John 6: 51–59
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.
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Everyone loves the images of Jesus calming a storm, Jesus rescuing some
lost lamb or Jesus bringing peace to some troubled soul. But this
morning, in the sixth chapter of John, Jesus sounds nothing like the
voice of calm in the midst of a storm. If anything, his words
disturb a crowd that can’t understand what he is trying to tell
them.
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This crowd has followed him, intrigued, after he fed 5,000 of them on a
Galilean hillside from almost nothing at all. He satisfied the
hungers of their stomachs and, strangely, the hungers of their hearts
as well. No wonder they want to hear more about this bread from
heaven, this bread of life he claims to be. No wonder they want
to understand. So when the whole entourage has arrived in
Capernaum, Jesus begins to teach them again. And someone in the
crowd, trying to understand, asks, “Are you like the manna God
sent our forefathers in the wilderness?” It seems an
innocuous question — in fact, one that sounds pretty close to
faith. After all, isn’t the manna that God supplied in
the desert pretty close to our understanding of Jesus as provision?
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We might think so, but Jesus doesn’t like the comparison.
“All who ate that bread,” he says, “died in the
wilderness. But those who eat my flesh, those who drink my blood
will never die.” And with that statement the people get
really upset. Not only has Jesus claimed to be the Bread of
Life — a title the Jews reserved for Almighty God — but
now he’s claiming that His flesh and His blood will give people
eternal life. To say this to a believing Jew whose dietary
laws strictly forbade ingesting blood was an insult. And the
hints of cannibalism were even worse.
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What we know, of course — but that crowd had no way of
knowing — is that Jesus is referring to the symbolic meal of
Communion, a meal these people would have no knowledge of until after
his death. But the question remain; why would Jesus offer
them these images that confuse and disturb them – long before
they could understand and accept them? Whatever happened to
gentle Jesus, meek and mild? Whatever happened to the more
appealing invitation, “Come unto me, all ye who are
weary – and I will give you rest”? Does he want
to repel them? Is he trying to provoke them?
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As I wondered about those questions this week, I suddenly remembered
an experience I had the very first time I acted as a chalice bearer in a
Communion service. It happened at St. Patrick’s Episcopal
Church in Dunwoody when I was just beginning to follow my call toward
the priesthood. A Lay Eucharistic Minister had not shown up for a
service, and the rector of that church invited me to take her place as
Server.
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To say that I felt unready would be to put it mildly. You see, I
grew up with a sense that everything that pertained to the altar was
off limits to everyone but the priest – and a few favored
individuals. And I didn’t see myself – not yet
anyway – among those specially designated people. But the
priest promised to talk me through the motions of what I needed to
do – and he did. With the help of his quiet guidance, at
the right moments I presented the small bowl of water to him with the
lavabo draped over my left arm. Then I brought him the cruets of
wine and water. And finally, I stood off to one side of the
altar rail, holding the chalice of wine and waiting for him to
distribute the wafers. And right then is when I suddenly saw the
whole scene differently. For right then the Lord gave me a vision.
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The altar rail was already filled with parishioners kneeling there,
their hands cupped upward waiting to receive the bread. But all of
a sudden, as I watched, their faces changed. They were no longer
the mature faces of saintly ladies and mature men. Suddenly every
last one of them had the face of a newborn child. You know how
a newborn baby can look ugly and cute – all at the same
time? That’s how these faces suddenly appeared to
me. Each infant face was distinctive, with its own
personality — but they all looked hungry and expectant. And
I realized that that’s how we must look to our heavenly Father as
he prepares to feed us the bread of heaven. He knows we
don’t understand these holy mysteries — any more than a
newborn baby understands a thing about nutrition or how growth
occurs. He knows we haven’t a clue about what we really
need. But he feeds us anyway, in a variety of ways, just as any
loving parent would. Not because we deserve
it . . . and not because we’ve
earned it . . . but just because we are
hungry . . . just because we belong to
him . . . and just because he loves us.
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A moment later that vision had faded, and everyone’s face along
that altar rail once again appeared normal, mature. I followed
the priest as he distributed the bread, offering the wine in the
chalice to each person in turn. But I’ve never forgotten
that special insight into how our Lord views each one of us hungry
ones, each one of us needy, immature ones, each one of us who
doesn’t yet understand much about Communion with our Lord.
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We might not like that image of ourselves as infants, unable to supply
for ourselves what we need. But that, in fact, is the way it
is — for all of us learners, all of us students in this walk
with the Lord. As we feed on Him, as we rely on Him, as we learn
to trust in Him . . . we become just
like Him.
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And then, wonder of wonders, we bring others along.
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Amen.
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