Today… He comes to us.
Not hidden in words, not only within stone walls, but carried… by people.
It is — Corpus Christi.
A day on which the Church does not remain inside, but opens its doors and carries Him into the world — in a procession, through the streets.
At the front walks the cross-bearer with the processional cross. Behind him come the acolytes with candles, opening the way. Then follow banners — guilds and brotherhoods. Sometimes, children scatter flowers along the path.
Then, beneath a canopy, in a golden monstrance, visible… carried by a priest.
The priest carries the monstrance with covered hands, using a richly decorated cloth — the humeral veil — draped over his shoulders. This is done in the utmost reverence for Christ; for Christ is truly present.
It is as if the priest “disappears” behind the ritual — and that is right. The veil makes him a servant, not the centre. What he carries is greater than himself. Covered hands say: this is not mine to control, it has been entrusted to me.
A servant swings the thurible — the heart turns toward Him.
The thurible — from which fragrant smoke rises around the monstrance. Incense is like a prayer ascending. As it is written in Scripture, Psalm 141: “Let my prayer rise before You like incense.” Incense is also a visible act of reverence — like bowing, but expressed through scent and movement.
An ancient meaning of incense is also that of purification. Not as cleaning, but as preparing a space for God.
The smoke envelops the monstrance — not to conceal, but to reveal: this surpasses us.
Christ is present in the consecrated Host, within the monstrance.
He is NOT the leader of the procession. He is the HEART toward which everything moves. As He is carried, the incense rises. Prayer and His presence meet — in scent, in silence, in movement. He is now, in a way we cannot fully grasp… near.
Behind the monstrance follow more faithful.
Along the route, we stand still. Perhaps for the first time. Because this is not only a symbol.
This is presence.
And while we think we are carrying Him…it may well be the other way around.
In the streets of the Middle Ages, the roads were prepared as a sacred path — cleaned, adorned with flowers for the procession to walk upon.
One of the most powerful moments of the year. Cities came to a standstill. Guilds, brotherhoods, knights — all joined, or stood at the side.
For Templars and knights: we remove our helmets and kneel in the dust as He passes. Not out of weakness… but because something happens here that cannot be forced by strength. This is where heaven and earth meet.
What he sees today — what passes before him — is the same Presence that will walk with him tomorrow on the battlefield. Here, in this procession… something is formed.
Corpus Christi is celebrated on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, a few weeks after Pentecost.
Its origin lies in the 13th century, with a woman: Juliana of Cornillon. She received visions of a moon with a dark spot — a symbol of a missing feast in the Church. She longed for a day dedicated especially to the Eucharist. Pope Urban IV formally established the feast in 1264.
There was also a Eucharistic miracle in Orvieto that strengthened this devotion.
A consecrated Host — set apart, transformed through consecration — is placed in a monstrance and carried through the streets in procession. Often, flowers or carpets of petals are laid along the way. There is singing, prayer, blessing. The meaning is both simple and profound: Christ does not remain within the church… or rather:
Christ shows WHERE He is in the world: among the people, in the Eucharist. How He remains with us, present.
He goes with the people into the world. It says: God is not distant — He is present in the ordinary. He allows Himself to be carried by human hands. He quite literally enters the streets.
Think of Hugues de Payens and his brothers, who lived from one core truth: the constant presence of Christ.
Corpus Christi is the day we pause before the mystery. The true presence of Christ in the Eucharist. This is not something vague, not a comforting story for the night.
In the Mass, during the Eucharist, something happens that you cannot see — and yet is real. The host and the wine are changed: the host into His Body, the wine into His Blood (at the moment the silence is broken by the ringing of the bells).
What remains outwardly bread and wine becomes, in its essence, His presence. This mystery is called transubstantiation.
The eye sees bread and wine…the heart receives Him. Not as a symbol, but as reality.
Corpus Christi is still celebrated throughout the world today.
En terwijl wij denken dat wij Hem dragen… is het misschien wel andersom.
Footprints in the sand…
