Like my brother hefting a heavy bale, I lift the Host above my shoulders. I spy a sparrow huddled in the rafters. I return the Sacrament to the altar, genuflect, then reach for the chalice.
            Through the coolness of curved metal, I sense the warmth of wine. I peer inside the cup and see, not the shimmer of light dancing on a smooth liquid surface, but a vision of scarlet blood soaking into the soil of a field choked with weeds and covered in manure.
            Thus begins my communion with slain saints: relatives, friends, parishioners gored by bull, crushed by tractors, sliced by shredders, gasping for air inside silos of toxic gas.
            Rare occurrences? No. Not in my ministry.
                   Agriculture is the most dangerous occupation in the nation. Farm-related deaths occur five times as often as deaths of firefighters on duty.
                   First responders are rightly regarded as heroes but those who provide our sustenance are routinely dismissed and disparaged. Some activists go so far as to count them among the wicked.
            I take a deep breath. Lord, visit this plain of anguish and pain!
          “Take and eat. This is my Body.”
            I peer once more into the chalice.
            “My Blood poured out for you.”
            In a place like this—at the altar of Love-unto-death—how can I not be consumed?