Bread, Bread, Bread, Bread, Bread

John 6:56-69

[Jesus said,] “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” He said these things while he was teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum.

When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not believe.” For Jesus knew from the first who were the ones that did not believe, and who was the one that would betray him. And he said, “For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.”

Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

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I think it was Monday, this week, when I told Pastor Cogan, with great frustration, that we really need to pay attention and be on the lookout for the next time this Bread from Heaven series shows up in the lectionary. If you’ve been counting, you know it’s been five weeks of variations on this same theme. It started in July with the feeding of the 5,000 and it’s been nothing but bread, bread, bread, and more bread ever since.

It’s not that I’m actually surprised about it. It happens every three years, thanks to the lectionary. And every three years I’ve had my fill of bread from John’s gospel, by the time we get to this bit we hear today – sometimes even sooner. Anyway, I suggested to Pastor Cogan that it would be a good time to do a series of our own of some sort, to avoid having to come up with five more weeks’ worth of bread stories … again.

But on Tuesday, Pastor Cogan and I were rustling up a devotion we could use for our Council meeting that evening and, by accident or coincidence, I don’t know; by the power of the Holy Spirit, perhaps; certainly by the grace of God for this preacher with a couple of sermons to prepare this week – and yet one more about BREAD – the Council devotion we found included a poem by Mary Oliver that tasted a bit like a generous helping of bread from heaven.

It’s called Don’t Hesitate and I’ll lay some copies out in the entry if you want to read the whole thing and take it with you later. (It’s worth wondering about in more ways than I’ll do here.) But the poem starts and ends with an invitation and command … to joy. At the beginning, Mary Oliver says, “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.” And the poem ends with these words, “…whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

“Don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

So this week I’ve been wrestling with and resting in the good news of the Gospel according to Mary Oliver … “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” And I decided that maybe that’s been part of the point of these past five weeks and the point of all Jesus’ talk about bread, bread, bread, bread, bread. He’s been wearing us down and filling us up with this relentless teaching about the abundance of God’s bread – and all the love and grace and mercy and forgiveness and joy that bread is meant to be for us and for the world.

But this teaching is difficult for some, it seems – and for me apparently, at times, too. We are surrounded by and bombarded with as many reasons to resist or deny or ignore or just plain miss the joy that tries to make its way into our lives in this world. I know you know what I mean.

The bodies of six Isreali hostages were recovered in Gaza and returned for burial in Israel last week, as that region still reels from the war that’s been raging since early October.

And in Gaza, 70% of the water supply and sanitation facilities have been destroyed, so that children drink from puddles and wade through pools of sewage.

A terrorist killed three people with a knife at a festival celebrating diversity in a small town in Germany on Friday.

Iran is apparently trying to hack their way into disrupting and interfering with our presidential elections, which already promise to be as tense and ugly and divisive and full of lies and ignorance as we’ve come to expect, without that kind of outside help.

So, this bread from heaven stuff? … this idea of God’s abundance? … these “words of eternal life”? … can seem offensive in light of that kind of news … this teaching can be difficult to say the least … and hard to accept at best … just like those first followers of Jesus felt and declared way back when.

I’m not sure if you caught it, but I mentioned a moment ago that I had two sermons to write this week. On Friday, I also had the privilege to preach and preside at an impromptu wedding for a couple I had never met … until Friday morning, about 30 minutes before the small ceremony they hosted in their back yard.

They are friends of some friends who live in Noblesville. They’ve been a couple for a decade or so – she’s 50, he’s 64 – and a week-and-a-half ago this retired, outdoorsy, triathlete was diagnosed with a glioblastoma … a malignant tumor that’s already the size of a golf ball, growing in his brain. Barring a miracle, he likely has less than two years to live. The happy couple could use some bread from heaven right about now – and more than just a crumb.

I reminded them – or they reminded me, to be fair – of something I need to hear more often and what I want to share with you all just the same:

…that God does God’s best work with what is sad and hurting and broken and even dying in this world. That God showed up, in Jesus, precisely BECAUSE the world is a sad, hurting, broken, insufferable kind of place too much of the time. And none of us is ever promised otherwise.

And like that couple whose hard, harrowing news moved them to finally get married after ten years together – to let the good news of their love speak a defiant word of joy into the darkness of that cancer diagnosis – we are allowed, invited, called to do the same:

To hear the words of eternal life that come down from heaven in Jesus. To eat this bread from heaven and be nourished by its goodness, in spite of the hard, hurtful ways of the world around us. To give in to and receive the relentless abundance of God’s love for us, in spite of our struggles and suffering, remembering that that’s the reason for this bread in the first place.

So, (close your eyes for a moment and wonder/remember/acknowledge if you can, in your heart of hearts) in the face of what’s so hard in your life and in this world, where have you found some joy lately … even if it was just a crumb? Where has the bread from heaven made its way into your world? Where might you find it in the days ahead?

May we give in to this joy, this love, this promise of eternal life that begins for us, even now, right where we live. May we not be afraid of its plenty. May even the crumbs of this bread from heaven feel like an abundance. May we baptize babies. May we eat bread and drink wine. May we love and be loved by our neighbor. And may the source of it all find us and fill us, always, until we find ways to fill the world with some measure of its joy, in return.

Amen

Don’t Hesitate
by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it.
There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.
We are not wise, and not very often kind.
And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left.
Perhaps this is its way of fighting back,
that sometimes something happens
better than all the riches or power in the world.
It could be anything, but very likely you
notice it in the instant when love begins.
Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of
its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

A Bread Offering

John 6:51-58

I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.

Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.

Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me.

This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.”

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Richard was 33, lonely, and living on his own for the first time in his life. A former monk, he had just left a catholic monastery because he could no longer square his sexuality with his religious vocation. So he moved to New York city and after a few weeks, he met a southern gentleman named Peter, an avid activist and community maker. As Richard tells this story, they fell for one another fast. They couldn’t get married back then, but they lived together and the foundation of their relationship was hospitality. Every week, they hosted a communal meal and the center of that meal was bread; fresh, home baked, gluten morgan, baby. Richard was a bountiful bread baker. And he describes how at these meals, all sorts of people would show up, family, friends of all kinds. And just as quickly as their relationship developed, a community dedicated to caring for another formed around this bread, this meal they had every week.

About five years into their relationship, Pete got sick. It started with pneumonia, then neuropathy in his legs, and then even the loss of some of his vision. They both knew what was happening. Peter tested positive for the HIV/AIDS virus. He lived with this for a long time, but after many years, Pete’s mental health began deteriorating, and he spiraled into these deep depressions. In 2012, Pete was the sickest he’d ever been and he jumped off the George Washington Bridge.

Richard says, “When Pete took his life, a big chunk of me died with him. I stopped working. I didn't want to see family or friends. I became a hermit in my own apartment. I was just this hollow, solitary, shell of a person.” It’s as if the grief, the shock, the hurt, had pulled the life right out of Richard, leaving him empty.

Maybe you know what’s thats like, feeling like the life has been pulled right out of you. For some of you, like Richard, it was losing the love of your life. But it could be so many things: a divorce, a diagnosis, debt, depression. We all go through experiences and events that make us feel like a hollow shell of ourselves. We pull back from community. We isolate ourselves from family and friends. We stop doing the things we once enjoyed. We feel empty and wonder what, if anything, can give me life again…

Jesus seems to have a simple answer to our question. You want life? Then eat me… eat my flesh and drink my blood and you will have life, for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. When reading this passage, I couldn’t help but think of the question someone asked in our CrossRoads class last week.

+Mark and I mentioned that not everything in the Bible ought to be taken literally. To which someone responded, “how do you know which parts to take literally and which ones to not?” A thoughtful, faithful question, perfect for today’s reading…

Does Jesus actually mean what he says? Or as the crowd around Jesus asked, “how can this man give us his flesh to eat?” The questions are warranted, especially from those of us who cannot indulge in an entree al la Jesus.

Yet no matter how hard I’ve looked in this gospel or the other three, Jesus doesn’t flesh out an answer for us (pun intended). But I think the rest of Richard’s story might help us understand what Jesus is talking about.

Five months after Peter died, Richard found himself alone and hungry in his apartment. So he did something he hadn’t done at all in those months: he baked bread. A lot of bread, eight baguettes to be exact. He was never going to eat all of that. So that next morning, he forced himself out of bed and down to the Browery Mission, bread in hand. As soon as he walked through the door, a guy said “sorry, department of health rules, we cannot accept food donations from anybody”.

So Richard turned, walked out, and went to the park across the street. Some guys followed him, wanting some of that fresh, home baked gluten morgan. After they devoured the seven baguettes, the men asked Richard if he would come back next week…

So that next Sunday, Richard made eight sourdough loaves for the guys and brought them to the park. This time, they talked a little more, shared some things about themselves, and even began connecting over their bread memories. One told the group how he missed his grandmothers cornbread she made in a skillet. Richard said, “well I make cornbread, I’ll make that for you next week.” Another man, a Jewish man, reminisced about running home before sundown on the sabbath so he could rip off a piece of hallel to eat. So Richard made hallel for next week, too.

“In the ensuing weeks” Richard recounts, “there were an awful lot more bread requests. Over the next five months we started talking and laughing and sharing more than bread. And I started to heal. I became lighter.” In other words, he didn’t feel so empty. It is as if the bread filled Richard with life once again. And that story helps me appreciate what Jesus is offering to us here in John. Because it wasn’t really the bread that gave Richard life again… It was all that came with the bread, the sharing, the talking, the offering of one’s self to someone else, in ways as simple as breaking baguettes together in the park.

In much the same way, I don’t think Jesus is really saying “eat me”. Rather, he is telling the crowd and us, that he will sacrifice his flesh and blood for us and for the whole world, so that you might believe and have life now and forevermore. Flesh and blood was a Hebrew idiom meaning one’s whole self. Which is exactly what Jesus offers up on the cross and here at this table too.

We might only get a small piece of bread, or a little sip of wine, but through it we receive all of Christ; everything he has to offer us: forgiveness, grace, love, all that we need to fill the emptiness we feel and give us life here and now. So if you feel like life has been pulled right out of you, come to the table. If there is an emptiness you can’t fill, come to the table.

Come to the table where Jesus offers us his whole self in, with, and under the bread and wine.

Come to the table where we are united not only with Jesus, but with one another, too.

“The real miracle” Richard said, “was that we had created this wondrous sharing, and giving, and life affirming community”. And that is the same miracle that this bread does right here in this place. Jesus is at work in this meal, forming us, shaping so that we too can be a wondrous sharing, giving, and life affirming community. That’s what this world needs, what this country and county needs, and what your neighbor needs! A people willing to offer up themselves, sharing and giving who they are and what they have so that others may have life. In that way, we are a Christ to our neighbor, just as Jesus offered himself to me and to you.

Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean you die on a cross for someone. No, we can offer ourselves to one another in smaller, still meaningful ways; like breaking bread together, talking and laughing together, connecting over stories and memories.

And in doing so, we will be sharing more than just bread. Amen