I become Christ

I Become What I Receive.

I become Christ.

In a mysterious and real union, He remains in me, and I in Him (cf. John 15:4). This is made possible each day in the Eucharist.

At the Holy Mass, I come not as one who is worthy, but as one who is willing. I offer my body—marked by sin, weakness, and brokenness—to Christ. I do not hide it. I place it on the altar with Him.

And He receives it.

He takes what is mine and unites it to what is His. My frailty is joined to His perfection. My broken offering is drawn into His perfect sacrifice to the Father.

What I could never make holy, He makes holy.

As Scripture says:
“Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God—this is your true worship” (Romans 12:1).

In Him, my life becomes an offering.

I begin to see my body in His crucified body. My sins—once hidden—are lifted up, like the serpent raised by Moses in the desert (cf. John 3:14). They are no longer mine to carry alone. They are taken up into Him.

And then—He gives Himself back to me.

Under the humble appearance of bread and wine, I receive His Body and His Blood. No longer mine, but His. No longer broken, but glorified.

I have died with Him.
And now, I rise with Him.

“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20).

I become what I receive.

This is not a loss of myself, but the fulfillment of who I truly am. My identity is not erased—it is redeemed, elevated, and brought into communion.

Now, Christ lives in me.

I begin to sense His nearness—not always in feeling, but in truth.
And yet, at times, it is more than truth held by faith—it presses in, almost tangible.

If He truly dwells in me, then He is not distant from my life.
He is not outside my humanity, looking in.

He has entered it.

My breath continues to be mine—
and yet, it is sustained by Him.
My body remains mine—
and yet, it has become a dwelling place, a temple, a space where He chooses to be.

So close… that I do not have to go anywhere to find Him.

I am the closest thing to myself—
and now, He has come closer than that.

Not by replacing me,
but by filling me.

There are moments I become aware of it—
not as imagination,
not as something I am trying to feel—
but as a quiet, undeniable nearness.

As though my ordinary human life has been gently overtaken by Another who lives within it.

The disciples said:
“We have seen Him with our eyes… we have touched Him with our hands” (cf. 1 John 1:1).

I cannot reach back in time to touch the historical Jesus—
but in a mystery I do not fully understand,
He has made Himself touchable to me from within.

Not as flesh replacing my flesh,
but as Life filling my life.

So that when I am still—
when I listen—
when I return to Him—

He is not far.

He is here.

Closer than my own thoughts.
Closer than my own breath.

And yet—He is still God,
and I am still His.

“You are the temple of the Holy Spirit” (1 Corinthians 6:19).
“And we will come to him and make our home with him” (John 14:23).

This is the mystery of indwelling—the life of the Trinity within the soul.

And yet, I am still on the journey.

I am not yet glorified. I do not yet see Him face to face. I fall. I return to my old self. But each day, I come again. Each day, I receive again.

And slowly, gently, faithfully—

I become more like Him.

What mercy.
What love.
What a God.

I now see: I was created good.
And in Christ, I am made new.

Not because I earned it.
But because He gave Himself.

Thank You, Jesus—
for loving me,
for redeeming me,
and for making me worthy to share in Your life.