Blood and Bread

John 6:51-58

Jesus said, "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."

When I was a young girl, there was an article in my take-home paper from church that changed my life. It explained how to take Bible stories and, using your five senses, imagine that you were really there  with Jesus (or Jonah or whoever) hearing the words, seeing the action, and gaining a particular, personal blessing. The author said to pray first for the Holy Spirit to lead you into whatever truth He wanted you to have.

There is also a 19th-century author in my denomination, Ellen White, who said pretty much the same thing. She said we should take Bible stories (especially the life of Christ) "point by point and let the imagination grasp each scene" [Desire of Ages, p. 362] and to "in imagination go back to [those] scene[s]" and "enter into the thoughts and feelings that filled their hearts." [Thoughts from the Mount of Blessing, p. 1]. I began then to take this counsel, and it revolutionized my prayer life and still does.

Many stories are easy to do this with. I can well imagine what it would feel like to be in a small boat when a storm takes over, or to be a small boy who discovers that Jesus needs his lunch.

Some are not so easy. Mrs. White mentions, for instance, that we should especially imagine "the closing scenes" of Jesus' life. This is incredibly painful. It's far more meaningful to try to "be there" than to simply read about and discuss the theological implications of whatever story is under discussion.

This story, the watershed of Jesus' ministry that we were looking forward to a couple of weeks ago, is one of the difficult ones. Not for such painful reasons, but because we can't help looking at it through layers of 2,000 years of commentary and communion customs. Those who heard these shocking words the first time did not have that luxury. I challenge us to reread, carefully, His speech, reproduced above, as if we were there, and hearing it for the first time.

What do you really think you would have thought then?
What questions would you have had for Jesus?

I hope none of us would have turned away. I hope we would have said, with Peter, "Where else would we go?"

We may not get it, Lord, but we aren't leaving!
Amen.

Worn Out

1 Kings 19:4-8

A pastor I know once gave me an entirely new look at this familiar story. It's the one of Elijah's depression after the great victory at Mt. Carmel. To recap: Elijah spends a day listening to the frenzied "praying" of Baal's priests, has an ancient altar rebuilt, finds 12 barrels of water (from where?? 3 year drought, remember?) and dumps them on the altar and sacrifice, prays quietly, watches fire from heaven destroy the sacrifice, the water, and the stones, kills (and/or supervises the killing of) 400 priests, prays for rain and gets it, runs 17 miles in front of a horse and chariot, receives a death threat . . . then runs into Judah and collapses. "Please, God, just let me die."

Do you know that feeling? I do.

Here's what I learned from my pastor friend:

The office of prophet is to be the voice of God to the people, and to be the voice of the people to God. Remember Abraham dickering over Sodom? Moses saying, "If you're going to kill them, kill me, but don't do it--you're a better God than that"?

Elijah has just hit a wall. He's burned out. He's not just tired, he's exhausted, out of gas. He has forgotten the rest of God's children and thinks he's the only one who is still faithful. It's one of the hazards of depression. The vision narrows down to just yourself. "Life is no longer worth living, God. Just let me go now."

God understands that, my pastor friend said. He doesn't judge or scold. In fact, he sends an angel to feed Elijah (which is even better than ravens and widows) and gives him the strength to go another 40 days and run some more miles. Then he talks to Elijah in person.

Shhh. Rest. I'm here.

But God also recognizes, as Elijah probably does not--almost certainly does not--that Elijah is done. He is used up. God relieves Elijah of duty.

"If you can no longer speak for the people to me, then you can no longer speak for me to the people. Go anoint two kings. Then find Elisha. Then retire."

I was startled. Seriously? It happened right after this? I picked up my Bible and looked. Sure enough, right in the next few verses. Of course, God lets Elijah spend some time training his replacement. Then he takes Elijah directly to heaven! I'm pretty sure he didn't--doesn't--mind his retirement at all! In fact, I even think I know what he talked to Jesus about, on the Mount of Transfiguration.

But that's just me. It just makes me want to pay attention. Am I, in my God-given roles, whatever they may be, careful to pay attention, to speak to people in God's behalf, and to speak to God in people's behalf? Because when we can't do that anymore, we should just retire.

The Heartburn of the 5,000 (plus women and children)

And here's the one for this week. Read the last one before this one:

John 6:24-35
The next day, when the people who remained after the feeding of the five thousand saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus. When they found him on the other side of the sea, they said to him, "Rabbi, when did you come here?" Jesus answered them, "Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal." Then they said to him, "What must we do to perform the works of God?" Jesus answered them, "This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent." So they said to him, "What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing? Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, `He gave them bread from heaven to eat.'" Then Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world." They said to him, "Sir, give us this bread always." Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."

We're always told Jesus has suffered all the temptation we have. (That's besides all the temptations he suffered that we never have, like the temptation to turn stones into bread, or bring down fire from heaven. . .) I can tell you at least one time he must have been tempted to pull his hair and slap a few people around.

Let's recap.

He goes into the wilderness, but the madding crowd goes after him. He has compassion, so he teaches them and wracks his brain thinking of stories they might understand, a little. He teaches them for hours, until both he and they are exhausted. Then, instead of sending them home for supper, or for that matter, asking them to feed him, he divides them all up neatly into companies and multiplies a little bread and fish to feed them all.

[Sidetrack: I was in a Bible study group where someone said, "I read that wasn't really a miracle, he just shamed all the people into sharing what they had." The pastor and I said in unison, "What would be non-miraculous about that??"]

They like this. They really like this! Someone has a brainstorm. "We could make him king, and he could always miraculously feed armies!" Cool! Let's do that! 

Jesus disappears.

Everybody looks around in a bewildered way, then goes home, probably arguing about who saw him last and who offended him and why he doesn't want to be king. Does anybody remember even one of his stories?

Next day, they hear he might be in Capernaum, so they all beg, borrow, and steal boats to go find him. And they do! Yay!

Jesus gives them The Look. (I'll bet Jesus was really good at The Look.) "You aren't looking for me because of who I really am. You're only interested in the free food. Believe it or not, there are more important things."

Here come a couple of gems of questions. Gem #1: "What must we do to perform the works of God?" Does this mean they are making some attempt to convince him they are interested in righteousness? Or is the subtext, "How can we make magic food appear, Jesus? Huh? How?"

"This is it,"Jesus tells them. "Just trust me. That's all."

Whoosh! That's the sound of his words flying right over their heads.

Gem #2 (the real diamond!): "What sign will you give us, so we can know you're trustworthy?"

I BEG your pardon?! What sign?? This is where I'm pretty sure the temptation to hair-pulling comes into full force, if it wasn't already. But wait--there's more!! In case he isn't picking up what they're laying down, they spell it out for him. "Our ancestors ate the bread from heaven." And they quote a Bible verse for the real clincher. "Hey, Jesus, why don't you just give us manna? Yesterday might have been a fluke. Maybe my eyes deceived me. If you do it again, I'll know for sure it's for real."

Jesus doesn't pull his hair. He doesn't hit anyone. He probably doesn't even roll his eyes. He leans forward and says in his most intense voice, "Listen to me. That bread wasn't from Moses. It was from God. The true bread of heaven is that which comes down from heaven and brings life to the world."

Does even one person get it? Maybe a bunch do. I hope so. Because the crowd in general just lights up and says brightly, "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about, Jesus! Just give us this bread from heaven all the time!"

Then Jesus does something uncharacteristic. He lays it on the line. All his cards, right there on the table. He looks them in the eyes, and he says, "I AM the bread of life." I feel sure he looks directly into the eyes of whichever one or ones are actually listening. Who knows--maybe the little boy with the bread and fish. "Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."

It's the watershed moment of Jesus' ministry, actually. He almost does give in to the temptation to be discouraged, a few verses later.

Truthfully. . . what do you think you would have said and done, if you'd been there that day?

Why?

This is actually last week's blog, for the lectionary that week, but I forgot to post it. And this week's will make less sense without it. So here it is. . .

John 6:1-15

I’m running. My bag is bumping against my side and I’m getting a little out of breath, but I don’t care. I want to be in the front, where I can see. There’s a jillion people! More people than I’ve ever seen in one place before, even when Abba took me to Jerusalem for the Feast. Seems like the world is made up of legs and elbows and walking sticks. But I’m small, and I can duck under and dash around and wiggle between, and pretty soon—here I am!

That’s more like it. There’s Jesus and those men who always surround him wherever he goes. He’s sitting down! Shh! Hurry up and be quiet, everybody! He’s sitting down like the teachers do, and I bet he’s gonna say something awesome!

----

Hours and hours have passed. Jesus’ stories are way cool, but I’m starved. Guess it’s a good thing, after all, that Mom made me bring this bag of food.

What? Me? Oh! Jesus is saying the people are hungry and they need food. Well, I guess I could share. One of the men, I heard Jesus call him Andrew, points to me. I stand up respectfully and bob my head. “Five, sir, and two salt fish, also.”

He smiled! He smiled right at me! Did you see that? I’m not so hungry. There are people hungrier, I guess. Mom will make more.

Jesus holds up my bread, like Abba does when he’s going to say the blessing. I bow my head and whisper it with him. Baruch Ata, Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.

When I open my eyes, I close them again, and rub them, and blink a few times, but the men are still passing out my bread. My bread, that Mom made this morning. I watched her do it, and it was the same old ordinary four and oil and salt and a little water! Bread and bread and more bread! Fish, too! There were only two, I swear!

Hands all around me, reaching. I’m standing here with my mouth open and forgetting to get any, so I grab some on the way by, but I just stare at it, at first. Then I taste it cautiously. It just tastes like Mom’s bread. Good. Maybe fresher, not like it rode around in my bag all day. And still Jesus and his friends are passing it around. I can’t believe it!

----

Leftovers. Can you believe it? Twelve baskets of leftovers, big ones, too! I’m taking some home to Mom. She’ll never believe this!

But here’s the weirdest thing of all. Everybody got so excited, they were going to make Jesus king. I would love that! Don’t you think he’d make the most awesome king ever? And not just because he could magically make food to feed armies, either. I heard some men talking about that. Dumb. He’d be a cool king because. . . well, just because! I never met a real king, but I don’t think there’s ever been one as good as Jesus would be.

But. . . he ran away. I don’t get it. Just kind of disappeared. I waited and waited, but his friends finally got in their boat and left.

Why did he run away? Doesn’t he want to be king?

Why?

You and Me, Two by Two, Sent Out. . . Where?

Mark 6:1-13

That's you. That's me. Jesus lays his hands on our heads and says, "Go. Don't take extra clothes or money or food. Carry your walking stick--you're going to be on the road for a while. Stick together; two heads are better than one. I hereby give you authority over demons and illness and above all, authority to spread the good news far and wide. Have fun! Let me know how it turns out." And he turns away, headed for "other villages," ones that were more willing to listen to him than his own hometown, where they thought he was getting above himself.

So we start walking. Where shall we go first? Do we just head for the nearest village? (Should we avoid our own hometowns? You know how they are!) We have. . . I'm having a hard time getting my head around this. Let's take inventory.

Between us, we have one outfit of clothing each, including sturdy sandals. Hope it doesn't get cold, or rain too much.

We have walking sticks. That ought to be helpful. Somehow. . .

 I have 97 cents and you have almost $3. That ought to get us a couple of tacos. Did he say they'd feed us? What if they don't?

We have authority over demons. Wait. Authority over demons? Illness, too. Like when he spits on people's eyes, or touches children and says "Be healed." You can do that now? Me, too? Seriously??

--------

Jesus sends out his disciples two by two. How many times have we read or heard this story? Have we really taken it in? The disciples--you know, those guys who were always missing the point, always arguing, always two steps behind Jesus--those guys have authority from God over unclean spirits and go around raising people from the dead! Judas, even, no doubt.

Where would you start? How do you find out who has the demons and needs to be rescued, and who is sick? How do you learn what the good news is for each individual? (We might have to start by listening, I'm guessing.) Because, the GOOD NEWS is the same for everybody, but beyond that, nothing is ever the same for anybody, I've noticed. And why do you think we're supposed to go together?

Any ideas?

What does "God With Us" Mean?

This week's lectionary texts have in common the idea of God caring for us through an endless variety of troubles, from war to storm to the turmoil of being whispered against and hated. But I've been wondering for years, What does that mean, "God will take care of you"?

I can tell you some things it doesn't mean:
      You or your children will have enough to eat.
      You will not lose your home or job.
      Your marriage will succeed.
      You will not be attacked, raped, or tortured.
      You will not die. in some terrible way, whether from accident, disease, or as a casualty of war.

So, if it doesn't mean any of these things, what does it mean? Is God "with us" the way Dian Fossey was "with" the gorillas? Staying as silent and unobtrusive as possible, sitting alongside with a clipboard and noting everything? Watching with the joy or sorrow each event elicits, but not interfering? Liking, even loving the apes, perhaps giving them pet names, but doing as little as possible to have any effect on the experiment? "Day, Month, Year: Debbie had a bad thing happen to her. So sad. It's hard to watch. . ."
Is God "with us" like that?

Or is it more like a friend, walking alongside us with an arm around our shoulders, crying when we cry and laughing when we laugh, listening to our irritations, woes, and celebrations and joining in them with us. . . but powerless to change anything?
Is God "with us" like that?

Or is God with us with us? Is God inside our troubles and joys, as we are? Is God in the boat when we nearly sink, in the armor when we take up the sling against our (and God's) enemies, inside our skin when we are ecstatic or depressed? When I am cut, does God bleed? When I laugh, does God's belly shake?

I recently read a small sentence that struck me: "Remember that what happens to you touches Christ first." Touches him first? I thought about it. Imagine a white board. In the center of it I make a tiny dot. That represents you or me, one human. Then, in the air around the white board, I draw a BI-I-I-I-G circle, way, way too big to fit on the white board. That represents God. When you or I "ask God to live in our hearts," what would that look like? Who would be actually "inside" of Whom?

If that were a fairly good representation of Immanuel, God With Us, then whatever came our way, good, bad, or indifferent, would definitely touch God first. And if God's infinitely bigger than we are, then I submit that God's emotions are that much bigger, too. It touches God first.

I admit, it doesn't really answer the underlying questions of why Bad Things happen (and keep on happening and happening and happening) to Good People. (Not sure I am one of those anyway.) But it does make me feel better. A little. . .

You?

What if? A Choose-Your-Own-Ending Story

What if I were in the upper room when the wind started? What if I weren't Peter, or James, or John, or even Matthias? What if I were some wholly unknown person--maybe one of the women? (Not Mary or Mary or the other Mary--someone no one ever heard of or ever will.)

I cringe in terror at the sound of a hurricane right in the house with us--we all do, even fishermen who are used to Lake Galilee's erratic and temperamental attitudes. Maybe especially those fishermen, come to think of it. But gradually our fear transforms to a holy, shivery awe as we realize this wind is not of the earth. We lower the arms we'd thrown over our faces, and lift our heads. Everyone is staring at everyone else, mouths open. I suddenly remember hearing about Jesus telling Nicodemus that the Spirit is like the wind. He said he'd send that Spirit to us--another comforter, he said. We wouldn't be alone anymore. Not that we're alone now--I've never experienced anything like this unity. Still, Jesus is gone, and it's terribly lonely!

Fire! There's fire, too? My arms prickle with chills as I watch flame divide into little tongues which settle just above each head. Mine, too? I try to roll my eyes far enough back to see above my veil, but can't. Then the murmuring begins, and quickly grows to shouts of praise and amazement. Hebrew, Aramaean, Greek, and things I can't begin to recognize--what is this?!

The joy becomes too big to contain in one upstairs room. We spill out and down the stairs in a peoplefall of singing and rejoicing, and see that crowds are gathering. "They're drunk!" someone shouts, and I have to admit, that is what it feels like. Are we drunk? On what?

Peter begins to speak and the crowd (ourselves included) quiet to listen.

But I'm not Peter, or James, or John, or Matthias. I'm not Mary or Mary or anyone that anyone has ever heard of, or ever will.

So, what happens next?