This Is My Body: A Defense of Communion in the Hand

Why the ancient, scriptural, and mystical practice of receiving the Eucharist in the hand remains both reverent and profoundly Eucharistic.

There’s a lot of debate today about how one should receive the Eucharist—on the tongue, in the hand, kneeling, standing, and so on.

And frankly, I find most of these debates to be distractions.

They remind me of a wedding party so busy arguing about napkin colors and cutlery placement that they fail to notice the Bridegroom waiting at the altar—while the feast has already begun.

I also believe the devil delights in this kind of discourse. He loves when we fixate on gestures and externals—how we receive Christ, what we wear to Mass, whether or not our hands are lifted during the Our Father. Because the more we judge the bodies around us, the less we contemplate the Body on the altar.

So no—I don’t write this to stir up more liturgical fires.
And I’m not here to tell you one way is better than the other.

I only wish to speak quietly about something I’ve discovered.
Something bridal and tender.

Because after immersing myself in the mysticism of the saints—especially the Song of Songs—I’ve come to believe there is a strange and holy beauty in receiving Christ in the hand.

Sometimes… it feels like holding hands with Jesus.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s not irreverent.
Maybe that is what love looks like when it trembles.

First, Let Us Dispel a Few Myths

Before we move into Scripture and mysticism, I want to briefly dispel a few common misconceptions. While this essay is not intended as a liturgical debate, some readers may carry assumptions that could make it difficult to even consider the spiritual beauty of receiving Communion in the hand.

So, let’s clear a little space.

1. “Receiving on the tongue is more ancient.”

It’s true that receiving on the tongue has been the normative practice for most of Church history, especially in the Latin West. However, it is not the most ancient form. In fact, we have clear evidence that receiving on the hand was practiced in the early Church, particularly in times of intense Eucharistic devotion and persecution.

One of the clearest examples comes from St. Cyril of Jerusalem, a 4th-century bishop and Doctor of the Church, who instructed catechumens in how to receive the Eucharist with reverence:

“When you approach, do not come with your hands extended and your fingers open, but rather make your left hand a throne for the right, for the right hand is to receive the King. And having received the Body of Christ, answer: Amen. Carefully hallow your eyes by the touch of the Holy Body, and then partake…”
(Mystagogical Catechesis 5, ca. 350 A.D.)

This isn’t casual handling... This is awe! This is mysticism!

2. “Only consecrated hands can touch the Eucharist.”

This is a common concern, and it often comes from a place of reverence—but it’s based on a misunderstanding.

Yes, a priest’s hands are consecrated at ordination. But that consecration is not about who may touch the Eucharist—it’s about the priest’s unique ability to consecrate the Eucharist and to bless in persona Christi. The Church has never taught that only priests can physically touch the Host.

In fact, laypeople have handled the Eucharist in various sacred contexts throughout Church history—from St. Tarcisius carrying the Blessed Sacrament to imprisoned Christians in the third century, to monastic communities reserving Communion in their cells, to lay missionary religious entrusted with bringing Communion to the sick long before Vatican II.

The common thread in all these examples is not ordination—but reverence.

Some draw parallels to the Old Testament priesthood—where only certain consecrated men could enter the Holy of Holies or carry the Ark of the Covenant. But the New Covenant redefines this relationship. When Christ died, the veil of the Temple was torn (Matt. 27:51). Access to the Holy was no longer restricted.

As St. Paul writes, “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit?” (1 Cor 6:19)

We no longer approach the Presence from the outside. We become sanctuaries.
And so we can receive the Eucharist not because we’ve been ordained, but because we’ve been made clean, baptized, and espoused to Christ.

Receiving in the hand doesn’t imply irreverence. It’s more like the woman who reached for the hem of Jesus’ garment—or Peter, who reached out to grasp the hand that saved him from the waves.

It is not a privilege hoarded by the few. It is a gift offered to the beloved.

To be clear: if you find that receiving on the tongue brings you deeper into prayer, cultivates humility, or protects your devotion—then receive that way, joyfully and reverently. It is a beautiful custom and a legitimate preference.

But let’s remember: this is a preference, not a hierarchy of holiness.

Those who receive in the hand are not “lesser,” “casual,” or “wrong.” The question is not what posture we take, but what posture our soul takes. Are we surrendered? Are we burning with love? Are we trembling before the Bridegroom?

Now that we’ve cleared the way, let’s return to what I truly want to reflect on:
the image of Christ reaching out His hand to us—and how it might be an act of love to simply reach back.

The Knock of the Bridegroom

There is a verse from the Song of Songs that has followed me for years:

“My Beloved put His hand through the opening, and my heart was stirred within me.” (Song 5:4)

It’s a brief, almost hidden line—but within it lies a world of longing and revelation.

The Bride is waiting—or perhaps sleeping, or afraid, or withdrawn. And the Bridegroom comes to her, not with noise or force, but in silence and longing. He does not break down the door. He reaches through a small opening—not to seize or demand, but to offer. His hand appears where there had only been absence. And the Bride, upon seeing it, is stirred to the depths of her soul.

The Church Fathers and the mystics have long interpreted this moment allegorically: the Bridegroom is Christ, and the Bride is the soul. This is not merely romantic imagery—it is profoundly theological. Christ does not force Himself upon the human heart. He approaches gently, waits at the threshold, and extends His hand. The “opening” in the door becomes a symbol of the veil between heaven and earth, between the Divine and the human. It is a thin place. A Eucharistic place.

Many spiritual writers, especially in the mystical tradition, have seen in this verse a foreshadowing of the Eucharistic encounter—Christ drawing near to the soul, not by force but with invitation, not as Judge but as Bridegroom.

As St. Bernard writes in his sermon on this very verse:

“The Word knocks at the door when He gently urges us to love Him. He is not accustomed to forcing entry… He comes not in wrath to exact a penalty but in the sweetness of love to receive a bride.”

In the Blessed Sacrament, Christ reaches toward us—not with thunder, but with tenderness. He comes to be received, not just seen. He draws near, not to be handled like an object, but to be welcomed like a lover. He knocks, and the soul is free to rise—or not.

It is no accident that this moment comes in a section of the Song often read as a spiritual crisis or dark night. The Bride has grown sluggish. She hesitates. She waits too long to open. And by the time she rises, He has already turned away. The moment has passed.

But even in this delay, the desire is awakened.

The hand that reaches through the door is Eucharistic. It is Christ offering Himself in silence, waiting not for perfection, but for response. It is not the forceful hand of judgment, but the pierced hand of love.

And if we recognize that gesture—if our hearts are stirred within us—then we, too, are called to rise, to open, and to receive.

The Hands of the Bride

So, if the Bridegroom reaches out His hand through the opening, then what—or whom—does He hope to find reaching back?

In the symbolic world of the Song of Songs, the body is never merely body. It is the language of love. And in the sacramental life of the Church, the same holds true. Christ comes to us not as idea, but as Incarnate Love. He seeks not our abstraction, but our embodied assent. The hand, in this context, becomes more than a physical extension—it becomes a sign of the soul’s readiness to receive.

Throughout Scripture, the hand often symbolizes agency, offering, covenant, and blessing. It is with the hand that Adam names the animals and tills the earth. It is with the hand that Moses stretches forth the staff, that Jesus heals, blesses, and breaks bread. The hand carries both vulnerability and power. In the bridal imagery of the soul, the hand is what reaches out to meet the Beloved—trembling, perhaps, but open.

And so we ask again: when the Bridegroom reaches for the soul, what does He find? Often, He finds our hands.

The same hands that have labored and ached. The hands that have soothed and fought and prayed. The hands that have held children, scrubbed dishes, trembled in grief, clung to rosaries. These hands—calloused or clean, weak or strong—are the hands we extend at Communion. They are not perfect. But they are ours. And if they are offered with love, they can become altars.

There is something profoundly incarnational about receiving the Eucharist in the hand. It is not a rejection of reverence; it is a recognition of embodiment. The Host rests upon the skin for a brief moment, and in that moment, heaven and earth meet not just in the mouth, but in the palm. It is not instead of the heart—it is before it. It is not less sacred—it is another way to express the same sacredness.

One could even say it echoes the moment in Song of Songs 2:6, when the Bride says, “His left hand is under my head, and His right hand embraces me.” The imagery is intimate, and yet it is not eroticism—it is union, covenantal love. So too, when we receive the Lord into our hands, it is a gesture of trust, of welcome, of surrender. It is not casual or cavalier. It is personal.

And that, perhaps, is the deeper invitation of this gesture. Not to argue about which method is more correct, but to recognize the holiness of what is offered—and the humility of how we receive it.

To let the hand say:

“I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof… but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

And then to open. And to receive.

These gestures—of reaching, of holding, of receiving—are not mere poetic flourishes. They are deeply biblical. The hand, in Scripture, is more than a tool of action; it is often the very place where covenant is made, mercy is extended, and God is encountered. To understand the spiritual meaning of receiving Christ in the hand, we must first understand what the hand means in the Word of God.

Scripture’s Theology of the Hand

Throughout the Bible, the hand carries profound symbolic and theological meaning. It is a place of blessing, of healing, of worship, and of divine-human encounter. When we speak of the hand in relation to the Eucharist, we are not introducing novelty. We are drawing from a long tradition of sacred imagery that spans both Testaments.

Isaiah 49:16

“See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands.”

This is not metaphorical affection. It is covenantal inscription. God does not simply remember us—He bears us upon Himself. The image here is permanent, intimate, and etched in love. If we are engraved on the hands of Christ, what audacity is it, really, to receive Him into our own?

Matthew 14:31

“Jesus immediately reached out His hand and caught Peter.”

Peter is sinking beneath the waves. He is overwhelmed, faith faltering. And it is not a lecture that saves him—it is the hand of Christ. The hand here becomes a symbol of rescue and mercy, of strength meeting weakness. To extend our own hand at Communion is, in a way, to repeat Peter’s gesture: Lord, save me.

Mark 1:41

“Moved with compassion, Jesus stretched out His hand and touched him.”

In this moment, Jesus touches a leper—someone untouchable by the religious standards of the day. And yet, it is precisely through the touch of Christ that healing is given. The hand becomes sacramental: a channel of divine compassion. We do not contaminate Christ by receiving Him. He purifies us.

Psalm 63:4

“I will bless you as long as I live; in Your name I will lift up my hands.”

The lifted hand is the ancient posture of praise, surrender, and longing. To lift one’s hands is to reach, to beg, to offer oneself in love. When we receive the Eucharist with open hands, we echo this posture. It is not a claim of worthiness, but a sign of desire.

Taken together, these verses reveal a consistent pattern: the hand is a place of encounter. God reaches toward us with His hand, and we reach back. The hand is not incidental—it is theological. It is the means by which Christ heals, blesses, and saves. And when we open our own hands at the altar, we are not stepping outside of tradition. Rather, we are stepping into it.

Holding Hands with the Lamb

In the mystical tradition, the Eucharist is not merely seen as a meal, a memorial, or a sacrifice—it is all of these, but also something more: a wedding feast. It is the moment of consummation between Christ the Bridegroom and His beloved, the Church. To receive Him is not only to be nourished—it is to be united. This is the depth behind the Church’s understanding of Holy Communion—not simply spiritual closeness, but nuptial intimacy.

In this light, receiving the Eucharist becomes not only a holy act, but a personal one. When we step forward at Mass, we are not merely walking through a line. We are approaching the altar as a bride approaches the bridegroom. And whether we receive on the tongue or in the hand, what is being offered is not an object, but a Person—one who longs to dwell within us, who has given His Body for union, not display.

Receiving in the hand, then, becomes a kind of gesture before the mystery—an embodied pause before the Beloved enters in. There is something profoundly tender in holding Him just for a moment. It is not grasping or taking. It is receiving.

It is letting the Lord rest upon the hands that have labored, suffered, prayed, and held others. It is allowing Christ to come to us not as something distant and untouchable, but as Someone who became flesh precisely so He could be touched.

Some might say that this feels too familiar—but is this not the same Jesus who let Thomas place his fingers in His wounds? Who let Mary Magdalene fall at His feet? Who sat at table with His friends and placed bread in their hands?

And some might fear that this gesture borders on the irreverent—but reverence is not measured by distance. It is measured by love.

There is, in fact, a long mystical tradition of describing the Eucharist not just in sacrificial terms, but in bridal language. Saints like Bernard of Clairvaux, Catherine of Siena, and John of the Cross speak of Holy Communion as the moment the soul is joined to her Spouse. The Host is not only the Body of Christ—it is the Kiss of the King. The Embrace of the Lamb. The Fire of the Heart that has already been pierced.

As St. Catherine of Siena writes in The Dialogue,

“You, eternal God, saw me and knew me in your light, and you fell in love with your creature. And you sent your Son to be the table, the food, and the waiter all at once in this sweet sacrament of the altar.”

It’s a striking image: the Bridegroom who not only prepares the feast but becomes it—and then kneels, as it were, to serve it. And like any waiter, He places the gift before us and invites us to take and eat. Not with greed or haste, but with reverent hands extended like a bride receiving a ring. This is not irreverence. This is love drawing near in a form we can touch.

And so, to receive Christ in the hand, when done with awe and devotion, can become a small gesture of bridal intimacy. A moment in which the soul, like the Bride in the Song of Songs, finally opens the door—not just metaphorically, but sacramentally. Not just spiritually, but bodily.

This is not a rejection of tradition. It is its fulfillment.

It is the soul’s quiet “yes.”

A Word on Reverence

It’s important here to speak plainly: this reflection is not meant to diminish or dismiss the beauty of receiving the Eucharist on the tongue. Quite the opposite—I have received that way for many years and found it to be a powerful gesture of humility and surrender. It has nourished generations of saints and continues to serve the Church as a deeply reverent form of reception.

But it is not the only one. And the Church, in her wisdom and authority, permits both.

This is not a concession to modernity. It is an acknowledgment that reverence is not found in one uniform gesture. Reverence is found in the heart that adores, the soul that trembles, the body that approaches the altar in love.

Let me be clear: the same kind of scriptural symbolism and mystical meaning that I’ve drawn from the image of the hand can also be found in receiving on the tongue. This is not a one-sided reflection, and I am not proposing one posture as superior to the other. Both are profoundly rich with meaning. Both are expressions of the Church’s love for her Lord. Both are acts of reverence, when done with faith and love.

To receive on the tongue may emphasize our unworthiness and total receptivity—echoing the scriptural image of the tongue that confesses Christ, blesses God, and is touched with fire like the prophet Isaiah.
To receive in the hand may emphasize the nearness of Christ and the dignity of our bodies as temples—echoing the hand that reaches, praises, lifts up, and is engraved with God’s love.

Both are drawn from Scripture.
Both are rich with theological symbolism.
Both are beautiful.

And perhaps that’s the point.

The Bridegroom approaches from every side. He reaches for the hand. He touches the tongue. He sanctifies every part of us.

So if you find that receiving on the tongue draws you deeper into reverence, then continue in that devotion. Let it humble you, steady you, sanctify you.

But do not assume that those who receive in the hand are doing so carelessly. Do not imagine their reverence to be lesser, simply because it is embodied differently. There is a quiet form of awe in the hand that opens. There is trembling, even there.

It may be time we stopped debating which posture is more fitting—and instead started asking whether we are loving Him as we receive.

Because at the end of the day, the Eucharist is not a performance to be perfected.

It is a Person to be adored.

The Hands That Tremble

In the end, all our hands tremble.

Whether they are lifted in praise or folded in grief, calloused from labor or softened by tenderness, clenched in fear or opened in surrender—our hands carry the weight of our stories. They have touched, carried, created, and let go. And still, in spite of all they’ve done or failed to do, God allows these same hands to become altars.

When we open them at Communion, it is not a gesture of entitlement—it is a gesture of longing. It is the hands of a bride reaching for her bridegroom. It is the hands of Peter reaching across the water. It is the hands of the prodigal, empty and aching to be filled.

This is not presumption. It is poverty. The beautiful kind. The kind that opens and waits.

To receive the Eucharist in the hand, when done with reverence, is not a reduction of mystery. It is an act of intimacy. The infinite God rests in the very skin that has bandaged wounds and wiped away tears. The Crucified and Risen Lord is held, just for a moment, in the body of someone He loved enough to die for.

And yes—there is also great beauty in the tongue that receives Him. The tongue that confesses His name, that blesses, that sings. The same tongue that Isaiah saw purified by fire. In both hand and mouth, the soul makes its act of love.

But here, I am reflecting on the hand. And there is something especially tender in that brief pause—the space between reception and consumption—when the Host rests upon the palm. It is not unlike the moment between a proposal and a “yes.” Between the knock and the opening of the door.

To receive Him in the hand is to cradle Him, not to control Him.
It is to say: “Here I am. Yours.”
It is to hold, for one heartbeat, the One who holds all things.

It is to lift your palms not in possession, but in offering.

And in that trembling moment, the hand becomes a throne.

It is there that the soul whispers:

“This is the one my soul loves.”
“This is the hand that knocked through the door.”
“This is the Bridegroom.”

May your hands always tremble with love when they receive Him.