The final book of The Imitation of Christ is an ‘exhortation to Holy Communion’, and the last chapter begins: ‘Beware of a persistent and useless intellectual examination of this most deep sacrament, if you do not wish to be immersed in deep doubt.’ Useless, I am afraid, to warn philosophers. In what follows I distinguish two or three different ways of understanding the Real Presence in the Eucharist and, without rejecting any of them, say how far they are compatible and indicate some of their merits and drawbacks. But since this doctrine is sometimes confused with the doctrine of Transsubstantiation, I begin with a word about that.

In 1551 the Council of Trent declared that ‘through the consecration of the bread and wine, there comes about a conversion of the whole substance of the bread into the body of Christ our Lord, and of the whole substance of the wine into his blood. And this conversion is appropriately and properly called “transsubstantiation'” (Denzinger/Schönmetzer 1642). The doctrine of transsubstantiation here endorsed is relatively clear. It states that when bread and wine are changed into the body and blood of Christ, the matter of the bread and wine pass away into the matter of the body and blood of Christ. The purpose of the doctrine is to distinguish the Eucharistic change from natural changes such as occur when water evaporates into air or when bread and wine are consumed in the ordinary way. The Fathers of Trent and the mediaeval philosophers from whom they took the doctrine believed that these natural changes are, strictly speaking, only transformations, conversiones formales (Aquinas, ST 3.75.4).

I once read a mystery novel where the main character, an author by profession, always finished one of his books by lighting a candle, uncorking a bottle of champagne, and toasting himself for a job well done. It was his way of celebrating the outpouring of his creative juices. It brought closure to his work, a festive spirit to his life, and release to pent-up tensions. The ritual became so much a part of his work that the two could hardly be separated. His creativity was sparked by the thought of the celebration to come; the celebration, in turn, derived its significance from the many hours of labour dedicated to the writing process. These two very different activities were closely related. Neither made any sense without the other.

This simple example from the world of fiction has led me to think of God’s “rest” from his creative action in a similar way. The Book of Genesis reminds us that, after six days, God completed the work of creation by resting, blessing, and making holy the seventh day (Gn. 2:1-3). To say that God “finished” or “completed” his work on the seventh day implies that the very activity of “rest” is itself part of the creative process. Without it, something would be missing; the creative act itself would not be complete; a new creative act could not begin.

It is already ten years since John Milbank published Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason. Its impact was immediately apparent, the journals Modern Theology and New Blackfriars dedicating entire numbers to discussing some of the many issues arising from it. For it is unquestionably a daunting achievement: a relatively simple thesis elaborated at considerable length and taking on in the process a whole range of authors from a variety of disciplines and across history. To do the book justice in a few words is almost impossible; but it surely remains the case that whatever one’s views of Milbank’s conclusions, it is difficult not to respect both the scholarship and ambition which it represents.

A number of the many issues raised in the course of the book have already been addressed by subsequent reviewers and authors. It might seem curious that there is still something left to be said fully a decade later; and yet there is so much meat contained in the book that it remains a banquet of inspiration and controversy in many ways. In this paper I wish to focus my engagement with Milbank’s ideas by considering his account of the work of Paul Ricoeur. Although he discusses Ricoeur only very briefly—a few pages (pp. 263-8) out of more than four hundred—I hope to show how dealing with this small part leads us to engage with a central element of Milbank’s thesis. Before embarking in earnest on this task, there are two points which need to be declared.