Scripture Scribbles: June 7, 2026

the Gospel

John 6:51-58

Jesus said to the Jewish crowds:

"I am the living bread that came down from heaven;

whoever eats this bread will live forever;

and the bread that I will give

is my flesh for the life of the world."

The Jews quarreled among themselves, saying,

"How can this man give us his flesh to eat?"

Jesus said to them,

"Amen, amen, I say to you,

unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood,

you do not have life within you.

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood

has eternal life,

and I will raise him on the last day.

For my flesh is true food,

and my blood is true drink.

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood

remains in me and I in him.

Just as the living Father sent me

and I have life because of the Father,

so also the one who feeds on me

will have life because of me.

This is the bread that came down from heaven.

Unlike your ancestors who ate and still died,

whoever eats this bread will live forever."

the scribble

I stare at the little white hosts.

So small. So simple. So humble.

I watch as each one is gently placed into its destination.

Elderly, moms, dads, teenagers, preteens; young and old, unique backgrounds, individual styles, each with their own story, their own mix of struggles, hurts, challenges, joys, passions, interests, ideas, futures.

I watch as some seem incredibly humbled to approach, while others seem as if their mind is somewhere else. I watch as some handle it with tender, loving care and devotion, others seem to place it into their mouth without a second thought, or like an old habit.

As I watch, I reflect on my own journey to Christ. In coming to realize He’s truly here–Body, Blood, Soul, Divinity–in the little white host. I think about how in different seasons of my life this meant different things to me. How it required me to come to know Him in order to begin to understand what His Presence even meant. How even now I’m just starting to scratch the surface of comprehending the depth of this mind-altering mystery. I think of the many careless times I’ve approached the altar, flipped Him into my mouth, mind distracted, thinking about other things–even as trivial as how other people in the pews thought my outfit looked.

At times I cringe, shifting in my seat, unable to stand how incredibly vulnerable it all is.

How could Jesus make Himself this vulnerable to us broken creatures–often so careless, so ignorant, even intentionally cruel and conniving?

I feel like the Jews in today’s Gospel: "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" (John 6:52)

It’s truly preposterous. It’s absurd. It’s so absurd it’s almost offensive. And to many, it was—as “many turned and walked away” (John 6:66).

It’s hard for me, as a fallen creature, to even begin to comprehend the love and mercy of God. The fact He willingly shows up, time and again, through the centuries, no matter the weather, no matter the circumstance, no matter the age, no matter the state of the world, every day, every hour, all around the world at every Mass–so open, so willing, so humble–just waiting to be received.

The thought, if worthily pondered in its true depth, warrants no other response than to bring you to your knees. The thought of it now knocks the breath out of me.

My word of the year this year is vulnerable (as a two-parter, along with savor), and the Lord has been teaching me a lot about what it means to be vulnerable. It means showing up. It means showing your “mess”. It means being honest. It means having difficult conversations. It means being misunderstood. It means messy conflict. It means sacrifice, often in silence. It means allowing others to see you bleed. Allowing others to tend to you in your broken areas. It means stepping into the places that make you scared, worried, or hurt with an open heart and mind.

And none of this, I’ve learned, is even possible without the loving, tender embrace of the Father right by my side. Every time I want to run from something, I feel the Father gently nudging me to instead lean in. He’s asking me to stop hiding behind my fig leaves, in the many forms they take, to expose myself to the hard–even when I can’t show up in the “perfect” way I want to.

And through this He’s teaching me that without vulnerability there really can be no true love at all. To love means to hurt. To love means to sacrifice. To love means to be broken open, exposed, poured out, into many hands–even some that may not fully appreciate you for the gift you are.

Think about it: God allows Himself to be placed into our mouths, our hands–no matter where we’ve been, whether we’re in a state of grace (which, of course, we ought to be), whether we’ve snapped at our loved ones on the drive over or not. He shows up, fully present. And He allows Himself to be broken, poured out, received, into imperfect vessels.

I feel the Lord, particularly His Presence in the Eucharist, calling me to live this way, radically. To know that with His grace, through His continued mercy and forgiveness, I can be free to vulnerably show up—wholly, imperfectly—and to be received by others imperfectly.

And that, by doing so, I will begin to know what it means to truly love and be loved in return.

Today’s devotion was written by Rachel Smith