The Aramaic term Marana tha (or Maranatha) occurs only once in the New Testament, in 1 Cor. 16:22. It means “the Lord is near” or, “Come, O Lord!” The fact that Paul uses this phrase in his letter to the largely Gentile congregation at Corinth points to the fact that this phrase was common among the first century Church.
The word, and the practice it implies, fill me with fear. Could I—with a clear conscience and a full heart—say, “Come, O Lord”? Do I live my life in such a way as to join the early Church in this prayer, or—if the Lord gave me the option to ask for pardon first—would I not jump at the opportunity, if only to sprint to the nearest confessional?
We are told in the clearest possible terms that no one knows the day or the hour of His coming (Mt. 24:36) and that the Lord comes like a thief in the night (Rev. 16:15; 1 Thes. 5:2), yet we live in the comfort of the idea that somehow, when either the Lord comes down to judge everyone or when we go to be judged by Him, everything will be in order. As Dr. Peter Kreeft points out, “If you will be honest with yourself, there is only one reason why you are not a saint. You do not really want to be.” That is, as they say, the bad news.
There is, however, good news. First, “We do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weakness, but One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin” (Heb. 4:15). He lowered Himself to our weakness. The eternal God who sustains the whole Universe was so gripped by fear and anxiety at Gethsemane that He asked the Father to spare Him from His passion. If He partook so fully of our weakness, it was only to invigorate us with His strength.
To this end, He gave us the Sacraments, so that we would never be too far away from His grace. He became our food, so that by partaking of Him we might have life. He says, “I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down out of heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die” (Jn. 6:48-50). In reflecting on the mystery of the Eucharist, St. Bernard of Clairvaux points out that there are three comings of Christ: the first in weakness to redeem us, the second in glory to judge us, and the third or middle “in spirit and power” to draw us closer to Himself. In this context, I may also join the early Church in calling out, Marana tha. Come, Lord Jesus, and draw me closer to Yourself. Convert my weakness into Your strength. Blot out my sins with Your grace and strengthen me to be an instrument of Your love.
Thus, as we approach the Lord under the signs of bread and wine, let us be mindful of the great mystery in which we are participating. As the Eastern Liturgy instructs, let us approach “with the fear of God, faith, and love.” With fear, lest we forget Who it is that we welcome into our bodies. With faith, knowing through our spiritual eyes Whom we receive, though our perception might only recognize bread and wine. And with love, overwhelmed by the graciousness of the Lord who comes to renew us. Marana tha, unworthy though I am; may Your love conform me to Yourself.
Gjergji Evangjeli served as the Editor-In-Chief of The Torch. He had previously served as the Executive Editor and the World News section editor. He is currently pursuing a ThM at the BC School of Theology and Ministry. Gjergji is interested in the patristic period, specifically in the apologists of the second century. He is an ardent defender of the Oxford comma.
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