Bread of Life: Looking beyond the manna and the man

Buddhists talk of their teaching as a finger pointing at the moon—we're meant to see the goal, not the finger.

At the beginning of the ministry of Jesus, recorded in some form in all four gospels, there is a story about the John-baptized Jesus being driven into the wilderness for trial. In the more detailed narratives, the evangelists tell of dialogue between Jesus and Satan, who, in one case, tries to get Jesus to turn rocks into loaves of bread. In these lessons in “how to be a bad messiah,” Satan attempts to make Jesus into the very kind of messiah that people will actually want, will root for: one who can feed them when they get hungry, rule over their rulers, and manipulate God into answering whatever prayer might be on their lips at the time. In every case, Jesus not only rejects the suggestion of the tempter, but, using God’s own word, demonstrates that the kind of actions Satan suggests were never God’s idea in the first place. Satan, foiled in this attempt to divert Jesus from his calling and from his elevated status as God’s beloved, goes away to try again later. “Later,” we are to understand, is the darkness of the cross.


The cluster of sayings and dialogues gathered and redacted into the sixth chapter of John are dense and weighted with references to the feeding of the Hebrews wandering in the desert with manna, “bread from heaven.” What does “bread from heaven” mean? Is it like “pennies from heaven,” a kind of panis ex machina that is like winning the hunger lottery? I think to answer this question, we have to come to terms with what kind of God it is whom we worship. If “heaven” is the abode of God, or the sphere of divine influence, then the kind of God we worship will determine much about what heaven is like. For instance, if we believe in a God in the likeness of a human monarch, then heaven will be somehow like a castle, with royal attendants, rich fixtures, a throne, “golden crowns upon the glassy sea,” and so forth. But what if, as I have often been advocating here and in my music (not my own idea, but gleaned from other readings) that Jesus Christ “is the image of the invisible God,” and that our best glimpse of God, and therefore of heaven, is to consider Christ himself? Might not, in the end, this be something like what Jesus means when he says, in words laden with connotative references to the exodus narrative, “I AM the living bread which has come down from heaven”? In other words, My work is the work of the God of Exodus, the living God, the God of freedom and equality. Abba gives me to the world, as Abba gave the manna in the desert to your ancestors. To be fully alive is to take me inside of you, to take me to your heart, to become who I am. This, too, is the gift of Abba.”

Jesus keeps urging the crowd to “look beyond” Moses, and see that the wonder worker was doing the work of the One who led them out of Egypt. In the same way, he wants the crowd, along with both his disciples and detractors, to see that it is God who feeds them. And how did God accomplish this? Are we to believe that, after a miraculous multiplication of food in front of thousands of people, there would still be incredulity? Well, we are a tough crowd; I suppose it’s (barely) possible. But what kind of God would be revealed in such a miracle, a god who feeds this crowd, today, and another one? Not a hungrier one, for instance, of which there are plenty. Wouldn’t such a miracle reveal a god who breaks all the rules set up at creation for a moment of glory? Being this kind of messiah, wouldn’t Jesus just be doing what Satan had tempted him to do in the desert, when he reprimanded the Divider by saying, “People don’t live on bread alone”? Is it more likely, as some have imagined, that the preaching of Jesus about the empire of God, about an alternative to greed, gain-centered labor, war and competitiveness in the invitation to live in agape, might have moved the crowd to open its burses and pockets, stimulated by the sight of a boy surrendering his five loaves and two fishes, to share their food with one another?


What kind of bread, from what kind of “heaven”, might that be? What God might dwell in a heaven that is other people, that is a spirit of shared life, that is about acknowledged mutual value and equality as children of one family? Wouldn’t that kind of bread feed more than just the belly; yes, the belly, but also the heart and soul? 


The paschal mystery of God demands that kind of bread. It is not bread that changes our life like a winning lottery ticket, but it’s bread that changes our life like spring rain and sunlight, spread over the whole earth so that the earth itself brings forth enough for everyone. It’s bread that changes everyone’s life. The God whom we worship as a community of persons in eternal mutual surrender and service is revealed by a messiah who turns a crowd of hungry seekers into a table of plenty.


In the Buddhist parable, the seeker is warned not to miss the moon’s beauty by concentrating on the finger pointing at the moon. Jesus’s message to the crowds is much the same: it’s not the food that is so important, and it’s not even the one who brings it to the table. What’s important is the God who sends the bread from heaven. Knowing that God, knowing the divine economy of abundance that shines out when we stop coveting and hoarding and praying for a miracle and start opening our picnic baskets and sharing, that might be the important thing. Looking beyond the gift to the giver, sharing the bread from that heaven, we begin, in St. Augustine’s beautiful words, to become what we eat, not through any work of our own, but because the Holy Spirit fills the bread of agape with the very life of God.

Amen, amen, I say to you, you are looking for me not because you saw signs but because you ate the loaves and were filled. (Jn 6:26)

18th Sunday Ordinary Time

                           Image: Ann Scull, Mustard Seeds

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August 2, 2015

You and I, for the most part, spend our time here together thinking of what Christ expects from us.

This is as it should be.

But today, I would like to turn the thought around and think for a few moments of what we can expect from Christ.

I wonder if much of the religious frustrations and failures of our day are not the by-product of false expectations.

Many people, it seems, have come to Christ and the Church in search of something that is not here, something that he never promised to provide.

Our gospel reading for today deals with this issue.

Jesus and his disciples had just crossed the Sea of Galilee, from east to west.

On the eastern shore, he had fed the five thousand.

Then many of those same people had followed him and found him on the western shore.

But Jesus was not flattered by their desire to be with him.

He said,

"Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves." (John 6:26)

In other words, they were following Jesus because he had given them free food.

And they were hoping he would do it again.

In fact, they may have been hoping that he would become their meal ticket for the rest of their lives.

They would depend on him for food; but we can't imagine Jesus as a co-dependent.

That expectation proved to be invalid: it did not happen.

What those people wanted and what Jesus stood ready to give them were not at all the same.

This was not a unique event in the experience of Jesus.

People often asked him for things that he either would not or could not provide.

And that is still happening today.

It raises for you and me an interesting question:

What can we expect from our religion?

In the gospel, the primary interest of the crowd was food for the body

Jesus' interest was in food for the soul, so it wasn't long before the party was over, the fat lady had sung, and the people went home.

This kind of thing is still happening today.

We may as well face the truth that multitudes of people have become disillusioned with their Christian faith.

They are looking for something they will never find.

This has to be one of the reasons why people drop out of Church, and turn their time and attention to other matters.

You and I are not completely off the hook for such disappointment.

There have been times when we have been less than honest in our proclamation of the gospel.

We have spoken of the Christian faith in glowing terms, as though it were the magic solution to every problem, the automatic answer to every question, and the absolute remedy for every personal and social ill the world has ever known.

We have reported our experience with God in terms of perfect peace and complete satisfaction.

All of these things may sound good in a sermon or a testimony, but none of them is the total truth and we know it.

To be sure, there are times of comfort and truth (peace) in our faith, but here are also times when we, too, are disappointed.

We have waited for answers that never come.

We have worked for causes that failed.

We have searched for solutions and never found them—at least not yet.

To put it bluntly, we all have had those moments when we felt that God let us down.

We should not be embarrassed to admit that.

Read your Bible and you will find yourself in the presence of some great spiritual company.

Who was it that prayed from a cross, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mark 15:34)

Spiritual disappointments are a fact of life, and no thinking person can long avoid them.

None of us can avoid them completely.

So perhaps it would help if we would take the time to evaluate our expectations.

What do we want from our faith?

What can we realistically expect from Christ?

Like the people in the story, we sometimes turn to Christ in anticipation of that which he never promised to provide, or could not provide.

The people in the story expected that Jesus would make life easier.

One thing we have no right at all to expect is an easier life.

Somehow, somewhere, we have gotten the idea that faith in God is supposed to solve our problems, reduce the necessity of struggle, and virtually eliminate suffering.

The thing we seem to forget is that it did not work that way for Jesus.

Faith, for Jesus, was a source of strength that enabled him to face up to life, and carry off a victory in the face of it.

Let me quote from a letter written by a television evangelist.

He is one of those who preach that faith will make life easier.

Indeed if you have the right kind of faith,

Here is part of what the evangelist wrote:

"My little boy was killed by a car when he was only eight years old.

I later learned that if I had known how to believe in God, the angels would have protected him and he might still be alive today."

My friends,  that is either a sad illusion or a deliberate distortion of biblical faith.

I suppose you can pull out a proof text here and there and piece together that concept.

But the overall message of Scripture is that faith in God does not make life easier.

And those who expect it to work that way are doomed to bitter disappointment.

The second reading of Paul to the Ephesians told us to "...put away your former way of life, your old self, corrupt and deluded by its lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your mind: clothe yourselves with the new self." (Ephesians 4:20-24)

So let's go back to our original question:

What can we expect from a Christ whose faith led him to a cross?

What can we expect from that Christ?

How can we ever think of him as a cosmic nursemaid whose chief concern is making our lives a little easier?

We had better interpret our relationship with him not so much in terms of comfort, but in terms of courage and strength.

His purpose is not to make life easy for us to handle, but to make us strong enough to handle life whatever it may bring.

Friends, if you are looking for something that will turn your life into a bed of roses, then you may as well close the New Testament.
You will not find it there.

But if you are looking for someone who can fill your life with purpose, with power, then come to Christ.

We can expect that from him.

He has promised it, and he can provide it for you and for me.

17th Sunday Ordinary Time

Image: Gathering the Fragments © Jan Richardson

July 26, 2015

From some angles, the gospel story of the feeding 

of 5,000 is far from a spectacular miracle story.

This was no matter of life and death.

If these people had not been fed, they would have survived the night, and made their way back home, chilled, weary, and hungry.

Life would go on as before.

Here we are confronted with the ordinary action of Jesus, a situation that is neither dramatic nor exciting.

In this simple tale, we hear of how Jesus cared about people and their physical needs.

His is a mission of nourishment.

But the real hero of this story is that little boy.

He, like all children in the gospels, is seen as open to the presence of Jesus.

Into Jesus' hands he entrusts his lunch.

Barley bread was the cheapest bread available and often considered only fit for animals.

And the rest of the meal?

To be edible at all after hours in the sun, the rest of the meal had to be the equivalent of pickled fish.

That is what the boy hands over.

The boy helps us to understand why Jesus sets children before us as models.

It is because they are open.

They are willing to try something new and they are trusting.

We may see boys and girls as nothing more than little bundles of energy, but we have no idea who or what they may become.

There is no way of knowing what God may do with their "five barley loaves and a couple of dried fish."

Bible scholars across the centuries have wondered about the real meaning of this reading.

One interpretation is that most of the people had brought food, but were afraid to let it be known, lest they would have to share it with the hungry crowd.

But when a little lad came forward and gave his lunch to Jesus so that it might be shared with everyone, his generosity shamed their selfishness and they began to share with one another.

Once the spirit of sharing and caring took over, it turned out there was food enough to spare.

In fact, there were twelve baskets left over.

Five barley loaves and a couple of dried fish did not seem significant when compared to the need.

But in the hands of Christ, they were more than enough.

This story tells us one thing: with God, no situation is hopeless.

That is what John was assuring the early church.

And if we will listen, he will give us the same assurance today.

The issue is not how to interpret the story, the real issue is what do we do when we get to the end of our rope?

What do we do when we have done the best we can and that is not enough?

This story answers that question.

It says, Rest easy, my friends.

You do not have to do it all.

Everything does not depend on you.

We are not suggesting that everything is going to turn out all right.

We are simply saying that God is a major player in the game of life.

We can count on God taking part.

See how Jesus got the disciples to take part:

"Make the people sit down." (John 6:10)

And later,

"Gather up the fragments left over." (John 6:12)

When our resources are not enough, God will make up the difference.

Isn't it strange for us to believe in God without expecting some marvelous results?

To say on Sunday,

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty" and then go out on Monday and not expect anything to happen?

Does that make sense?!

There is a verse in the psalms that says,

"This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes."

This is how Jesus felt about life.

The feeding of the birds, the beauty of the flowers, are God's doing and they are marvelous in his eyes.

The healing of the sick was God's doing.

Jesus saw the hand of God in everything.

He looked at life through different eyes and was always finding miracles.

"Why, who makes much of miracles?

As for me, I know of nothing else, but miracles." (Walt Whitman) "Earth is crammed with heaven and every bush aflame with God, But only those who see take off their shoes, the rest stand around, and pick blackberries." (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

In the midst of that great crowd of people, Andrew, a sensitive soul, made a loving discovery:

"There is a boy here who has five barley loaves, and two fish."

You and I need to make that same discovery in our lives, in our world today.

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Image: Hands, all together
from Art in the Christian Tradition, 
a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN.

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July 5, 2015

"If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them." (Mark 6:11)

Palestine is a dusty land, and into that dusty country Jesus sent his disciples.

He told them that when a community rejected them, they should stop outside the village, and shake the dust of that experience off their feet.

It was a symbolic action against the village and a healing action for the disciples.

This gives us a clue to how we should handle life's experiences of failure: "Shake off the dust."

First let us look at how we get dust on ourselves.

We get some dust on us just by walking through life.

It never is smooth sailing all of the way.

Life is a mixture of hills and valleys, ups and downs, successes and failures.

Another way we get dust on ourselves is by falling down.

Sometimes we make an awful mess of life; we fall flat on our faces.

Failure can be a shattering experience.

Sometimes we get dust on ourselves by sitting down in the middle of the road.

We just quit and stop trying.

It is one thing to lose the game; it's another thing to forfeit.

It has no place in the life of a Christian.

What does dust do?

For one thing it accumulates.

We are all familiar with this aspect of dust.

This a a perfect analogy to failure.

Dust will accumulate in the corners of your life.

If you let it, it will pile higher and higher until it covers and colors everything that you do.

You will begin to think of yourself as a born loser.

You can hear people say, "I can't do anything right."

That person has allowed the dust of failure to contaminate their life.

When we collect, and remember, and brood over our failures, though many of them may be insignificant, the weight can become crushing and destructive.

How are we to deal with the dust of failure?

The first thing we should do is learn from it.

Some people learn from failure, while others never recover from it.

Once you have learned whatever there is to learn from a failure, leave it behind.

Shake off the dust; don't carry it with you.

In his poem, "Write it on Your Heart," Ralph Waldo Emerson said:

"Finish every day and be done with it.

You have done what you could.

Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can.

Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely, and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

This day is too good and fair.

It is too dear with hopes and aspirations to waste a moment on yesterday."

The last and most important matter is, try again.

"Jesus said, 'As you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet.

So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent.

They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them." (Mark 6:13)

We can translate that as:

forget your failures and keep on going.

Our failures do not have to be fatal or final.

13th Sunday Ordinary Time B

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June 28, 2015

Both scripture readings today remind us just how ambivalent we feel toward death.

Ancient Wisdom was careful to acquit God of the crime of creating death — the devil did it.

Then, 100 years later, in spite of convincing evidence to the contrary, Jesus insists that the child is not dead, only sleeping.

Even Jesus doesn't want to deal with the hard fact of death; so we shouldn't be ashamed of our reticence.

Just because death is such a horrible thing, the thought of it leaves a bad taste, and we try to get rid of it.

People don’t die these days — they pass on, or they’ve gone to their glory, or some other euphemism

We speak of death respectfully when forced to speak of it at all;

we surround ourselves with comforting symbols;

we create a pious, meaningless, bland funeral conversation;

we remove sick people out of sight and mind.

We cover up the dirt at the cemetery with fake, plastic grass.

And if they are inconsiderate enough to die, we make them up to look better in death than they did in life.

Why this elevation of death to the high status of mystery?

Anything that we can count on, calculate and predict like death can't be all that mysterious.

Death is the surest thing in life.

All of us begin to die the moment we are born.

And all through life there is a continuing battle in our bodies between live and dead cells.

At about age 18, our dead cells outnumber our live cells.

Which means that at this very instant, most of us are mathematically dead.

It may take more or less time to show it, but the conclusion is foregone.

The same is true for cats and caterpillars.

The difference is: Once we know the fact, we can take a human stance toward it.

We can accept or reject it, love it or hate it,

call it good or bad or make the best of it.

What we should not do is shroud it in a veil of mystery.

That only gives it more power than it should have;

and makes it more than we can bear.

That is when we retreat to magic and subterfuge and lies.

Then what can we do?

Well, when faced with a fact, the first response ought to be the question: Why?

If we know why something is we have a better chance of knowing what to do with it.

So-why do we die?

The Old Testament answer is elusive.

It sees that good and bad people are not justly rewarded in this life,

so it proposes a fair recompense after death.

But that would result only in a balanced world. God can make a better world than that.

But there is some truth in the idea;

and it suggests a link between death and sin.

And scripture makes that link causal: it says that sin is the cause of death.

Whether personal or original, sin harms our humanity,

and the situation must be rectified.

Some sins are correctable during a lifetime;

but some evil is so deeply ingrained that only death can purge it.

But even then, we end up merely as balanced individuals.

God can make better human beings than that.

So, sin is a necessary but insufficient cause of death.

It explains why even Jesus had to die.

He ended as a breathless, bloodless, cold cadaver.

That's a fact.

Except that he didn't stay dead.

And that tells us something about his death.

he died because he was a human being; and everything in him that was merely human died.

But there was also something in him that was more than human; and that something more rose to a new life.

Which tells us something about our own death.

There is also more to us than meets the naked eye.

We are more than blood and guts; we are more than sin; we are more than merely human.

We were not manufactured for obsolescence; we were created to last for ever.

But not to plod forever on this dying earth.

We are destined for a better life.

Like. the lowly caterpillar.

It is not made for the sake of a worm — it is the beginning of a butterfly.

Only it doesn't know it.

So, it glories in its fuzzy coat and many legs and thinks it is God's grandest creature.

Nevertheless, at its appointed time, it unwillingly, blindly, grudgingly spins its cocoon and waits to die in darkness.

But only that which is caterpillar dies  — the rest of it is transformed into a beautiful butterfly.

And so it is with us.

None of us is made to be merely human.

There is something in us that reaches out, cries for another kind of life.

We were not created to die but to love.

The death we so fear is just one of the many things we have to do- —

like eating and sleeping —

to fulfill our human potential.

But we forget that simple fact.

So we glory in our humanity, trying to find complete fulfillment now, in things we know and like.

We rage against death that seems to thwart our desires.

We fight death the way a child fights sleep.

Until we learn with the child:

That when we close our eyes, we just fall asleep for a while —

— we don't die forever.