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.”
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
