Here in Rome, Italy, near the heart of Roman Catholicism, it is not unusual to pass by one of the city’s countless Catholic churches and see people prostrate on the floor or on bended knee as the priest carries around the bread of the Eucharist.

This is a pinnacle moment in the life of Catholics. They claim to be worshiping the actual body and actual blood of Christ, which have taken over the elements of the bread. As The Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC) reads,

In the liturgy of the Mass we express our faith in the real presence of Christ under the species of bread and wine by . . . genuflecting or bowing deeply as a sign of adoration of the Lord. The Catholic Church has always offered and still offers to the sacrament of the Eucharist the cult of adoration. (CCC, 1378)

In the Eucharist, they believe, Christ’s sacrificial work on the cross is made present, perpetuated, and reenacted. This understanding of the Eucharist depends on the Catholic Church’s teaching of transubstantiation, which has a central place in the Catholic faith.

What Is Transubstantiation?

The Catholic Church teaches that during the Eucharist, the body of Jesus Christ himself is truly eaten and his blood truly drunk. The bread becomes his actual body, and the wine his actual blood. The process of this change is called transubstantiation:

By the consecration of the bread and wine there takes place a change of the whole substance of the bread into the substance of the body of Christ our Lord and of the whole substance of the wine into the substance of his blood. This change the holy Catholic Church has fittingly and properly called transubstantiation. (CCC, 1376)

To explain this phenomenon, Catholic theology presses Aristotelian philosophy into service. A distinction is made between substance and accidents. The substance of a thing is what that thing actually is, while accidents refer to incidental features that may have a certain appearance but can be withdrawn without altering the substance.

During the Eucharist, then, the substance of the bread and wine are changed into the body and blood of Christ, while the accidents remain the same. The bread and wine actually become the body and blood of Christ, it is claimed, but maintain the appearance, texture, smell, and taste of bread and wine. The Catholic Church does not claim that this is a magical transformation, but that it is instead a sacramental mystery that is administered by those who have received the sacrament of order.

Where Did Transubstantiation Come From?

Like many aspects of Roman Catholic theology and practice, it is difficult to point to one definitive person or event to explain how transubstantiation entered into Catholic Church. It was more of a gradual development that then reached a decisive moment at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, where the teaching and belief were officially affirmed. However, by the second century, the view that the bread and wine are in some unspecified way the actual body and blood of Jesus had already surfaced. This is evidenced, for example, in the writings of Ignatius of Antioch (died around AD 108) and Justin Martyr (died AD 165), though their references to the nature of the Eucharist are somewhat ambiguous.

It is also true, however, that the early church fathers were countering certain gnostic teachings that claimed that Jesus never had a real human body but was only divine in nature. It was not possible, said the critics, that his body was present during the Eucharist. In response, some early church fathers insisted on the real presence of Christ’s body and blood in the sacrament. Moreover, both Origen (185–254) and Cyprian (200–258) spoke of the sacrament as a eucharistic sacrifice, thus unhelpfully introducing sacrificial language into the Lord’s Supper. Ambrose of Milan (died 397) understood the Eucharist in these sacrificial terms, as did John Chrysostom (died 407). Jesus’s words in John 6:53–56 appeared to provide the biblical framework they needed to make their argument: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” (verse 53).

Over the centuries, this belief developed until it eventually became official church dogma. It would not be without its challengers, however. Ratramnus (ninth century) and Berengarius (eleventh century) are notable examples of those who did not accept the claim that the substance of the bread and wine change in the Supper.

“To say that transubstantiation teaches that God is eaten is not an exaggeration or a misrepresentation.”

Transubstantiation would receive its greatest challenge in the sixteenth century from the Protestant Reformation. During the Council of Trent (1545–1563), which was the Catholic response to the Protestant Reformation, the Roman Catholic Church renewed with great enthusiasm its commitment to the doctrine, and thus to the conviction that during the Eucharist, God incarnate is indeed eaten. Matteo Al-Kalak — a professor of modern history at the University of Modena-Reggio in Italy — affirms that this concept is still fully embraced in a recent book titled Mangiare Dio: Una storia dell’eucarestia — Eating God: A History of the Eucharist. To say that transubstantiation teaches that God is eaten is not, then, an exaggeration or a misrepresentation.

His Sacrifice Cannot Be Repeated

The Protestant Reformation rightly rejected the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation. In the Old Testament, the priests entered the tabernacle repeatedly in order to offer blood sacrifices for the sins of God’s people. Christ, however, by means of his death and resurrection, entered into heaven and mediates on our behalf once and for all (Hebrews 7:27). His is not a sacrifice that needs to be or even can be repeated (Hebrews 9:11–28). It is sufficient. It is final (John 19:30). If, however, the bread and wine of the Eucharist indeed undergo a change of substance and become the real body and blood of Christ, Christ’s sacrifice on the cross is neither sufficient nor final; instead, it is continually re-presented and made present. Thus, transubstantiation undermines the clear teachings of Scripture.

“Christ’s is not a sacrifice that needs to be or even can be repeated. It is sufficient. It is final.”

In response, Martin Luther (1483–1546) proposed a somewhat confused alternative with his doctrine of what came to be called consubstantiation. He taught that Christ’s body and blood are substantially present alongside the bread and wine. This was different from transubstantiation in that there was no change in the substance of the bread and wine itself. Luther’s theory, however, was susceptible to similar objections to those of transubstantiation. Huldrych Zwingli (1484–1531), another Reformer and contemporary of Luther, promoted the idea that the Lord’s Supper is symbolic and is solely a memorial of Christ’s work on the cross. Zwingli’s view is widely accepted in many evangelical circles today.

Transubstantiation receives its most helpful answer and alternative, however, in the classic Reformed view of the Lord’s Supper, deriving from John Calvin (1509–1564). The Reformed view promotes the understanding that while there is no change of substance in the sacrament, Jesus Christ is nonetheless present in a real way by means of his Holy Spirit. In observing the Lord’s Supper, Christ does not come down to the faithful in his body and blood; instead, the faithful are lifted up to him in spirit by the Holy Spirit.

As truly as the faithful eat in faith the bread and drink the wine, so they spiritually feed on Christ. The physical and spiritual are not merged, as they are in transubstantiation, nor are they completely separated. Instead, they are distinct but at the same time, through the ministry of the Spirit and the exercise of genuine faith, inseparable.

What an exciting moment in the life of a church when missionaries are sent out for the sake of Jesus’s name. Their departure reminds the whole church that we live as pilgrims in this world, sent forth to proclaim the good news that Jesus, the crucified Messiah, lives and reigns as our saving Lord. We rejoice to see such workers go into the harvest fields in answer to prayer. And we frequently respond well to the call to make personal and corporate sacrifices to send these workers well.

But what do we do when they come back?

The work of supporting missionaries in a manner worthy of God does not end when they return, either for a temporary respite or a permanent move. As important as providing for their needs on the field may be, thoroughly caring for missionaries requires ongoing care — practically and pastorally. This remains just as true when they return as when they go.

Receiving the Sent

A few verses in 3 John frequently (and rightfully) receive attention as central for helping the church understand its work of supporting missionaries well. John, the elder, commends his beloved friend Gaius for how he received missionaries who had come to his church. Then John encourages him to continue:

You will do well to send them on their journey in a manner worthy of God. For they have gone out for the sake of the name, accepting nothing from the Gentiles. Therefore we ought to support people like these, that we may be fellow workers for the truth. (3 John 6–8)

These missionaries have gone out from their home church. They have left the comfort of friends and family, the security of steady income, and the familiarity of their hometown for a single purpose: to make Christ’s name known and exalted among the nations (Romans 1:5). They are, therefore, worthy to receive ample support. In fact, John says that it is the duty of Christians to support such workers: “We ought to support people like these.”

But what does it look like to support missionaries “in a manner worthy of God”? The answer is not so straightforward as helping them get to the field and ensuring they have what they need while there. While John instructs Gaius on how to send them out, he also commends him for how he received them — a strong antithesis to the self-centered Diotrephes, who “refuses to welcome the brothers” (3 John 10). Gaius’s hospitality and care for the missionaries was so warm that, when they returned to their sending church, they bore witness to his love for them (3 John 5–6).

“What returning missionaries need most is to freshly behold the glory of God.”

The way he treated these missionaries, strangers as they were to him, testified to his commitment to magnify the name of Christ. Gaius welcomed them as brothers, fellow adoptees into God’s expanding family of redeemed children. He understood that the welcome Christ had given him in salvation served as the example for his own ministry of welcoming others (Romans 15:7). Thus, the hospitality he and his church demonstrated proved to John that he was indeed “walking in the truth” (3 John 3).

Three Needs Churches Can Meet

Every church that sends missionaries will, God willing, have the opportunity to receive them again and care for their needs close at hand. While many specific needs of each missionary unit (singles, couples, or families) will change, other basics will remain the same no matter the stage of life or ministry. Churches that aim to receive missionaries well can seek to meet at least these three categories of need: rest, community, and worship.

1. Rest

Missionaries returning from the field are usually tired. They may not admit it, but they are likely worn out. It is hard work to move to unfamiliar regions; learn to function in a new language; navigate the complex, multilayered nuances of cultural exchanges; face the spiritual and physical needs of multitudes; work to fulfill ministry commitments; and, on top of all that, raise a family, keep up a healthy marriage, maintain personal spiritual disciplines, and work through the difficulties of team life (which often involves layers of multicultural complexity). Most returning missionaries need a season of recovery from their labors if they are to enter them again with renewed reserves of strength.

Churches have the opportunity to make their return from the field as low-stress as possible. This can mean everything from helping with basic necessities (housing, transportation, clothing, food), to making sure that they have access to services such as counseling, to providing opportunities to get away for an extended time, to making sure their calendars don’t fill up with too many ministry commitments. While receiving well doesn’t mean that the church by itself must provide all these things, a willing team of brothers and sisters can alleviate the stress of the many unknowns missionaries face when returning from the field.

The health of a missionary’s community on the field varies widely. In some ministry locations, Christian community might be nonexistent, whereas in others it may be more vibrant than anything the missionary knows elsewhere. Regardless, the need to be in community with fellow believers doesn’t change once missionaries come home. Intentionally integrating them into the rhythms of regular church life beyond the Sunday-morning gathering will remind them that they truly belong to their sending church.

Folding them back into the community also means making sure they are known. Missionaries often come back to churches where new leaders now serve, new members have joined, and other members have moved on. A sending church can feel awfully full of strange faces. Thus, a church’s leaders would do well to make the whole church aware of returning missionaries and ensure there are opportunities for them to both know and be known by the congregation.

Receiving missionaries back into the community also means reestablishing friendships (and making new ones). This process usually requires greater intentionality on the part of those who receive. It means opening up our homes to newer faces, listening well, and asking questions about experiences and places for which we might not have categories. In short, it means stepping out of comfort zones and (to a small degree) crossing the cultural boundaries that divide the dining-room table. Once again, making the most of these opportunities reflects the kind of Christlike love for which John commended Gaius — a love that demonstrates who are the true children of God (1 John 3:10, 17).

3. Worship

Finally, what returning missionaries need most is to freshly behold the glory of God and have their whole hearts captivated by love for him. Hopefully it was just such a vision and desire that compelled them to cross cultures in the first place. But the wearying demands of overseas ministry can cause our sight to grow dim. Don’t be surprised if missionaries return from the field needing reminders of God’s purpose to fill the earth with his glory “as the waters cover the sea” (Habakkuk 2:14). Don’t be surprised if discouragement has dampened godly desires. Loving missionaries well when they return includes encouragement and building up their faith.

Not everyone will have the same experience. While some missionaries serve in locations where they are part of an established church, others serve where there is no church at all. Regardless of ministry context, no one outgrows the need to behold the living triune God, declare and sing with fellow believers the wonders of who he is and what he has done (without translation into their mother tongue), sit under preaching that faithfully exposits and applies the whole testimony of God, and partake in the shared meal of the new covenant. Receiving well, in this case, means folding missionaries into the established rhythms of worship and, as a whole church, ensuring those rhythms faithfully reflect the biblical vision.

Conferences and retreats can also be good opportunities for renewal. Pastors, other leaders in the church, and fellow members who know the returning missionaries well can ask wise questions to discern their spiritual health. Where greater needs exist, they might provide scholarships for missionaries to participate in these events. However, the weekly gathering of the local church remains the primary means God has given for renewal.

Receive Them in a Manner Worthy

Churches are called to both send and receive missionaries “in a manner worthy of God” (3 John 6). Sometimes the sending can be easier. They get on a plane and disappear from view, packing along with them the opportunity for frequent and direct engagement. But when they return, those opportunities return with them. And just as we ought to support them as they go, so too we ought to support them when they come back. By this we become “fellow workers for the truth” (3 John 8).

To the left of my desk is an original oil painting by an award-winning artist named Audrey Strandquist. Unless you live about an hour west of Minneapolis and are above the age of fifty, I doubt you’ve seen her work. Audrey was my wife’s maternal grandmother, and her awards were conferred mainly at regional fairs. She typically painted landscapes, but in the painting next to me, titled “Threshing” and dated August 8, 1940, she beautifully captured a portrait of her tall, strong 24-year-old soon-to-be farmer husband, Wally, standing next to a bin of freshly threshed grain. In the background is a field of mature corn. Audrey was 23 when she applied the oils to this old canvas.

Audrey passed away in October 1998, and Wally in April 2013. Both are buried a short distance from the farm they worked from the time they married well into their elder years, in a small cemetery next to the little evangelical country church they faithfully attended and served for most of their lives. They were what we might be tempted to call “ordinary folk.” But that would be a misnomer, an oxymoron of colossal proportions.

There actually exists no such thing: an ordinary human life. To think a life ordinary is to believe a delusion. It reveals the shameful fact that we can barely bear true beauty — we who tire quickly of sunsets, often curse the rain, find wind an inconvenience, and define boring as watching the grass grow. How strange that we find violent virtual deaths in our films more captivating than the gentle life that miraculously awakens when buried, pushes up through the dark soil, catches the sunlight for food, and grows into a brilliantly green brushstroke of beauty in the very real landscape art we view every day.

“As for man, his days are like grass” (Psalm 103:15). Perhaps that is why we find the lives of men boring and ordinary. Watching a man is like watching the grass grow.

Lives Like Grass

Wally and Audrey were like grass. But being farmers, they found the adventure of grass less boring than most of us. Year after year, in a choreographed dance of collaborative labors, they tilled the dark soil, buried the seeds, and watched the epic of nourishing life slowly unfold. They endured the suspense and sometimes the tragedies of storms, droughts, and pestilence. They knew that the flower of the field was both fiercely resilient and fearfully fragile.

Like the grass they so carefully tended, their lives were a portrait of unassuming beauty. In the landscape of reality, you likely wouldn’t notice them unless you took the time to look. Wally was strong yet gentle, and his voice was calm and soothing. Audrey was kind and encouraging, and the bounty of her dinner table was unsurpassed. They moved like the slow, steady rhythms of the seasons. They were human poetry in motion. But we frenetic twenty-first-century Westerners, who have largely lost the patience required for poetry, might call it slow motion.

“There actually exists no such thing: an ordinary human life. To think a life ordinary is to believe a delusion.”

With unpretentious drama, they both came to faith in the living Christ while young, being raised by faithful parents and in faithful church communities. They met, fell in love, got married, and then faithfully loved one another for more than half a century. That alone is a marvelous feat, given how many dangers, toils, and snares half a century brings to anyone. The lyrics of these living poems tell of how Wally patiently and tenderly cared for Audrey through the numerous health challenges she faced throughout her adulthood, and how both of them, in thousands of ways over many decades, served the saints of Oster Covenant Church.

But the most profound effect they had on me was how they faithfully raised a daughter who came to embrace the faith she saw them live out in the so-called ordinary ebb and flow of life, which of course is where all the truly epic events of life occur. They had no idea the priceless gift this would be to me since their daughter would become my godly mother-in-law — 48 years after Audrey put her brush to canvas on that hot, midsummer, threshing day.

The Grass Withers

Wally and Audrey were like grass. Grass might seem to grow slowly, but in reality, its poetic life is brief. Which is why this painting moves me deeply, this portrait of a hardworking young man crafted by his gifted, hardworking young soon-to-be wife, both in the flower of their youth. That was 84 years ago. The painting is still with us, but the mortal bodies of the artist and her subject are not.

These blades of the grass of God flourished in the morning, but in the evening, they faded and withered (Psalm 90:6). Scorching winds of disease eventually passed over Audrey and then Wally, and now they are gone (Psalm 103:16). Two more casualties of the curse. Another reminder of the ignoble prosaic ending to the poem so noble and full of wild glory that tongues of neither men nor angels can fully capture it: a human life. An ordinary human life.

All flesh is grass,     and all its beauty is like the flower of the field.The grass withers, the flower fades     when the breath of the Lord blows on it;     surely the people are grass.The grass withers, the flower fades,     but the word of our God will stand forever. (Isaiah 40:6–8)

Where Grass Withers No More

I was there on the mournfully joyful days when we sowed the perishable remains of that kind, encouraging, artistic woman, and then, fifteen years later, the remains of that gentle, down-to-earth man, like seeds, into the hallowed ground beside the meeting house of the church they loved.

But make no mistake: we indeed sowed them. For it is the core of the Christian hope, the hope Wally and Audrey treasured in their souls, that what is sown perishable will be raised imperishable, what is sown in weakness will be raised in power, what is sown natural will be raised spiritual (1 Corinthians 15:42–44). They died in the hope all believers share: that the Sun of righteousness, the bright Morning Star, will make it possible for us, even though we die, to live in the eternal morning where the grass of God withers no more (Malachi 4:2; John 11:25–26; Revelation 21:4; Revelation 22:16).

And a day is coming when we will know that the epic stories of these quiet, grass-like saints have always been far more thrilling than the best novels and the greatest films. We will marvel at our former dullness, having ever considered such lives ordinary.

Someday, the curse will be reversed, and we will not have the patience to watch the millisecond epics of cinematic mass murder that have captured the imagination of fallen man. We will not have the capacity to find such dim phantasmal shadows entertaining at all. Not when what is playing out before us in vibrant colors now inconceivable is the gloriously wild real story of everlasting grass that, having burst from the ground, is alive with the light of the undying Star.