The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost - August 11th, 2024
2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33 | Psalm 130 | John 6:35, 41-51
Through the written word and the spoken word, may we come to know your living word. Amen.
When we left King David last week, he’d just been told by the prophet Nathan that his somewhat impulsive decision to sleep with the wife of one of his soldiers and then have him killed was going to cost him dearly, with much violence and discord in his household. And friends, God wasn’t kidding. In the verses between that passage and this one, the baby who was the result of that dalliance dies. Then David’s favorite son Amnon forces himself sexually on his own niece Tamar, causing her father Absalom to arrange for Amnon’s untimely death. Absalom hides from David for a time, but then starts plotting to steal the people’s loyalty from his father. Seeing no choice but to engage his son and his followers in battle, David nonetheless urges his troops to “be gentle” with the young man. It wasn’t clear if that meant a mercy killing while Absalom is left hanging by his head from a tree, but that’s apparently what they heard. “Make it look like an accident, eh?”
In case you hadn’t picked up on it yet, David is a pretty complicated individual. While his mourning for Jonathan, his partner in possibly the world’s first recorded bromance, is understandable, he has almost the same reaction over the death of Saul, his father-in-law, former boss, and the guy who tried to have him killed a few times. British theologian Paula Gooder writes, “David’s grief over Saul’s death is a powerful example of the biblical theme of loving one’s enemies. It speaks to the complex nature of forgiveness and loyalty, and to the deep personal integrity that David sought to maintain in his own kingship.”
And David is similarly vexed by the confrontation with Absalom… on one hand he is facing an existential crisis for himself and his people, but on the other hand, it’s his son, and he’s already lost two others. It’s a decision no parent would want to face, and yet it roughly parallels some of the impossible choices families confront, brought about by addiction, gang culture, and abuse.
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| "Eternally" by Daniela Muñoz Santos Used under Creative Commons license Some rights reserved |
When he hears that the rebels have been defeated and Absolom is dead, one must wonder how much of David’s grief is for his traitorous offspring versus the realization that kingship is not all it is cracked up to be. In the verses following, he is jolted out of his misery by the accusation that he’s selfishly upsetting the troops by mourning his son instead of celebrating the victory they won for him.
Jesus might have been feeling equally unappreciated and misunderstood in today’s Gospel reading. After weeks of following him around so he could heal, teach and even feed them, when he tries to explain who he is and why he was able to do the miraculous things they witnessed, the crowd suddenly turns sceptical. “Who does this guy think he is?” they ask themselves. “We know his family, and now he’s claiming to be the Messiah, the One who is to come.”
Unsurprisingly, they are not very satisfied with his response, in which he claims to have been sent by the Father not bearing but embodying the bread from heaven which is the key to eternal life. In the verses that follow, which we’ll hear next Sunday, he says again “my flesh is the bread and my blood is the wine, which you must eat and drink to obtain salvation.” Taken at face value, this is a troubling concept, and more than a little bit icky if we’re being honest, even for a culture that was accustomed to the idea of ritual sacrifices. And more than a few of his followers walked away.
Fortunately, as we know, Jesus did not ask his friends to take his command literally. Instead, when he was about to face the cross, he joined them for what liturgist Steven Shakespeare calls “a meal that tasted of freedom” at which he turns the metaphor around. He holds up the bread and wine and said “this is my body, which will be broken for you; this is my blood, which will be poured out for you. Whenever you share them, do it to remember me.”
And remember it we do as we gather each Sunday morning. Some traditions including Roman Catholicism hold that the bread and wine become Jesus in that moment. Others maintain it is merely a memorial symbol. In the liminal space that is the Anglican tradition, there is room for both schools of thought, and room in between. In my first Episcopal church, we used real bread, crumbs of which sometimes ended up on the carpet. A dear friend who was raised Catholic like me, made it a habit to pick up the larger crumbles and eat them. Since they were consecrated he couldn’t abide the idea of them getting vacuumed up. Our priest--who had also been raised Catholic--had also been a plumber in a past life, and brought that practicality to the situation. He told us, “If Jesus is smart enough to know when to get into the bread, don’t you think He’s smart enough to know when to get out?”
Bread and wine are--by nature--rich in symbolism because of how they are made and how long they have been a part of human culture. Rising dough seems almost alive; wine needs to be uncorked at the right age. And they are ideal symbols of community and generosity, given the care that must be taken in their preparation. But they are by no means the only ones. Yesterday we remembered Jeanette Cole, whose marvellous home-made cakes were an institution at every St. Mark’s event… how better to tell someone you love them than in fondant and edible flowers? Author Anne Lamott has asserted a shared bag of M&M’s works just as well as a Communion wafer in a pinch. And in the classic movie Moonstruck it’s prosecco and oatmeal that is ceremonially shared to welcome Ronnie Cammareri--coincidentally a baker by trade--into his new family.
Sometimes the thing which we gift to each other, isn’t even… a thing. In 1966, a teacher named Sister Suzanne Toolan spent her lunch break in an empty classroom, trying to get a song written for an upcoming diocesan event. When the bell rang, she was dissatisfied with her work, tore it up and threw it out before heading to the next period. Out in the hallway she encountered a student exiting the infirmary next door. “What was that music?” the girl asked her. “It was beautiful!”
Whether that was a chance encounter or the mischief of the Holy Spirit at work, Toolan’s confidence was restored. She retrieved the scraps from the garbage and taped them back together. The song she eventually finished is called “I Am the Bread of Life” and today it is sung around the world in over 25 languages, second only to “Amazing Grace,” or so I’ve been told.
Decades later, radio personality and author Garrison Keillor recalled an Easter service when it was heard. He writes, “As the congregation sang, a few people stood and some raised their hands in the air, a charismatic touch unusual among Anglicans, and then more people stood. I stood. I raised my right hand. I imagined my long-gone parents and brother and grandson and aunts and uncles rising from the dead and coming into radiant glory, and then I was weeping and my mouth got rubbery and I couldn’t form the consonants.” He continues, “That’s what I go to church for, to be surprised by faith and to fall apart. Without the Resurrection, Episcopalians would be just a wonderful club of very nice people with excellent taste in music and literature, but when it hits you what you’ve actually subscribed to, it’ll blow your mind.”
This kind of experience, which we help create for one another here, through prayers and music and hugs and ideas and, yes, food, are all expressions of the instruction Jesus gave his followers around that table. Author and Episcopalian Madeleine L’Engle said, “When Jesus says he is the Bread of Life, he is inviting us to a banquet of spiritual richness. It is a reminder that our deepest needs are met not by material things but by the love and presence of God made manifest in Christ.”
The important thing is that we gather and share it, even when--like Saul--we’d rather sit with our sadness and not engage with anybody. Maybe especially then. Feeding each other… physically, spiritually, and intellectually, is our common purpose here and it is Christ who set this example and in whose name we continue to gather around the table. Rowan Williams, theologian and former Archbishop of Canterbury, writes, “In calling himself the Bread of Life, Jesus invites us into a relationship that sustains and nourishes our very being. It is a call to partake in the divine life, a life that is both transformative and sustaining.”
That relationship is with Christ and about Christ. In that way he is the bread that we share, but it is also with one another. There is a reason why our priests do not say Mass when they are alone… the holy Eucharist, and all the other ways we follow Christ’s example, are meant to be shared. In this place where we gather in times of joy and of sadness, we are all His body and blood, his hands and his feet, sustaining one another until the day when we see Him face to face again.
Will you pray with me?
Eternal Spirit, Earth-maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver, Source of all that is and that shall be, Father and Mother of us all, Loving God in whom is heaven:
The hallowing of your name echo through the universe! The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the world! Your heavenly will be done by all created beings! Your commonwealth of peace and freedom sustain our hope and come on earth.
With the bread we need for today, feed us. In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us. In times of temptation and test, strengthen us. From trials to great to endure, spare us. From the grip of all that is evil, free us. For you reign in the glory of the power that is love, now and forever. Amen- From A New Zealand Prayer Book
