Sermon preached at the Sung Eucharist on the feast of Corpus Christi 2026

In late 19th-century Denmark, a stranger arrives in a remote village. A refugee from France, she is taken in as cook by two devout sisters. The women lead a strict religious community founded by their late father, but it is dwindling and riven by conflict. They can only offer her room and board, no salary, but she accepts.

For fourteen years, Babette cooks much improved versions of the bland food typical of their ascetic community, while also earning their respect through her kindness.

Then one day, Babette discovers she has won 10,000 francs in a lottery back home. To show her gratitude for the hospitality of the community to her, she decides to prepare a truly lavish seven-course meal for them all. She will serve these rather rigid, pious villagers the most sumptuous meal of their lives.

As exotic ingredients begin to arrive from Paris to their village, however, some community members are clearly worried that enjoying this meal would be sinful. So they secretly agree beforehand that they will eat in silence and show no enjoyment at all.

They sit at the table and out come the dishes: pancakes with caviar and champagne, quail with truffle sauce, rum sponge cake with candied cherries. (Are you feeling hungry yet?)

Despite themselves, they begin to enjoy themselves. They smile and gaze at one another with eyes glowing in wonder. Old grievances dissolve and old loves are rekindled. A new spirit of openness and generosity spreads.

After the meal, Babette reveals to their enormous surprise that she was once head chef at the most famous restaurant in Paris. She has spent all the lottery money to give these pious villagers the best meal of their lives instead of leaving to go back home. One of the sisters says tearfully: "Now you will be poor the rest of your life," to which Babette replies, ‘An artist is never poor.’

This story comes from the beautiful film Babette's Feast, based on a story by Danish writer Karen Blixen. It reminds us of the generous, sacrificial nature of hospitality and the transformational effect of such gracious love poured out on those gathered around the table. She gives everything she has, and in the giving and the receiving, something breaks open in those around her as people become again who they were always meant to be. This is what a feast can do.

Today, on this Day of Thanksgiving for the Institution of Holy Communion — the Feast of Corpus Christi — we too gather for a transformative, life-giving feast as guests of our gracious host.

Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, writes: ‘To be a Christian means to live as people who know they are always guests — that they have been welcomed and that they are wanted.’ He adds: ‘In Holy Communion, Jesus Christ tells us that he wants our company.’ [repeat]

I love this idea but also recognise that it can be hard to be a guest. You have to give up control and let go, not knowing what you will be served or what will be said, who else will be there, or whether you will truly be welcomed. We all know how awkward it can be, especially when trying to be a good guest. This is most humorously portrayed perhaps by Mr Collins in the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, when he awkwardly praises the "excellent boiled potatoes… such an exemplary vegetable!" to the stifled giggles of the Bennet girls.

Jesus was himself a famous guest, dependent on the hospitality of others but seemingly relishing it. Think of the tax collector Zacchaeus in Luke, who climbs a tree just to catch a glimpse of Jesus and how Jesus invites himself over, calling up: ‘I must stay at your house today.’ He shared table fellowship with all kinds of people, from tax collectors to the top Pharisees and even provided wine at a wedding. But strict religious people sometimes accused him of enjoying the food, wine, and laughter a little too much - and argued he and his disciples should be more like the ascetic John the Baptist and his followers who fasted. Jesus replied: ‘You cannot make wedding attendants fast while the bridegroom is with them, can you?’ Wherever he was, every meal became a celebratory banquet, a foretaste of the marriage supper of the Lamb.

Of course, some generous hosts go far beyond politeness to the point of treating strangers as family, even in our own fractious day and age.

A few years ago, the writer Adam Reiner shared a true story of his uncle Robert, who had been travelling repeatedly from New York to Philadelphia for treatment of cancer. Robert and his wife Terri took refuge at the Kimpton Hotel Monaco. When the staff learned of his illness and the grim prognosis, embraced kindness: the front desk manager bought pillows with her own money when Robert couldn't sleep; the concierge secretly had trousers tailored to fit his amputated leg and hung them quietly in the wardrobe; other staff offered hugs after each hospital appointment. When treatment no longer offered hope, the general manager stopped billing the room and had a hospital bed installed, so that Robert could spend his final days where he was known and loved. They had become, in every meaningful sense, a second family to himand Terri.

His hotel room became a hospital, reminding us of the shared Latin root hospitalitas: a place of compassionate care in the midst of suffering, where grace is possible. Robert’s wife Terri later quoted the poet Rumi to describe their experience: ‘the wound is the place that light enters you.’

For us as Christians, it is the wounds of Jesus Christ, his death on the cross, that bring light, healing and salvation in our lives. From his brokenness comes our wholeness. And this is what he gives us in Communion.

In our second lesson from Corinthians, we hear the words Jesus speaks at that final meal, welcoming and feeding his disciples. "Take, eat," he declares as he shares the bread. "Drink this, all of you," he urges. He is not just our host but becomes our food, sacrificing himself for us and for our salvation.

In the Gospel lesson he is specific and concrete about the intimacy that this feast brings: "Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them." To be his guests is to be drawn into an intimacy we may not have expected. Sharing in this meal, we become part of his body as we partake in Communion, called into a mystical union so close, so intimate, that we are truly one with him and, with each other. As Pastor Martin Copenhaver puts it: " For those who receive Jesus, the whole Jesus, his life clings to their bones and courses through their veins."

This is a profound mystery, irrespective of our exact Eucharistic theology. Even the Reformed theologian John Calvin believed in the ‘Real Presence of Christ’ in Communion, while recognising it was impossible to comprehend. In his Institutes, he admits: "If anybody should ask me how this communion takes place, I am not ashamed to confess that that is a secret too lofty for either my mind to comprehend or my words to declare. And to speak more plainly, I would rather experience than understand it."

We are invited to experience Christ’s presence in Communion, remembering that we are his welcomed guests whose company he desires.

The 17th-century priest and poet George Herbert put it best in his poem Love (III) with which I will conclude:

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
            Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
             From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
            If I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
            Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
            I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
            ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
            Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
            ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
            So I did sit and eat.