John 6: 56–69
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.
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Maybe you have noticed: we have been in the sixth chapter of the
Gospel of John for four full weeks now, and every week we have been
able to discover some new aspect of Jesus – each one them
expressed through an image of bread. In that first week, after
he blessed a child’s five small loaves, those loaves seemed
to multiply until there was enough bread for five thousand people,
with plenty left over. Even in the wilderness, there was
plenty. The following week we learned that the bread Jesus
will give will last forever; indeed, those who eat of it will
never die. And finally, last week we heard him refer to
himself as the bread that comes down from heaven, as food that
satisfies hungry stomachs and even hungrier spirits.
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And so far, so good. The images he’s been using are
attractive. They are palatable and poetic and not far outside
our understanding. The crowd hearing those images were attracted
by them, even if they didn’t yet fully understand what he was
trying to tell them. But when Jesus began to add that the bread
he would give for the life of the world was his flesh – well,
no one, it seemed, could make any sense of that image at all – so
they left it alone.
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But then, that’s the way John does things; he presents some
image or concept that his 21st century readers understand, or nearly
understand – with benefit of hindsight. But his first
century listeners don’t get it at all. Or they misunderstand
it over and over. But as they get it wrong, time and time again,
in six different ways – our own understanding grows. The
light begins to dawn. And John’s theology becomes clear.
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That’s what happens in our passage this morning. Jesus has
switched from describing himself through images of bread to saying that
the bread he will give for the life of the world is his flesh. And
no one in the crowd can make head or tails out of this image because
it sounds like cannibalism. Worse yet, when he doubles down,
insisting that they will also have to drink his blood, they are
positively repelled. For everyone knew the passage in the Law that
said that life was in the blood — and no observant Jew was to
eat meat with blood still in it. But the thought of taking in
human blood was even worse, even more repellant. So many
in the crowd – at this point – turn away. Maybe
we’re tempted to turn away as well. The yuck factor
in those images of flesh and blood is just too great.
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But Jesus insists. Though he has been sent from heaven by the
Father to us, still he abides in the Father. And now, he says,
he wants us to abide in him, to be at home in him, alive in
him – just as he is at home in the Father. And the way we
can do that, he says, is by taking his life into our own
bodies. And here, if the words of the Eucharistic service
begin to echo in our heads – well, that is what John
wants. As we take in a piece of consecrated bread, he wants
us to think of the words, “This is my body, given for
you . . . And as we sip wine from the
chalice he wants us to remember, “This is my blood of
the new covenant, shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of
sins.” For as soon as we’ve made those connections in
our heads and our hearts, the light begins to dawn. God the
Father . . . in Jesus the
Son . . . now alive in each one of
us. This is what incarnation means. It’s not just
the life of God the Father lived through Jesus his Son two thousand
years ago. It is also the life of God the Father and Jesus
the Son – now taken into our
lives . . . so altogether we can touch
our worlds.
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This is a huge gift, and one that most in that crowd listening to
Jesus in the synagogue at Capernaum found nearly impossible to
grasp. But then, they weren’t yet sure that this young
rabbi really was Messiah, Son of the living God. They hadn’t
yet witnessed his sacrificial death – and rising to life
again. Nor could they yet anticipate the symbolic meal of bread
and wine, commemorating his life. Much less that all this might
become part of their own lives. And yet, by God’s grace,
once the connections have been made, once the light has begun to
dawn — even young children can embrace it.
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This is a huge gift, and one that most in that crowd listening to
Jesus in the synagogue at Capernaum found nearly impossible to
grasp. But then, they weren’t yet sure that this young
rabbi really was Messiah, Son of the living God. They hadn’t
yet witnessed his sacrificial death – and rising to life
again. Nor could they yet anticipate the symbolic meal of bread
and wine, commemorating his life. Much less that all this might
become part of their own lives. And yet, by God’s grace,
once the connections have been made, once the light has begun to
dawn — even young children can embrace it.
He began by asking the children what happens when they eat
carrots. Ask that question of second graders, Melissa
commented, and be prepared for a detailed explanation.
Then he asked them what happens when they receive the consecrated
bread of communion, what Catholics believe is the Body of
Christ. He told them Saint Augustine taught that this food
is unlike any other food. All the other foods we humans eat
become a part of us. But not this food. When we eat this bread,
and drink this cup, we become part of it. And then
Melissa added, “Clement and Bess can spend the rest of their
lives considering that homily. I know I will.”
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And so, I think, will we. Simple truths. Profound
truths . . . that will take us a
lifetime to live into.
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Thanks be to God.
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Amen.
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