It’s About What Will Happen to You ~ August 2, 2026
Proper 13a, 2026
Ginger Solaqua
What a blessing to be back with you all here at Emmanuel. Thank you so much for the opportunity to return and walk another stretch of the road of faith together. It is truly a gift and I am grateful, as is my family. I look forward to getting to know you better.
As some of you might know, during the rest of the year I serve two parishes in Lowell, Massachusetts. Lowell, like many cities in Massachusetts, is a very catholic town, and so one of the most frequent questions I’m asked when I’m out and about is what we Episcopalians believe about the eucharist, what we believe happens to the bread and wine when it is blessed and shared at the altar.
Many Roman Catholics are curious as to whether or not we believe in transubstantiation. Transubstantiation is the belief that by God’s grace, the bread and wine retain the outward appearance of ordinary food and drink but literally become the flesh and blood of Jesus.
It’s always very hard for me to not give a small speech in response, because this question – the question of what our church believes actually happens at the eucharist – was an enormous controversy at the founding of the Church of England, the church that eventually became the Episcopal Church here in the American Colonies. Would this new church, founded in the aftermath of Henry the Eighth’s rebellion against the pope, would this church believe in transubstantiation or would we adopt one of the views held by the new protestant churches of the 16th century? Would we adopt the reformer Martin Luther’s understanding, which came to be known as consubstantiation, in which the bread and wine are not literally changed into the blood and flesh, but the Spirit of Christ is literally and tangibly present in the elements? Or would we adopt the more radical view of Jean Calvin and others, that the bread and wine were just bread and wine, and that the spiritual power of the eucharist comes by remembering what Jesus did and said on the night of the last supper long ago?
Back then, the question threatened to tear the new church apart, and as Henry’s descendants swung back and forth between extremes, England teetered on the edge of war. It was the great Queen Elizabeth I, with the advice of Thomas Cranmer, author of the Prayerbook, who offered what became Anglican doctrine on the eucharist: what happens to the bread and wine? Does it become the body and blood or is it just a symbol? The answer: we don’t know. It is a holy mystery, and the church offers room for a range of views, provided they are grounded in trust that Jesus is really present with us. And ultimately, the question is not what exactly happens to the bread and wine at the eucharist. The question is what happens to you and me; not how are the bread and wine transformed, but how are we transformed by what happens at that altar every week. That is what interested the writers of the prayerbook and the founders of our tradition: transformation.
In our readings today we see that our scriptures are also centered on this question of how we can be transformed by an encounter with God. Scripture has very little to say about how relationship with God can sort of improve things on the margins, freshen things up. Scripture describes faith that changes everything, faith that knocks the building down and rebuilds from scratch, faith that transforms rather than optimizes.
In today’s reading from Genesis, we hear about Jacob, one of the great patriarchs of the faith and a notorious trickster. In today’s reading, we find him on the wrong side of the river. He has sent his family and everything he owns across the Jabbok, a tributary of the Jordan, into the promised land. He remains on the other side, waiting to meet his brother Esau after decades of estrangement. When they were young, Jacob tricked Esau into giving away his inheritance. And then Jacob duped their elderly father into giving his blessing to him instead of Esau. Trickery and the not-so-innocent cutting of corners has been Jacob’s mode of survival ever since. There is no reason to think reuniting with Esau is going to go well. And so Jacob sends his family to safety and waits alone for this reckoning. And in the middle of this long night of waiting, a mysterious man comes to wrestle with him in the darkness. The wily and tenacious Jacob does not let go and will not give in. Over the course of the dark night, he realizes that his opponent is more than human. And so Jacob clings even more fiercely, refusing to let go before until this mysterious figure gives him a blessing. At last, as the day dawns, the blessing is given, along with an injury to his hip that will make Jacob limp forever. And as the story ends, Jacob limps away into the new day, with a blessing, a new name and identity, and the knowledge that he has seen the face of God.
Who exactly is this figure who wrestles with Jacob in the night – God, an angel? Why doesn’t the divine figure win? It is a mystery. How exactly is Jacob changed – does he realize how much he has wronged Esau and others and repent? Is he forgiven? We don’t know. How does his limp fit in to all of this – is this broken Jacob somehow more complete? We don’t know exactly.
Somehow, after a long, dark night of struggle, Jacob has received his blessing. And he walks into the Promised Land more able to serve the one true God.
How exactly does God change the bread and wine? We don’t know. How does God use that bread and wine to change us? As we consume those simple elements this morning, as the bread and wine are broken down and our blood carries their metabolized components to every cell in our bodies, how will we be changed? How will God make us more like Christ? Do we dare to trust that at that table, we will be changed?
Our reading from Matthew tells another story of transformation: as so often happens, Jesus is surrounded by a crowd seeking healing, wisdom, help. He has compassion and teaches, heals the sick. Night is about to fall, and those who are seeking Jesus have no food to eat. Rather than send them away, Jesus takes a modest 5 loaves and two fish, blesses them, breaks them, and feeds thousands. The parallels to the eucharist are deliberate – the stuff of daily life becomes a miracle. Everyone is fed and we are transformed.
The story of our faith is the story of how God transforms us: through bread and wine at the eucharistic table; through those dark nights of wrestling with God and often with ourselves; through the stuff of daily life which suddenly and unpredictably comes alive with the power of the Spirit.
As you come to the altar rail seeking God today, you might believe that you are consuming the transubstantiated flesh and blood of Jesus. You might believe that the bread and wine are just a meaningful reminder of what happened one night in Jerusalem long ago. The question is, will you let the bread and wine change you? As Jacob was mysteriously changed one dark night beside the river. As a few simple loaves and fish were transformed into food for the multitude. God does the work of transformation, but we have to open our hearts to being changed. We have to come forward with our hands empty and our hearts full, seeking God, seeking that mystery.
It’s not about what happens to the bread and wine. It’s about what will happen to you. Amen.
