Opening Doors and Making Room for the Lord, Together

Carrying Christ through the streets, we are reminded that Jesus doesn’t stay hidden from the world.
Photo credit: St. Wenceslaus Catholic Church.

My wife and I stood near the church entrance with song sheets in our hands.

That was our job.

Nothing complicated or dramatic. We were part of the Hospitality Team for the Corpus Christi procession here in West Omaha. Really, I call it a team, but the team was mostly just the two of us. I had asked a few groups for help, and most of the people I asked wanted to walk in the procession instead of work it.

And honestly, I understood that. If I had not been serving, I probably would have wanted to walk it too.

It was Corpus Christi. The more people walking with the Eucharist, the better. The more people singing, praying, and witnessing to the Real Presence of Jesus in the streets, the better. So my wife and I took our place. Song sheets in hand. Doors to open. People to welcome.

That day, there was not a lot to do, but what we did mattered.

At the chapel, we handed out song sheets as people entered. When the Eucharistic procession approached the doors, we held them open so everyone could begin the walk. Once the chapel had emptied, we made sure things were closed up, then drove to our parish to get ready for the second half of our duties.

There we met the people who could not walk the procession but still wanted to be there when Jesus arrived. Some may not have been able to make the trek, but they were still there to adore. So we handed them song sheets too, made sure everything was in place, and then we waited.

Waiting can feel ordinary until you remember Who you are waiting for.

While we waited, I thought back to the things I had seen earlier that morning. Pictures and stories from Corpus Christi processions around the world. Streets filled with people. Canopies. Monstrances. Flowers. Hymns. Even the Pope processing in Spain. It was beautiful to see the Church moving like that, not keeping Jesus hidden inside church walls, but carrying Him into the world.

That is exactly what we were doing here.

Not on a world stage. Not in front of cameras. Just in West Omaha. Just our small group of parishes. Just our people.

But the very same Jesus.

Soon, we could see the canopy coming around the corner.

There was a shift in the air when it appeared. People were rejoicing loudly, singing and praying as they came closer. The procession was still a little ways off, but you could feel the attention of the church change. It felt like people stood a little straighter as the sound came nearer.

I noticed my son in the procession. He was helping too, donning an alb and carrying a candle near the Eucharist. I was so proud to see him carrying a light for Christ.

As the Eucharist came closer, my wife and I stood waiting. There was no need for many words. We both knew what to do. The canopy approached. The singing grew clearer. Jesus drew nearer.

And then, with all the ceremony that could be mustered in that moment, we opened the doors.

We swung them wide and stepped to the side.

Jesus was coming toward His church, and our job was to make the way ready.

I know the Lord does not need me to open a door for Him. He is the King of the universe. He passed through locked doors after the Resurrection. He comes to us in ways we cannot control. But still, on that day, He allowed us to serve Him in that small way.

That is how love works sometimes. It lets you help, even when the One you are helping needs nothing from you.

It is a little like setting the table for a meal you did not cook. The food is not yours. The feast does not depend on you. But someone still has to put out the plates, straighten the chairs, and make room for the guests. It is small work, but it helps people receive what has been prepared.

I think Jesus does that with us.

He does not need our song sheets, our open doors, or our careful planning. But He lets us take part. He lets our hands do something. He lets ordinary people stand at the edge of something holy and help make room.

As everyone entered the church, we stayed in place. People passed by, still singing, still praying. A few offered quiet thank yous. We held extra song sheets in case someone needed one. Mostly, we just stood there, making sure the way stayed open.

Then the last person came in. I looked at my wife. Without saying a word, we both moved. Like a well-oiled machine, we closed the doors together, found a place, knelt down, and adored our King.

That small moment stayed with me, not because it was dramatic. It was not. It was just us doing what needed to be done, then kneeling before Jesus when the work was finished. There is no one else I would rather serve beside. After years together, we often know what the other one is thinking. We simply did our part together.

After adoration ended and Jesus had been reposed in the tabernacle, people made their way out to the narthex for fellowship and cookies. My wife and I looked around the church and scanned for anything out of place. A song sheet left behind. A kneeler that needed to be lifted. Some small detail that needed care.

That was the ending of our procession.

Not looking for applause. Not a big moment. Just looking around the church and making sure things were right.

And somehow, that felt fitting.

Corpus Christi is the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ. It reminds us that Jesus did not love us from a distance. He gave Himself. Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity. Completely.

At the Last Supper, He said, “This is my body, which will be given for you; do this in memory of me.” (Luke 22:19)

Given for you.

That is the heart of the Eucharist. Jesus gives Himself to us, and then teaches us how to give ourselves away too. Not always in big ways. Sometimes in small, hidden ways. Sometimes by walking in a procession. Sometimes by holding a candle. Sometimes by handing out song sheets. Sometimes by opening a door.

And this is what brought me back to that moment and led me to write this.

We did not lead the procession. We did not carry the canopy. We did not sing into microphones or walk up front. We stood at the edge and made room.

But making room for Jesus is never a small thing.

So, pay attention to the places in your own life where Christ is asking to enter. Your home. Your work. Your parish. Your heart.

When He comes near, open wide.

Then step aside.

Let Him enter.