I teach philosophy at a Jesuit liberal arts college. I am an ecumenical chaplain at that same Jesuit school, where I have also been a mentor in the Manresa program, an undergraduate community inspired by Ignatian spirituality for examining one’s place in the world. My research work is in medieval theology, with a particular focus on Thomas Aquinas. My most meaningful peer-group interactions are with Catholic theologians.
However, here’s the thing: I am Protestant.
What does this mean for me, being a Protestant so deeply embedded in the Catholic community? In terms of Christian belief and personal spirituality, nothing too earth-shattering. My grounding in Thomistic theology and my own love for sacred practices of liturgy give me a tremendous appreciation for Catholic articulations of biblical Christianity, including the guidance we moderns receive through the magisterium of church history.
At a recent studium (a small workshop of medievalist scholars wrestling together with Aquinas’s thought), a priest whom I consider a good friend marveled at how the common “stumbling blocks” for Protestant Christians are not dividing points for me. Mariology, for example, is for me a rich source of wonder at divine love and munificence, and of the beautiful reality of a helping, human hand guiding us on our journey to encounter Christ. (My son, to help other Protestants, compares the theological role of Mary to the one friend you know at a party who helps you feel comfortable and introduces you around.)
Similarly, I consider the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist to be a profound and sacred mystery, around which Christian belief and identity takes its shape and substance. And I see the doctrine of purgatory as a demonstration of God’s unshakeable, boundless mercy and his commitment to never give up on any of his children.
My experiences of intersection with Catholicism have, in general, been experiences of fellowship, love and ecumenism. I think, in fact, that we are seeing more than ever the need for unity in the body of Christ, and a call for such from Christian leaders. Pope Francis, in an address to an ecumenical youth initiative in New York in 2022, “Community at the Crossing,” stated:
The future of faith in our world passes through Christian unity.… Yes, we have convictions that seem incompatible, or are incompatible. But that is precisely why we choose to love each other. Love is stronger than all the disagreements and divisions.… Jesus Christ is a bond that is stronger and deeper than our cultures, our political [opinions], and even than our doctrines.
This has indeed been my experience. As people of shared Christian faith, Catholics and Protestants serve together, worship together, study and wrestle with belief together and grow in Christlike spirituality together. It has been beautiful.
With one exception. There is one particular area of Christian experience that distresses me insofar as Catholics and Protestants are kept distinct and separate from each other by it. This is the experience of the Eucharist, or the Lord’s Supper.
Let me be quick to clarify. I am not suggesting that Protestants should partake of the consecrated host at Catholic Mass. That is a sacred identity marker and experience of grace for the Catholic community, and I respect it as such. Rather, what I have in mind is the idea of Catholics and Protestants sharing the experience of partaking in the Eucharist each according to their tradition—that is, side by side in a shared space with a Catholic priest serving the consecrated Eucharist to Catholic believers alongside a Protestant minister serving the Communion elements to Protestant believers. In all the places I’ve gone, all the shared spaces of ecumenical Christian experience, this one aspect of Christian identity—some might say the definitive aspect of Christian identity—remains a moment of division among us.
I think the reason this idea is so significant and pressing for me is that while Eucharistic practices are indeed deeply historical and embedded in important theological tradition, the ordaining of it as a sacred practice was, of course, the work of Christ. In John’s account of the Last Supper (at which, as we see in Luke’s Gospel, Christ initiated the sacred partaking of the body and blood of Christ), Christ prays first for the 12 disciples, and then for us: “My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you.”
Clearly, Christian unity entails much more than personal closeness, but when I think of our inability to be in the same room when we re-enact as a community Christ’s sacrificial love for us, my heart is heavy. Just as with a family, sharing a meal means eating it together. Should the different doctrinal understandings of the Eucharist be the final word on Christian unity, important though they be? I’m not convinced that must be so.
Surely we, who have the help of the Holy Spirit, can honor those differences and yet be in the same room, in a shared experience. As Pope Francis said, “Jesus Christ is a bond that is stronger and deeper…even than our doctrines.” We might understand this bond not only as the power and love of Christ overcoming differences, but also (and perhaps most important of all) as the desire of Christ. Our unity is what he wanted, what he asked the Father for. I grieve, and even worry, that this particular thing Christ asked for we are neglecting, even though we do so in the name of honoring him.
For love of Christ, and love of his church, I will continue to hope for this experience, and continue to ask for it. I am reminded of how Jewish people conclude the Passover Seder by expressing a longing for, “Next year in Jerusalem.” Each time I receive the Lord’s Supper in my own community, and each time I stand nearby or walk by a place where my Catholic brethren are doing the same, my heart cries out similarly: “Maybe next time, maybe next year, we’ll all eat the meal together.”
