himself to us?

There are some stories that are so sad one would think they could only come from a telenovela. What is sadder still is that they are real. Diana’s story would reduce many a soap opera to a situation comedy. She was born deaf and mute. A benefactor made it possible for her to study in a special school and learn sign language, but soon, she had to be pulled out of that school because she could not walk anymore. What was a swelling in her left knee turned out to be a cancer that had spread rapidly and undetected. Diana was given a few weeks to live. We were told that Diana was supposed to receive First Holy Communion shortly before she got admitted to PGH. We tried to catechize her about the Mass, but there was no way for us to know if we were getting through to her or not. We in the PGH Chaplaincy did not know sign language. Her parents did not know how to sign also. Up to now, I still doubt whether Diana was ever told what she was sick of, if she was ever given an idea what was happening to her body.

We heard of a priest who knew sign language, Fr. Luke Moortgat, and when we invited him, he immediately came to make sure Diana knew what—or better, Whom—she was going to receive in the Eucharist. Fr. Luke also celebrated the Mass for Diana’s First Holy Communion in sign language. I remember how Diana reacted when she first saw Fr. Luke sign to her. Her eyes were lit up, her arms were flailing—this girl who had no more strength to sit up! Her hands moved animatedly. For me, she was not just signing; she was dancing. It was then that I saw just how lonely Diana must have been, to be locked in a silent world where no one knew her language. That was when I realized how important communication was, and what the Eucharist was really supposed to do: put us not just in communication, but in Communion with God and with one another.

We learned how to sign a few words after that, and Diana would sign back to us. But soon, as the end drew close, she lost the ability to move her hands. She still tried to communicate with her eyes, but the only thing she was able to communicate was her loneliness. We discovered that even if we could not sign anymore with her, a simple touch could still communicate volumes. But soon, even the gift of touch was taken from her. During one of his last visits, Fr. Maximo Barbero, our 79-year-old chaplain in PGH, gave Diana a pat on her hand, knowing how important a touch was to her. But Diana winced in pain. She was suffering from hyperaesthesia, a condition that made her skin very very sensitive. The slightest contact would be similar to jolts of electricity coursing through muscles and nerves. But Fr. Barbero saw how Diana still wanted to be touched in spite of the pain, to be in contact with another living being. Fr. Barbero touched Diana’s head, and again she winced. There were tears in her eyes not only because of the pain, but because of loneliness. Then Fr. Barbero saw a mineral water bottle near her head. Diana’s eyes traveled to the same mineral water bottle. Fr. Barbero understood. He touched that plastic bottle ever so gently, and Diana and he connected. Somehow, Diana was less alone.

When Fr. Barbero told me that story, I wanted to run to Diana, touch the mineral water bottle, too, and tell her, “This is what the Mass is all about. God gives Himself to us in the form of bread and wine to touch us, to touch all the parts of us that give us pain and connect with us, to touch us where we are most alone and where we are most alive and share in our loneliness and in our life.”

I was not able to tell Diana. I did not know how to sign. But in my heart, I believe that Diana now knows. Christian, too. For now, God touches them in a way we can only dream of. Now, they are truly in communion with God.

Today is Corpus Christi, the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ. Why does Jesus give us this precious gift of Himself? To touch us and be one with us. As we line up to take Communion today, let us ask for the grace that Diana and Christian had, the grace of great longing to be touched and be one with God.

“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.”

Fr. Francis Alvarez, S.J. entered the Society of Jesus in 1997 and was missioned to PGH shortly after his ordination in 2009. The Jesuits have been touched by God in their experiences in PGH for the past 100 years.