August 25, 2024
Pentecost 14 (Lectionary 21) , Year B
John 6:56-71
Epiphany, Winnipeg
We started all this about Jesus being the Bread of Life four Sundays ago, on July 28th. It’s a story that covers a day or so in the life of Jesus and his disciples and the crowd around him. At first it was Jesus and his disciples, and a boy with five loaves and two fish, and five thousand people. Jesus handed out the bread and the fish and they were all so full and there’s so much left over. And they all say, “This is the prophet who is to come into the world.” The next morning some of the crowd find him again. It’s a smaller crowd this time, and he teaches and talks about Bread of Life that will never leave you hungry, and eternal life that we have now, and eating his flesh and drinking his blood. The religious leaders complain about what he says, then they argue with each other about what he says, and then today his own disciples say “All this is hard, who can accept it? It’s hard to hear.” They’re complaining too. And Jesus says to his disciples, “Does this offend you? What if you saw me going to where I was before? Spirit gives life, flesh is useless; some of you don’t believe. No one can come to me unless God, the one I call Father, draws them to me.” It’s a lot to take in and try to sort out. We’ve tried to do it over five weeks. For Jesus and the people around him, it’s all packed into a few hours.
Too much, maybe. And because of this, many leave and stop following Jesus. Then Jesus asks the twelve disciples he had chosen from the start, “Aren’t you leaving too?”
The whole thing, all of this talk about bread, started with a miracle on a hillside, and Jesus held a crowd of five thousand in the palm of his hand and he fed them. And now there are just twelve, and soon to be eleven.
It started so big. It became so small.
And Jesus says to those last ones, “Do you want to go away too?”
It’s kind of a question that Jesus asks us. Do you want to go away too? Paul, do you want to go away too? It’s not an angry question, or an accusing question. Jesus asks me, asks you, asks us, “Do you want to go away too?” And I think that when Jesus asks that he’s just pushing us to be honest with ourselves; to be honest that sometimes it’s hard to trust. It’s hard to trust people; hard to trust God. Sometimes it’s hard to trust in promises of justice and freedom and peace in a world that so often just seems pulled apart by hate and bad news. Or maybe the things Jesus says are too hard to listen to: “Sell all you have, and give it to the poor.” Sometimes they can be strange and confusing: “Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood…” Sometimes we might find it easier to walk away than to try to live with things we don’t quite understand.
Or maybe there’s just been too much that’s gone wrong in your life, and it’s hard to believe in much anymore.
I think a lot of us, or maybe most of us, find ourselves there at one time or another: between believing and walking away. We’re like someone standing in a hallway not sure which door to choose, or we’re traveling down roads that will split one way or another and we’re not sure where we’ll go. Believing…or not. Trusting…or turning away…or being sure and unsure all at the same time. That too is the story of our faith. And Jesus even asks us the question, “Do you want to leave me too?”
Jesus asks the twelve, and then Peter, who has a reputation for always getting it wrong, gives us the perfect answer to that question today. “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Remember that? We sang it a few minutes ago. “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
On some days that might be a strong and confident thing to say. “Where else would we go, Jesus? You have the words of eternal life. You are giving what nothing else will give.” There are times when we’ve seen it and heard it and known it and when we have been sure of all this thing we call our faith.
But maybe when you or I sing “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life,” it’s not always so confident and strong. It’s just the word of someone who doesn’t know where else to turn. It’s the word of someone who got it wrong but can’t imagine where else to go. Maybe it’s just the word of someone who’s got nothing left to lose, who has run out of options, or who is just plain tired of trying to get it right and has to stop somewhere.
“I’ve got nothing left.” “Where else would I go?” If that’s you, or me, or us…we’re not the only ones. When Jesus asks, “Are you going to leave too?”, our answer doesn’t need to rise up out of happiness or certainty or a warm feeling. It’s OK, and it’s honest, and it’s faithful, just to give a tired answer: “Lord, where else would we go?” And there’s Jesus, who will not walk away from us.
I wonder if that couldn’t be the way we confess our faith sometimes. In a few minutes we’ll have finished singing the Hymn of the Day, and then I’ll say what I always say, or on most Sundays at least, as we prepare to say the Apostles’ Creed. Something like “Let us confess our faith using the words of the Apostles’ Creed.” And that’s good. When we say the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed together, we’re joining in something that people have been saying for over fifteen hundred years. Saying all that together ties us to a church and a faith and a community of saints that is so much bigger than us and our life right here. Sometimes we need to be reminded of that.
But sometimes our faith can be expressed in a much simpler way, and maybe it’s always been that way too. Maybe I should say, “let us confess our faith using the words of the gospel acclamation,” and then we would sing. Because sometimes our most honest expression of faith is just, “Lord, where else would we go? You have the words of eternal life.” And that’s enough. It’s not ideas and doctrines and saying things the right way. It’s just a simple word of trust. “Where else would we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
I hope that we’ve heard those words from a pulpit and a pastor or two. I know that I've heard those words from friends or acquaintances or a stranger on the street – words that pick me up, words that keep on insisting that God has life and goodness in store for the world; some kind of words and actions that help us see that there is life being given for the world now by the one who is bread for the world. Sometimes we might see and hear those words in a touch or in a story or in those rare moments when we see peace or freedom or justice appearing, or we see people coming together to seek those things. We’ve seen and heard those words of eternal life when people come together and care for each other in all kinds of places in all kinds of ways. All these things – they point us to the good news that there is Bread of Life being given for the life of the world. Those are words of eternal life. Spoken and acted in so many ways.
And we taste those words in bread and wine that we eat and drink together. Words of eternal life. Words of life being given here and now.
This all started, at the beginning of the sixth chapter of John, way back on July 28th, with bread. So let’s wrap it up with bread.
At this very moment, there’s some bread dough proofing in the fridge at home. Last night it was all put together – some flour and starter and water and salt, not all that complicated – and after a few rounds of rising and stretching and folding it was put in a fancy little round thing called a banaton, and then wrapped up and put in the fridge. And now that bread sits there as the miracle of fermentation takes its slow time. The loaf waits there while the steady reliable work of grain and water and yeast and salt builds flavour upon flavour. It’s there in the fridge, waiting and ready to come out and go into the oven when the time is right. Maybe tonight, because I just can’t wait. Or maybe tomorrow morning, when the flavour has grown more, and there’s nothing better than the smell of fresh bread in the morning.
That’s the other thing. Sometimes we wait. Bread takes time. Words of eternal life take time. We might not hear the word of eternal life but it’s here – just like the word of eternal life was still there in the quiet of a tomb. And just like the word of eternal life was raised up and walked out of a tomb on a fresh early morning. We’ll hear that word again, just as we have before.
Bread takes time. It’s rising right now and we will taste it. And it will fill us.
Bread from grain and starter and water and salt, sure. But the bread that came down from heaven, too. Bread, living bread, has come to be here among us…to fill us, to give us life, and never leave us hungry.