Some time ago I either heard or read an interview – and I wish I could remember where – it was an story about what it’s like to live and work in Washington, D.C., and one of the speakers brought up a food-related image to describe the culture of D.C., specifically around the idea of power and influence. They said that power in D.C. is like pie. There is a finite amount of it, and if one person gains more, then that means another person loses – if one person gets a bigger piece of influence, then the next person gets a smaller piece. There is not enough to go around, and eventually all that’s left are crumbs.
That image came to mind when I was thinking about today’s Gospel reading, which is part of a series of readings on a similar theme.
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.
And you may have been noticing a trend over these four weeks of gospel readings, four weeks dedicated not to anything immediately, dramatically profound or mystical or prophetic – at least not at first glance. But four weeks dedicated to … not pie, but bread. This most basic and ancient of food – made with just flour, yeast, salt and water. This eating of bread, this most human and ancient of activities, necessary to life. This breaking of bread, the sharing of a meal, this most universal way of being together as family, as friends, as communities, around the kitchen table, or around the altar table. Bread, that food that the poorest and the wealthiest among us, then and now, eat.
In the 20th and 21st centuries, we have domesticated our bread. We go to the grocery store and buy bread in pre-sliced loaves with soft crusts. They’re mass-produced with preservatives baked in that keep bread fresh for days, or longer in a refrigerator. Bread is served with soup or salad; we add peanut butter and jelly or chicken salad and turn bread into sandwiches. A visit to the bakery or to Kroger reveals a wide range of carbohydrates to choose from: pumpernickel, potato, whole wheat, garlic, 12 grain, rye, sourdough, baguette, bagel, challah, croissant. When a blizzard or a hurricane is coming, bread and milk are the first things to disappear from the shelves, for some reason. Bread, for all its variety, is basic, a staple for most of us.
In Jesus’ day, bread was basic in a different way. It was part of the diet of the poor and the rich, made from barley or wheat, and without all the preservatives, so it would get moldy very quickly – so bread baking was a daily activity – grinding the grain, mixing the ingredients, baking. No pre-sliced loaves from Kroger available. Bread was used instead of spoons to scoop up stew. And the breaking of bread meant tearing through thick crusts, physical and messy. Bread was part of everyone’s meals, every day.
So over these four Sundays we’e moving through what is called the Bread of Life Discourse, when Jesus uses the language of living, of nourishment, the images of bread and wine, to describe himself, to invite people to the table together, to teach a new way of thinking about community and faith. I am the bread of life, Jesus said in our Gospel reading last week.
And in today’s reading he takes it one controversial step further:
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.
It’s startling, visceral, physical language even today, the stuff vampire and zombie movies are made of. In Jesus’ day, it was even more shocking, even blasphemous. The idea of drinking blood went against Jewish food laws. It raised questions as to whether the early Christians were cannibals.
And Jesus was suggesting that he is the source of eternal life – the sort of life attributed to God. He was suggesting that the bread available through him was better than the bread Moses saw fall in the wilderness – he was saying he was greater than Moses. How could this man, Joseph’s son, John the Baptist’s cousin, be promising eternal, divine life?
I am the living bread that came down from heaven.
Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life.
What do we do with all this?
We hear echoes of this language in the liturgy of the Eucharist, in what we call the Words of Institution, the words Jesus spoke when he gave us, or instituted, the sacrament of the Eucharist:
Take, eat, this is my body, which is given for you.
Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new covenant,
which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.
Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.
In all the other Gospels, we hear this language of flesh and blood at Jesus’ last supper with his disciples, the night of his betrayal and arrest in the Garden, but:
Here, in the Gospel of John, Jesus offers his body and blood as food and drink – not just as he is about to be arrested and crucified, but while he is in the midst of his work and his ministry. Just a few verses ago, Jesus fed the 5,000 with five loaves – of bread – and two fishes – and then, if that wasn’t miracle enough, he walked on water. In the coming chapters, he will heal those who are suffering on the Sabbath, he will antagonize the religious leaders, raise Lazarus from the dead, teach in the temple, escape stoning and ride into Jerusalem on a donkey – Jesus still has much to do
before the cross. Theologian Karoline Lewis writes: “Jesus says he is the living bread… The key word here is living, not dying.”
Jesus, through his life and work, is already offering us his flesh and blood, long before the Garden of Gethsemane and the hill of Golgotha – he is offering us his humanity, stepping in among us, traveling the same dusty roads, facing and sharing the anger and the grief and the suffering of us, breaking bread with us, taking on all of it, from birth through life and death and resurrection. And it is that in between time, his living and loving and working, his breaking of bread in the world, that nourished and nourishes us as much as the miracle of his birth and the grace of his resurrection.
“I am the bread of life,” Jesus says.
Jesus might as easily have said, “I am the bread of love.”
And that’s perhaps where the eternal life comes in.
What do we hunger for?
We hunger for peace. We hunger for an end to violence; we hunger for human connection, for comfort in grief; we hunger for wisdom in our decision-making; we hunger for time to pray and time to rest, time to let go of the worries that follow us day by day and hour by hour; we hunger for compassion, for strength in difficult times. We hunger for forgiveness; we hunger to be seen, to be safe, to find joy. We hunger for reconciliation with those who have been estranged from us and we hunger for an end to the prejudices that divide us. We hunger for love.
I am the bread of life.
I am the bread of love.
For love is eternal. Love never ends.
Jesus fed us, and feeds us, by teaching us his Way of living and loving, a way that is about generosity and community, about walking the road together. God’s love, Jesus’ love – it is not pie, divided up into bigger and smaller pieces until it runs out. God’s love is bread, basic and essential, baked out of the most ordinary and life-giving of ingredients.
And that’s where the Eucharist comes in.
Henri Nouwen writes: “As we give one another the bread, saying, ‘This is the Body of
Christ,’ we give ourselves to one another, saying, ‘We are the Body of Christ.’” We carry that love to each other.
Whoever eats of this bread will live forever;
and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.
This love is not for us only, but for everyone; the bread we eat is the love of Christ, and we carry that love with us from here into the world. And there will always be more than enough to go around.
Sermon by the Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Va., on August 18, 2024.
