Today is the feast of St. Thomas the Apostle, as observed by the Episcopal Church and sundry other Churches (December 21st was the date in most Western Calendars before the 1969 Roman Calendar). St. Thomas holds an obvious special place in my heart because I’m Malayali—our established folklore says that he traveled to the Malabar coast and established 7 churches there, which have persisted and proliferated into the St. Thomas Christian (Nasrani) community. So the story of St. Thomas was a well-rehearsed tale in my home growing up, even in spite of my parents’ aggressive Protestantism.

But that’s not actually why I love him so much. No, the “doubting” saint is dearest to my heart because of how much I relate to his encounter with the risen Christ.

In case you’re not familiar, in John’s account of the Resurrection, Thomas isn’t with the other apostles when Jesus first appears to them. He is incredulous when the disciples tell him what has happened. That is… until Jesus appears to him specifically and invites Thomas to feel the wounds in Christ’s resurrected body (John 20:24-29). He then proclaims with awe,

“My Lord and my God!”
– John 20:28b

Western catholic popular piety contains numerous little actions and prayers on the part of the faithful during the Eucharist. One of this is to quietly exclaim, “My Lord and my God!” when the priest elevates the consecrated Body of Christ for all to see.

I’ve written before about the importance of the corporeal Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. I am utterly captivated by the transformation of what is earthly—and in the case of the wine, spiritually poisonous for me—into a foretaste of the glorified New Creation in the Body & Blood of the risen Jesus. At the offertory we place our whole selves—brokenness and all—on the altar with that bread and wine; the Holy Spirit unites that with Christ’s perfect sacrifice; and we receive back Christ’s very Body and Blood—his perfect humanity—as spiritual food and medicine for the soul.

Apart from actually receiving the Body and Blood, the moment in the Mass where this transformation is most poignant for me is when the priest lifts up the Host and the Chalice. This practice (which I’m relieved has been restored to Anglican practice thanks to the catholic revival of the last 2 centuries) originally developed in the Western Church because of how infrequently the laity actually received the Sacrament. In a situation where someone might (for a variety of reasons) only receive the Sacrament on Easter, gazing upon the very Body and Blood became a central act of eucharistic piety for the Medieval European Christian.

I’m too influenced by the Liturgical Movement to be a fan of infrequent Communion. But something within me resonates very deeply with this moment of loving gaze. Jesus says to Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” And amen to that. But I have seen in a very real way. I believe that Christ is wholly present in the bread and wine. So when that Host and Chalice get lifted up, I am looking upon my Lord and my God. I will shortly eat him, which is the height of joy, but this moment of just beholding Christ tangibly in our midst is blissful too.

St. Julian of Norwich, of whom I am an ardent devotee, uses spiritual sight as a key concept in her writing. (Incidentally I can’t help but think that’s shaped by one of the windows of her cell opening to the church where she could see Mass celebrated daily.) In fact, her Revelations unfolded when her curate visited in her deathly sickness and held a crucifix before her eyes. “Behold your maker and your savior.” In her agony, Christ placed himself in her line of sight, drawing her into contemplation of his love for her and for all who shall be saved.

I do not mean to suggest that physical sight is a sine qua non of salvation. Too many brilliant disability theologians have written on that for it to hold up. What I am saying is that sight—both physical and spiritual—has been pivotal in my salvation. When I am too turned in on myself to see beyond my pain and resentments, Jesus turns the gaze of my heart to him. As if to say, “Look, child, and rest. Here I am—your hope and your salvation.”He meets me in my unwillingness and inability to see myself rightly. His loving gaze fixed on me, he turns my gaze towards him. And in so doing, he leads me into deeper contemplation of his loving presence.

This happens most tangibly for me in the Mass. Christ is always present. But in my spiritual weakness, my awareness of that ever-present sea of love falters frequently. In the Eucharist, he makes that presence so utterly complete, coming into our midst even bodily. And that presence pierces through the darkness and draws me to him. That is why, when the priest raises up the Host, I say, “My Lord and my God.” Because in that moment, I do see and I do believe.

I would give almost anything to be able just to be present at a celebration of the Mass right now. Even if I weren’t able to receive, I long for the spiritual balm of being there with my Lord, “asking nothing but to enjoy God's presence” (BCP, p. 857). Right now, my only option is to watch Mass over livestream. It’s not the same, but I’m profoundly grateful to priests who continue offer even “private” Masses (Mass with One Minister Assisting) that I can be privy to remotely.

Right now, I do not see and must yet believe. But someday—hopefully soon—I will again be able to be present when Christ is lifted up, knowing that I will soon receive my Savior’s very Body into my own. Alongside my family’s patron, I will say, “My Lord and my God.” And with Job I will be able to say “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42.5). What a blessed day that will be.