As most of you know, I recently returned from a trip to Ireland to visit with my daughter, who lives in Dublin. It was a wonderful trip, one of the best vacations I’ve ever had, and I can hardly wait to go back again. One of the things that made it such a good visit was that my sister and her friend were also able to be there. My daughter Jennifer wasn’t able to take time off work, so the three of us explored Dublin together. All four of us ended the week with a road trip on Saturday. We stopped for lunch at a pub in Enniskill, a little town about midway between Dublin and the western coast. The food was good, but I can’t remember what I ate. All I remember about that little place was the three year old boy at the next table. He apparently held most of the power in his family. He yelled at his parents and older brother, threw food that displeased him and, after a very long time, was finally carried outside by his father, kicking and screaming all the way. As we drove on, we commented on the misery that his reign of terror probably gave to his family, and I spoke of my gratitude that my daughters had been pretty well-behaved when they were little. Jennifer reminded me that when she and her sister didn’t behave, all I had to do was begin counting to three, and they stopped whatever it was that they were doing. She said they had no idea what might happen if I ever got to three, and they didn’t want to find out. I didn’t tell her that I also had no idea what I would do after the count of three, but that I relied on that to get their attention and was grateful that it had worked.
Today’s gospel portion strikes me as Jesus getting to the count of two. All four gospels are filled with stories of people arguing with Jesus about the meaning of his words and actions. His disciples are foremost among those who tell Jesus he’s mistaken, that he’s wrong, that he couldn’t possibly mean what he’s just said. This week’s story continues that pattern.
In today’s gospel portion we hear for the third week in a row about the bread of life. Stay tuned, because next week is chapter four. In this third telling, people are disputing with Jesus about his message. He tells the people closest to him that they must eat his flesh—the living bread come down from heaven—and they start murmuring among themselves that he couldn’t possibly mean what they’ve just heard him say. At this point in the story, a key word changes. In the Greek version of this reading, Jesus doesn’t use the word we translate as eat as in previous passages. This time the word he uses is more like chew—or gnaw—or maybe munch.. He says chew my flesh. Chew my flesh. Chew. Why did Jesus use this word? To startle us? Maybe. To repel us? Possibly. Or perhaps he used the word to get our attention: One. Two…… Or perhaps he used the word to drag us into awareness of the participation he is asking of us.
When we chew, we work at taking in the food. When we chew, we are not merely passive recipients of nourishment. When we chew, we are involved with our food. And the bread of life that comes down from heaven is not fluffy stuff. It’s rough, sturdy bread that requires involvement. The bread of life is not comfort food that slides easily down our throats. The bread of life is not jello or ice cream or even chicken soup. It takes strength to break this bread, and it takes energy and determination to chew it. It takes work and commitment and perhaps a bit of courage to chew this bread of life.
Sometimes we don’t want to do what we hear Jesus calling us to do. It’s not comfortable. It goes against all our impulses. Sometimes it calls us into change we’re not sure we’re ready to make. And sometimes we’re just not sure what the path is supposed to be. At our diocesan convention, just before Bishop Mary’s consecration as our bishop, she spoke of a spiritual crisis she experienced in the months before she was nominated to be our bishop. During those months, she felt her understanding about her place in the world being challenged and, as she put it, she couldn’t tell which way was up. Finally, she heard God saying to her, very gently, “if you could loosen your grip on your vocation, that would help me out a lot. I can’t imagine it is much fun, and I know you think you have it all under control, but trust me, it isn’t going to work out very well if we do it your way.” Shortly after that, when she learned she had been nominated to be our bishop and all her defenses came into play, she recognized that her work was not to shape and create but to be shaped and created. Then she reminded us of Jesus’ words written in the gospel according to Luke: Why do you call me Lord and not do what I tell you?
When Jesus offers himself to us, he is inviting us into his struggle. He is calling us to that depth of feeling and involvement that brought him to the cross and beyond. He is calling us to that depth of feeling and involvement that sent the apostles back from safety in Emmaus to danger in Jerusalem on the day of the Resurrection. He is calling us to that depth of feeling and involvement that changes the way we look at the world and the way we act in the world. He is calling us to take the next step into new life—into life that reflects our baptismal promises more closely each day.
We who follow the risen Christ are called to be transformed, but our very human nature would usually much rather keep things just as they are, thank you very much. We know what life is like where we are standing, and the thought of moving into a new place, a place where things are a little different—or a lot—is not usually high on our list of things to do. But standing still—trusting in our own way for our lives—is not what following Christ is about. We are called to a continuing process of growing and maturing. We are called to listen for God’s way for us and to watch for the path that is opening to us. We are called to live into our baptismal promises—to follow Jesus’ commandment to love God and our neighbor. This morning, as we prepare to break the bread, as we approach this table and join in the meal which unites us as the body of Christ, I am mindful of the words of one of our Eucharistic prayers: I pray that we may be delivered from the presumption of coming to this table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. I pray that the grace of this Holy Communion will make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name. I pray in thanksgiving that Christ who calls us here can be counted on to meet us here and everywhere we go.
Thanks be to God!