Eucharistic Particles: Reverence, Reality, and the Humility of God

Eucharistic Particles: 

Reverence, Reality, and the Humility of God

A Theological Reflection by Friar Timothy Dore, OFM Conv.

Introduction

Among certain circles of highly “orthodox” and conservative Catholics, there exists an intense concern regarding even the smallest fragments of the Eucharist. Some believe that if a particle of the consecrated host should fall to the ground—however inadvertently—that it constitutes a dreadful event. Such a particle, they argue, must be rescued immediately and the spot “purified,” perhaps with a purificator and with other ritual gestures, to restore reverence.

I am aware of people who hold such convictions with sincerity and devotion. Yet as a Franciscan friar and priest, I find myself drawn to a more incarnational understanding of reverence—one grounded in trust, humility, and joy in the mystery of the Word made flesh.

An Incarnational Perspective

In my mind, it is unnecessary to be anxious over small particles that are practically invisible to the naked eye—those that may find their way into the fibers of a carpet or drift unseen to the floor. Isn’t it absolutely true that Jesus can take care of himself (or to put it in much more colloquial language: “Jesus is a big boy”) and that “he can handle it”?

Christians believe nothing can diminish or take away from the glory of God.  Isn’t this still true if a small fragment of the Body of Christ (i.e., from a Communion host) somehow lands even on a so-called “unclean surface” of one sort or another? What difference does it make? In truth, none at all. Instead of lamenting such an occurrence, perhaps we might consider it to be an opportunity to rejoice in the reminder of what the Eucharist truly is: the Son of God who first entered our world in vulnerability and humility in the womb of a poor, unknown young woman named Mary, and who was born in a stable at Bethlehem and given a resting place in an out of the way and lowly spot while there as a tender and defenseless infant.  And all of this was done in order to demonstrate the Father’s great love!  Jesus was born into lowliness for us—even though we are not perfect, even though we are sinners, and ultimately because he wanted to save us from our own weaknesses, our sins, and even death itself.

If God himself, in the person of the Baby Jesus was content to rest among straw and dust, and even among the fleas and rodents that surely were present in that animal shelter, then the divine presence certainly can endure resting, unseen, in the humble fibers of a carpet or some other similarly modest place. To me, that image is not scandalous—it is rather profoundly beautiful.

Reconsidering Reverence

As a priest who celebrates the Eucharist nearly every day, I know well the importance of treating the sacred species with care and love. Still, if a tiny particle should flick from the paten and disappear, I trust that the Lord who created heaven and earth can take care of himself.

Respectfully, I wish to take issue with those who insist that reverence requires frantic recovery of every microscopic crumb. To me, reverence is not measured by the intensity of our scrupulosity but by the depth of our faith. It can be equally reverent to entrust the fragment to God’s providence, recognizing that the Eucharist is not a fragile object needing rescue but the living Christ who has chosen to dwell among us.

Indeed, to allow that fragment to rest upon the earth is to imitate the very act of God in the Incarnation: the eternal Word becoming flesh and entering into creation’s messiness. That, I believe, is true reverence—imitating the humility of God.

Communion in the Hand

This same principle applies to the ongoing debate about receiving Communion in the hand. Some argue that this practice risks spreading tiny, unseen particles of the Eucharist, perhaps onto clothing, hymnals, pews, and other common objects people touch every day, and that this is irreverent. They therefore conclude that receiving on the tongue is the only proper expression of reverence and of safeguarding these sacred particles.

I can’t help but smile when I hear such reasoning. Who, after all, is the arbiter of reverence? Why would God not wish his people to take the very Body of Christ into their hands, when that same God once allowed his Son to be placed in a manger filled with dirt, hay, and the smells of animals?

To receive Christ in one’s hands is not an act of irreverence—it is a reaffirmation of the Incarnation itself. It acknowledges that God chooses to meet us where we are, in our humanity, in our need, and even in our imperfections.

The Real Issue: Power and Control, Not Reverence

At times, I sense that for some, such fervor may arise less from genuine concern for reverence and more from an understandable human tendency toward control—toward seeking security in rules rather than trust in grace. Beneath the surface of such arguments, there can be a desire to regulate and restrict, to exercise power through fear of sacrilege rather than to inspire love and trust.

But the Gospel reminds us that genuine reverence is born not of control but of freedom—the freedom to trust God’s presence in all things. The same Christ who humbled himself to be born among animals and straw is not offended by the humility of the world he came to redeem.

Conclusion

True reverence for the Eucharist does not reside in anxiety, fear, or hyper-vigilance. It resides in wonder, gratitude, and trust in the One who became flesh for our salvation.

If the Lord of the universe could choose a manger as his first resting place, then surely he can rest peacefully—even unseen—wherever chance or fate may take any part of his Most Sacred Body.

True Eucharistic reverence, then, is not fear but love—love that abides wherever searching and needy hearts hunger and thirst for his presence among us.