God in the bread.

John 6:47-69
 "Very truly, I tell you, whoever believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life.Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day;for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” He said these things while he was teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum.

When many of his disciples heard it, they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” But Jesus, being aware that his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, “Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before? It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not believe.” For Jesus knew from the first who were the ones that did not believe, and who was the one that would betray him. And he said, “For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.” Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

There are a million things I wish I could do, but I just can’t.  I wish I could pull off wearing “skinny jeans.” I wish I could resist buying Swedish fish and subsequently eating the entire bag, -- which might explain my skinny jeans problem.  I wish I could get by on just six hours of sleep a night.  I wish I could leave the house without wearing makeup and not have someone come up to me and say, “you look tired.”  These wishes have been going on all my life.  In fifth grade, and weighing about 50 pounds soaking wet, and maybe four feet tall on my tiptoes, I wanted to play on the basketball team. When I was in high school, I wanted to ace AP Chemistry and even just pass calculus.  I wished that just one boy would ask me to dance. (Whah wah...;) Now, I wish all kinds of things.  I wish these Greek paradigms would forever etch themselves into my brain before my final on Thursday.  I wish I had some useful skill that would actually make a difference in peoples’ lives.  I wish I could stop doubting whether I have any use or purpose this world.  And I wish I could just have a simple conversation with Pastor Jim without crying.

But ok, Jenn, let’s just take one step at a time.  Let’s start out simple.  

I wish I could figure out the mystery that is breadmaking.

At my liberal arts college, where everyone had to take a science class, no matter your major, they offered a special science class for those in the humanities - it was called “the biology of breadmaking.”  And that’s exactly what it was; you’d study all the intricate steps in the science of breadmaking, studying sugars and yeasts, and compounds, and chemical reactions. It was a class for all of us hopeless humanities majors.

It’s a complicated process to make bread.  If the yeast is too warm, it’ll die.  If it’s too cold, it won’t activate.  If you don’t put in the right sugars, the yeast will starve; you’ve got to knead the bread just enough without making the dough too hard, and if the humidity isn’t just right in your oven, then your crust will be too rubbery or the bread too dry, and it goes on and on.  You have to be present with bread.  You have to be aware at every step.

But for some of you, breadmaking is simple, just like how you can rock those skinny jeans and stay emotionally composed when you walk into this place.  But I can’t seem to figure it out.  For me, breadmaking is this complicated, intricate mystery that I can’t seem to get in on. It requires balance, and artistry, and trial and error.

This passage today is absolutely and totally about bread.  And it’s absolutely and totally not about bread.

But that’s what metaphors do, isn’t it?

They point to and away from both the object and the idea behind that object.

And here we have a metaphor of bread that is as complicated to me as actually trying to make the stuff.  It’s this complicated, intricate mystery that I can’t seem to get in on.  Wading into these waters of metaphor require balance, artistry, trial and error. And a kind of presence.

In this passage, we have this crazy dialogue about bread, and Jesus seems to contradict himself all over the place.  

But first, some context.

This whole chapter is about bread.  And it’s also not about bread.

Jesus has just fed five thousand people out of five barley loaves and two fish.

And people see this as a sign and begin to believe in him.

Jesus leaves, fearing for his life and freedom, and goes across the lake.

And the crowd follows him. 

And Jesus calls them out - he says, “you just want to find me because you want more bread.”

They’ve become adherents of the prosperity gospel - you know, Joel Osteen and the whole bit - follow Jesus and you’ll get stuff. I mean, who can resist FREE BREAD!

But Jesus redefines “bread.” - He tells them that real bread is that which gives life.

Jesus tells them that He’s the bread.

And this gets the crowds reeling.

They say, “isn’t this just the snotty peasant kid, the scrubby son of Mary and Joseph, from Nazareth - that hole of depravity and laziness and debauchery?”

And now he’s saying he’s the bread.  “I am the living bread that came down from heaven.  Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

Even on a purely metaphorical level, this is difficult and haunting, especially for the Jews.  But taken 

literally, it’s just, well, weird.

The crowd has come to him, saying, “bread bread bread!  Give us the bread!”

And the Jews have come to him, saying, “spirit spirit spirit! Give us the spirit!”

The crowd has come to him wanting physical comfort and tangible signs. And Jesus says, it’s not about eating! It’s not about bread!

The Jews have come to him wanting spiritual and ethereal guarantees. And Jesus says, it’s about eating! It’s about bread!

And they’re both completely on the wrong track.  They’ve both got it all wrong.

And yet.  They’re both completely right.

It’s Bread. It’s Spirit.  BreadSpirit.  SpiritBread. “Brerit.” “Spread.”

With the crowd, and the Jews, and the disciples, and especially me, all still not getting it, Jesus tries again: and we get to what has been affectionately referred to as the “vampire passage.”

“Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.  Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.”

And it’s clear that no one is getting it STILL, and so Jesus keeps going!

He says, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.  Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.”

Now. Stop.  Stop where your brain is going right now. ‘Cause if it’s going where my brain was going, we’re on the wrong track.  This isn’t about who gets into heaven.  And this isn’t about the end times. This isn’t about some far off other-worldly realm of everlasting peace and happiness.  When Jesus talks about eternal life, yes, even in the Gospel of John, he’s not talking about immortality or heaven, necessarily, although that might be a small part of it, but as O’Day and Hylen tell us in their commentary, it’s “a metaphor for living now in the unending presence  of God;” it’s about “nourishment in the ongoing presence of God.” We’re not the ones who get scooped up into eternity.  Eternity has come down to us.  

Eternity has become Presence.

All throughout the Hebrew scriptures, manna and food and bread are all used as metaphors for wisdom, metaphors for God’s abiding presence.  When the Hebrews were wandering in the wilderness, God sent them manna - not just to physically feed them, but to spiritually feed them - to tell them that their Adonai is with them always, even in the desert. God is present.

When an angel and ravens give Elijah bread while he’s hiding out in the wilderness, it’s not just to provide him with daily sustenance.  It’s to encourage him that God is there.

In Isaiah and Proverbs, Wisdom, or Torah - the very presence of the teachings of God - is thought to come to those “who eat of her bread and drink of her wine.”

Bread makes us stop and think and re-member.  Bread is a reminder of God’s presence, even as we try to be present ourselves.

Presence.  It’s about Presence. Which is this messy combination of all that we are and all that we were and all we will be.  Presence.  It’s that messy combination of all that God is, and all that God was, and will be.  Presence is about what got you right here, right now, and is a starting off point towards where you will be.  

It’s interesting to me that the crowd in this passage who comes to Jesus for more bread, is coming to Jesus with full bellies.  They’ve just been fed.  It’s like they’re hoarders or something. Like the Jews in the wilderness, they want to squirrel away the manna for future use. And it’s interesting to me that the Jews in this passage who come to Jesus for answers already seem to have the answers they want. They, too, want to have it all figured out so that there are no surprises in the future.

And they’re coming to “get something out of Jesus.” Not to be present with Jesus. 

But God offers us presence.

And it’s in the form of bread and spirit.  “Berit.” “Spread.” 

God offers to be present with us and satisfy our hunger: with bread -- the “real” concrete, stuff made of yeast and sugars and flour, and the “spiritual” eternal now - the moment when time stops, and all the things you can’t do and have failed to do and will never be able to do fade away, and there’s only presence.  You and me and God. Here. Now. 

This is the fullness of the bread metaphor. 

If we focus on just the bread or just the spirit, we miss it.

In chapter 6 of the Gospel of John, Jesus says “the flesh - my flesh - is what saves you” and “the flesh is useless.” 

See, it’s not a 50/50 combination of bread and spirit.  It’s 100% bread. 100% spirit. 100% life.

It has nothing to do with “bread.” And it has everything to do with bread.”

And this gets messy.

This gets difficult.

I’m always rushing between regretting who I am and what I’ve done and failed to do, and flailing around trying to become someone that I’m not and that I can’t ever be. Wishing I could fit in to those skinny jeans and be cool and have friends and make myself worth something. Wishing I could just have a little more bread.  Wishing I could have just a little more understanding.

But there’s God, in the flesh. In the flesh. Or maybe in the bread is a better way to think of it.   Offering us presence. Eternal presence.

And this doesn’t make a lot of sense to us.  And it didn’t make any sense to the crowds or the Jews or even Jesus’ own disciples.  And this is the watershed moment.  This is the moment where you’re in or you’re out.  The crowds leave.  The Jews leave.  Lots of disciples leave.  

“This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”

But there’s good ol’ Peter.  The too quick-to-speak, flailing, dufus who gets it wrong when he tries to get it right, and then when he stops trying and is simply present, once in awhile, he gets it right.  He says, “Lord, to whom can we go?”  We don’t have anyone else.  You’re it.  You’re all we’ve got.  You’re HERE.

So I’m not very good at the practical application of all this stuff.  But, here you go - this is the best I can do - be hungry.  Know you’re hungry.  Know where you are right now - which is hungry.  Hungry for food. Hungry for bread.  Hungry for lunch that’ll come in about 15 more minutes.  Hungry for the presence of God in community. Then come to the Presence to eat your fill.

Jesus Christ is forever and always inviting us to be present to the Presence - to the one who is for us both spiritual and physical nourishment.  That’s where the life is.  Come.  Eat your fill.  Eat the yeast and the flour and the juice and the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Come hungry for the life which satisfies. Here and now. Come hungry for the presence. 

Thanks be to God.

More, More Light - On the 15th Anniversary of Sixth Presbyterian Church's decision to become More Light

                                               image from http://www.uppercrustindia.com/posts/161/SPECIAL-FOOD.html

Matthew 5: 1-12

5When Jesus^* saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. ²Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

3 ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

4 ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

5 ‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

6 ‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

7 ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

8 ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

9 ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

10 ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

11 ‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely^* on my account. ¹²Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

In 1997, I could fill up my Ford Escort for ten bucks. In 1997, the Spice Girls were still telling us what they want, what they really, really want, and I paid 5 bucks to see Titanic in the theaters. You can decide whether that was a deal or not... In 1997, I was a senior in high school. I was fresh off of the Young Life evangelical turnip truck, and I was praying for the salvation of my prayer-filled, devoted Catholic mother.  I was earnest.  I was hopeful.  I was idealistic. I was aching for some answers, some assurance.  And I was an Evangelical Christian who wanted all to know Jesus for the sake of their salvation.  I came to one of my really good friends in high school, when he told me he was gay, and I said what many of you have heard before, “hate the sin, but not the sinner.”  In 1997, while you were taking the risk of becoming More Light, I was shutting doors on my friends.  I knew another friend was struggling, and was actively separating herself from me, but I had no idea that she was struggling with her sexuality.  In 1997, while you were choosing to be an open and inclusive community, I was oblivious to how much I was hurting people in the name of my idealism, in the name of “my” god.

And I was a kid. I was trying to make my way through this complicated world, and I was struggling to cope as my idealism ran smack dab into the realities of the horrors of this world.  I had few tools with which to parse through my commitment to the gospel and what seemed to be opposing ideas from “the world.” All I had were my boxes, my ability to separate and divide, to draw lines, to say what belongs and what doesn’t. And I had my fear.  My fear that I wouldn’t fit in.  My fear of the Other.  My fear that if they found me out, they’d know that I was doubting and phony and terribly lonely.

Fast forward almost 10 years.  10 years.  2007ish. And a lot has changed.  Gas is at least three dollars a gallon, it costs 12 bucks to see a movie, we’re thinking about a recession, and we’re neck deep in two wars.  And I’m different, too. I’ve gotten a bachelor’s degree, two master’s degrees, gotten married, and have experienced a lot more life. I’ve felt betrayed by almost every form of Christianity.  I’m new to Pittsburgh, and I need hangers and laundry detergent, so I’m trying to navigate these crazy streets and hills and rivers, in search of a Target.  I’m lost.  I’m depending upon Mapquest directions I’ve printed up from the internet.  And I pass by Sixth Presbyterian Church.  In the middle of a bustling intersection.  Waving a rainbow flag with a cross on it.

I think to myself, “If they are accepting of the LGBTQ community, maybe they’ll accept me, with all of my doubts and my questions and my heresies.  Maybe they’d forgive me for who I was and what I believed.”  

When I think of the Beatitudes, this part of the Sermon on the Mount in our reading today, I immediately think of that Monty Python movie, The Life of Brian. If you haven’t seen it, and you are of the heretical persuasion, it’s a hoot.  There’s this scene in the movie where this huge crowd is gathered around Jesus, and Jesus is giving his famous Sermon on the Mount.  But you can’t hear exactly was Jesus is saying, because the movie focuses in on the crowd in the way way back, furthest away from Jesus.  These folks are going back and forth between straining their ears to try to hear what Jesus is saying, and then interacting with each other.  They’re arguing with each other as they repeat what they think Jesus is saying. One says, “Blessed are the cheesemakers.” They respond, “cheesemakers, what’s so special about the cheesemakers?” and one man, obviously wealthy and educated-looking responds, “Well, we aren’t to take it literally. He means all producers of dairy products in general.” Ahhhh they all nod.  (Sound familiar?) 

Then another repeats, “Blessed are the Greek, for they shall inherit the earth.” And the rich man says, “The Greek? Which one? Did he mention a name?” Meanwhile, two arguers are missing everything Jesus is saying, working themselves up into a fist fight. Chaos ensues and everyone is distracted by the fight breaking out off in the periphery, and no one is hearing a word Jesus is saying.  

Now my homiletics professors would scoff at my exegetical work here.  But isn’t this scene from The Life of Brian what seems to go on so often in our denominations?  We’re so busy with our own little fights, our own ideologies, our own need to be “right,” or our own pet projects, that we miss what Jesus is saying entirely?  We get so absorbed in our fights that we miss what is most important.  

And how amazing it was, and still is, that you all took the time to carefully wade through the fistfighting crowd to discern what it is that Jesus is saying.  That you came to the decision in 1997 to become More Light.  That you adopted the mission statement of the More Light organization of churches: 

“Following the risen Christ, and seeking to make the Church a true community of hospitality, the mission of More Light Presbyterians is to work for the full participation of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people of faith in the life, ministry and witness of the Presbyterian Church (USA).”

You sat with Jesus at the top of the mountain and listened to him.  You looked upon the crowds and saw the broken and the tired and the outcasts and you saw them for who they are.  You saw them as you. 

• Blessed are the poor in spirit
• Blessed are those who mourn
• Blessed are the meek
• Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness
• Blessed are the merciful
• Blessed are the pure in heart
• Blessed are the peacemakers
• Blessed are those who are persecuted.
• Blessed are you...
• Blessed are YOU.

This image of Jesus on the mountain teaching the disciples is a direct reference to Moses on Mount Sinai, expaining the law to the Israelites.  But instead of getting a list of shoulds and shouldn’ts, a list of what gets you “in” and what keeps you “out,” we get a list of who we are. We are poor.  We are meek.  We are hungry.  And we are blessed.  We are invited to see the crowds below us, not as a burden, or a strain on resources, or as a bunch of lazy dirt-caked alcoholics, or even as a bunch of idiots who’ve got their theology all wrong.  We are invited to see these fighting, hungry, dirty, misguided crowds as us. 

      When I woke up this Friday morning and heard the horrible news of the Aurora, Colorado shooting, I was as upset and shocked as everyone else.  As I was plowing through facebook posts about the subject, I was particularly struck by one comment.  Someone said, “This makes me want to avoid crowds altogether.”  

But isolation isn’t the answer.  Holing up in an apartment, never encountering others who are different from you is exactly what the alleged shooter did for at least six weeks before the shooting.  Isolation only creates more “others.” More separation.  More desperation.  Disconnect.

The mission of the More Light community of Presbyterians gets this.  We strive to “make the Church a true community of hospitality.” From those members of the LGBTQ community who come to Sixth, I get a clear sense that Sixth has become that community of hospitality. We see the value in welcoming who we thought were “the others.”  And we praise God for that.  

But how can we become more More Light?  

How can we hear Jesus’s words to the Disciples anew?  

Who do we need to welcome?  How can we further live out Christ’s command for radical inclusion?  Radical hospitality. So radical that people might think we’re a little bit crazy.

When I drove by that flag in my search for the Target, I thought, “If they feel that way about the LGBTQ community, maybe they’ll welcome me, too.”

Who else might have thought that same thing? Who else might have thought, “maybe they’ll welcome me, too.”

- The drunk?

- The guy who begs for quarters down Murray Avenue?

- The kids who hang out on our steps and leave trash in the bushes?

- The college drop out?

- The single mom living on foodstamps and in section 8 housing?

- The political and Christian conservative who is a creationist and believes in the literal bodily resurrection of Jesus?

- The 17 year old girl, straight off the evangelical turnip truck who tells her friends that she “hates the sin and not the sinner?”

And if they haven’t thought that, if they haven't thought, "maybe they’ll welcome me, too" then why not?

Today we celebrate our radical inclusion of the LGBTQ community.  The radical inclusion that started long before 1997.  And it doesn’t feel so radical now.  It’s comfortable.  It’s who we are.

But we are called to ever more radical inclusion.  We do “More Light” really really well.  Let’s celebrate that.  But let’s not get stuck there. Let’s not get too comfortable. Let’s continue to work toward the radical inclusion that is behind the mission of being More Light.  

It may take 10 years for hearts to change.  It may take more.  For some, it may never happen at all.

But can we say, “Blessed are you,” anyway? 

Can we say, “Blessed are you” to those with whom we disagree?  Can we say, “Blessed are you” to those who may take advantage of us, to those who smell, to those who are missing their teeth, to those who have made bad choices, to those who think differently about politics or theology or any number of hot button subjects?  

Can we invite those we consider “other” into our home? Into our lives?  Into our church? 

When I walked through those doors so many years ago, you all embraced me with open arms, and you’re still supporting me now. 

Could you embrace my seventeen year old self?  Could you have that kind of hope in me then that you have in me now?  Could you forgive me? Could you forgive those who are now where I was then?  Who are now where you were then?  

When Jesus said, “Blessed are you,” it wasn’t “blessed are who you’re going to be sometime in the future,” or “blessed are those who understand me fully,” or “blessed are those who “get it.”” He didn’t say, “blessed are those who have it all right, right now,” or even “blessed are those who grasp how fully, radically inviting I am.” He said, “Blessed are you.” Present tense. You, now. In the midst of your own failures and fears and need to carve out your own island of self-righteousness.  In the midst of your addictions and weaknesses and frailties.  Exactly where you are.   Blessed are you.

Can we say it too?  We did and do say so to the LGBTQ community.  

Now, who is next?  Who else can we invite into our community?

Who’s next?

It’s painful.  It’s hard. It makes a big ‘ol mess. It often doesn't make much rational sense.

But when we say, “blessed are you,” when we really live it out, when we really believe it, we will realize that we’re not so different. We come down from the mountain.  We stop striving to be right. We stop worrying about what everyone else thinks of us. We step out of the theological, political, polarizing rat race.  We step into relationship. Community.  Communion.

And the “otherness” between us starts to dissolve.  The kingdom of God starts to solidify.  We get a glimpse of how difficult and yet how beautiful true community can be.  

Blessed are you.  Blessed are you.

Thanks be to God.