Ninth Pentecost (Proper 14)
John 6:35, 41-51, II Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33;
Ephesians 4:25-5:2
If you were a car, what kind of car would you be? It’s one of those questions often used as an ice breaker in a small group gathering. There is no right or wrong answer which makes every answer acceptable. If you were a car, what kind of car would you be? Would you be a sleek new sports car—a rugged SUV or maybe even a “hummer”—how about a pickup truck or maybe a beautifully detailed classic car—say a 1927 Bugatti Nova 40 or a more traditional ’57 Chevy or maybe a Ford Mustang. Of course if you aren’t into cars we could try houses—If you were a house, what kind would you be? A modern ranch or a two story colonial—(if we’re honest some of us would have to be sure it had a porch)—A suburban house or one in the country—How about an urban three flat or a high rise condo.
Modern psychologists have suggested that the metaphors we use in self description in inanimate objects like a house or car are actually clues to how we see ourselves and who we are—where we come from or where we are going. A simple ice breaker question can provide an interesting opportunity to explore various images of self as clues to our perspective on life and the world around us. So then comes a Gospel lesson with the familiar yet curious phrase “I am the bread of life.” If you were a loaf of bread—what kind of bread would you be? Of all the types of bread there are in the world—from rye to wheat to sour dough—there are few if any bakeries that market the bread of life.
Our lesson for today provides for us one of the most familiar metaphors in scripture and yet it is more than metaphor. A metaphor is not intended to be taken literally—If someone is described as a real snake we know that what is meant is not that the person is a reptile but rather that they exhibit characteristics that are like unto a snake—they might be slippery and low in their dealings with others. If someone is described as a shining star we do not mean that they are an astronomical phenomena but rather that they stand out in some brilliant way. But then come the words “living bread”—a phrase that is strangely more than metaphor. Anyone who is even passingly familiar with the scriptures knows that one of the challenges of much of our encounter with Jesus and His words is that time and again we need to move beyond the literal—Some would say it is the realm of the Spirit—William Williman refers to the poetry of the text. This is not a matter of any special rhythm or rhyme. No iambic pentameter nor hymn-like stanzas. The gospel looks more like prose and even sounds like when it is read—but the poetic is there. Williman notes that Philosophers tell us that poetry happens when something is written or spoken that sparks the imagination and touches the heart. Poetry happens when someone moves beyond literal, objective observation and tells us something that reaches deep within us and changes us. That’s what happens when you read a good poem. The poet and the reader connect at some core level and “deep calls to deep”.
There are poetic moments in our lives—times when something profound happens and it means far more than what the words mean when we describe the incident. You know what it is like—standing before that mountain peak the words “mighty mountain’s grandeur” from the hymn “How Great Thou Art” seem wimpy and shallow. The God who created mountains rises beyond words—the awesome power of the ocean surf silences our best descriptive effort—and the expansive beauty and wonder of dessert and wilderness can ultimately only be experienced. No words can capture the moment of transcendent awe that comes through so many nature moments. And then there are the human encounters—the overwhelming embrace of love—the unexplainable sacrifice that one human being makes time and again for another—parent for child—husbands and wives—friends, neighbors, even just fellow travelers on life’s journey—encounters that we describe in metaphors that refer to angels met unawares. Life is full of poetry—and because the Bible is so filled with life—it is also filled with poetry.
The objective details are important but the gospel writers—especially the gospel of John—are drawn time and again to meanings and even realities that transcend any words—the closest they can come is metaphor and the poetic. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God ...And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” These are words that spark the imagination and convey a deep understanding of the relationship between Jesus and God—a between Jesus and us. But it is so easy to miss the poetry—What is the “Word”? How can a word become flesh to dwell among us? “I am the bread of life,” Jesus says in the Gospel of John. Literally we know that bread is bread and a man is a man. They just cannot be the same—That’s the problem others around Jesus had in our lesson for today. They heard him speak of coming down from heaven and they began to murmur to one another in their literal-minded confusion, “Wait a minute, isn’t this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know so well? How can he say he came down from heaven when we know the very house in which he was born?” There are meanings beyond the facts we know—understandings to be revealed in forms that defy description.
The literal minded crowd around Jesus could not see with anything more than their eyes—could not hear with anything more than with their ears. Our world is not a whole lot different—Many hear of Jesus and are driven to question what they hear—A story of a man—who is said to have fed 5000 with a few scraps of food—surely the exaggerated descriptions of ancient myth makers. But faith resides not only in the head but also in the heart. Believers know that we walk by faith and not by sight. The faithful know that the best vision comes when your eyes are closed—that the richest sounds are often heard in the silence—that the deepest understandings come from believing with your heart what your mind cannot comprehend. A child is baptized today—by water and the word. Literally we know that it takes far more water then three quick rinses with a handful of water to clean most anything.
Michael is sure to experience far more serious cleansing baths than the one he receives this morning—yet to the eyes of faith there will be no more important moment. Few of us have eyes of faith refined enough to fully grasp what happened this morning—God’s creative and sustaining Spirit enters another life—claims another child for God. Michael is only about to enter a world that he will first know as the Spirit, I believe, intended—filled with more mysteries then can be named and wonders beyond words—A good imagination and lots of metaphors will serve him best. In the years to come Michael will discover some of the very same unrealities that so many in this congregation already know so well—Through the gift of imagination and wonder he may someday explore a tropical rain forest—in the corner of his family room—journey deep into the center of the earth while crawling under his bed—soar among the planets while bouncing on a trampoline. Someday he may be invited by some attractive young friend to enjoy a sumptuous meal served up elegantly from the play kitchen here in the church nursery. And as he grows in years his sister or brother may someday fill him with wonder and awe as they describe worlds that he has not yet known called high school or even college.
And Michael will believe what he experiences and hears as every child does It will not be delusion or lies that he believes—It will be the meanings that transcend reality. The creative Spirit of God brought life into being as it moved upon the primordial waters of chaos in the first verses of the Bible—In a burst of light the universe as we know it came into being—no amount of calculations or description has yet been able to quantify this moment—Yet incredibly that same Spirit is gifted to each of us in our baptism—Moving us to discover worlds rising within and around us—New realities and worlds that move us beyond moments of trouble or even despair to new life—a vision of life fed by Christ’s words and example. This is the substance of faith—trusting in that which goes beyond what we can always define or know. Faith takes imagination. And as one part of our lives embraces certain hard realities that come from the passing of years—as there are moments when the calculated descriptions of the world shrink it to the statistics of suffering, death and destruction of the evening news report—the Spirit invites us to discover other ways through which we can know Jesus and see His presence in the world.
Faith takes imagination. It takes a heart that is open to see what the mind cannot. “I am the bread of life” Jesus said. If this is true, what does it mean? It means what Pastor Chris identified in last Sunday’s sermon—that our souls will never be satisfied by things the fill the belly. No food—no loved one—no job—no wealth—no success— no fulfillment will ever satisfy. It is the grace of God that opens our heart—and the open heart will understand when Jesus says that he is the Good Shepherd—the Vine—the door of the sheepfold—the Way—the Truth—and the Life. The open heart will be moved by a world in need because it sees beyond the surface. The open heart sees the face of Jesus in every person who is poor or ill—naked or in prison. The open heart will be moved and transformed by the message of the Word made flesh. There are times, of course, when even the person of faith loses their vision. To live in the world means to be bombarded by the hard realities that take their toll on the imagination and creative spirit. At such times, faith can seem distant and impractical. These are the times when we rely again on the poetic power of Jesus—those unrealistic words—the metaphors of meaning.
This is when the community of faith gathers and
draws from the greater body the power and energy to find life where none seems
possible—vision where there is no light. In these moments we discover again
that a life is more than the years lived—Its meaning goes on long after
we are gone—And the love that is shared and the good deeds that are done—The
faith that is lived and the songs that are song feed the memory and nourish
generations yet to come. In a way that defies observation or explanation the
Bread of Life comes once more in the simple forms of bread and wine. Eat this
bread—drink from this cup—only a taste—only a sip—yet a
meal of grace that nourishes the soul and strengthens the imagination. The unreal
becomes real—the metaphor becomes a meal—Who ever eats of this bread
will live forever.
Amen.