Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and
whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
I have been re-reading
Scott Peck’s book The Road Less Travelled. Published in 1978, it is a classic work on healthy
living. Let me read for you a passage
from the chapter where he makes the case genuine love involves a willingness to
risk loss:
If you move toward another human being, there is always the
risk that that person will move away from you, leaving you more painfully alone
than you were before. Love anything that
lives – a person, a pet, a plant – and it will die. Trust anybody and you may be hurt; depend on
anyone and that one may let you down.
The price of [loving] is pain. If
someone is determined not to risk pain, then such a person must do without many
things: having children, getting married, [intimacy], the hope of ambition,
friendship – all that makes life alive, meaningful, and significant. Move out or grow in any dimension and pain as
well as joy will be your reward. But the
only alternative is not to live fully or not to be alive at all.
“The price of loving is pain.” How true does this ring with your
experience? It sure rings true with
mine. Some pains and disappointments are
minor and easily dismissed or forgiven.
Others are more significant and require mature work to overcome, while
some experiences are completely devastating.
The price of loving and living is pain.
You can resist this truth or you can resent it if you want, but its
reality will not go away.
Today’s first reading is riddled with hurt and
loss. King David’s son Absalom revolts
against him. David must flee for his
life. Can you imagine the hurt of having
your own child overthrow you? Once David
and those loyal to him regroup, he launches a military offensive to take back
the throne. He instructs his commanders
to deal gently with Absalom when they capture him. David is unimaginably merciful in the face of
betrayal. Still, his orders are not
executed and Absalom is needlessly killed.
The father of the rebellious son is crushed. Absalom gets what he deserves, but not what
the king desires. “Love anything that lives – a person, a
pet, a plant – and it will die. Trust
anybody and you may be hurt; depend on anyone and that one may let you
down.”
When we face of such an
experience we face a choice. Either we
can give in to fear and try to wall off ourselves from all suffering or we can
seek the courage to live and love to the fullest knowing there are times we
will be blessed and times we will be broken.
Jesus beckons us down this second path.
Today’s gospel reading
continues to develop the implications of the miraculous feeding of 5,000
people. This particular portion harkens
back to the manna given by God to the Israelites as they wandered forty years
in the wilderness. The people in the
wilderness complain to God because they are hungry. God provides them with a flaky substance in
the morning dew. The people have no idea
what it is and call it “manna” – a Hebrew word meaning “what is it?” Today’s reading has parallels. First, people are complaining. This time they object to Jesus saying “I am
the bread that came down from heaven.”
Next, while they think they know who Jesus is – the son of Joseph – in
reality they do not understand the true nature of Jesus’ bread. He truly is “what is this?” Finally, whereas the wilderness manna
sustained physical life, Jesus’ bread gives life in all its fullness. His body broken for us becomes the food we
need to sustain us as we seek life and risk loss.
Jesus is the one we can move toward with confidence he
will not pull away. He is the one we can
trust with the assurance he will not hurt us.
He is the one on whom we can depend and know we will not be let
down. This is the bread that gives us
the courage to love and risk loss because we know we have a sure place to turn
for healing, comfort, and mercy.
Scott Peck begins The
Road Less Traveled with a three-word sentence, the only sentence in the
opening paragraph: “Life is difficult.” Far
from being pessimistic and depressing, it affirms something we all know but
perhaps do not want to acknowledge. Peck
states only by accepting this great truth can we hope to transcend it. Here is a second truth I would add to it:
Grace happens! And it happens all the
time. While life is difficult and full
of challenges, so too is it rich and beautiful.
There is so much so rewarding in life that engagement is more than worth
the risk involved. Pain and hurt
happen. So too do joy and happiness,
friendship and fun, inspiration and creativity.
Jesus the bread of heaven symbolizes all the grace and goodness we receive
in this life. It points to the reality
God nourishes and nurtures us in our journey.
Jesus is the one who sustains us as we wander through the wilderness of
life.
And this bread gives us a hope and foretaste of life
to come when the last word of the sentence “Life is difficult” will be dropped
and recast as “Life is.” Years ago Ann
Lander’s published a column titled “The
best is yet to come.” I want to read
it for you:
A woman was diagnosed with a terminal illness and given
three months to live. She asked her
pastor to come to her home to discuss her final wishes. She told him which songs she wanted sung at
her funeral, and what scriptures to read, and which outfit she wanted to be
buried in.
Then she said, “One more thing. I want to be buried with a fork in my hand.”
The pastor was surprised. The woman explained, “In all my years of
attending church socials and pot-luck dinners, I always remember that when the
dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean
over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was
my favorite time, because I knew something better was coming, like velvety
chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie – something wonderful. So, I want people to see me there in that
casket with a fork in my hand and wonder, ‘What’s with the fork?’ Then, I want you to tell them, ‘Keep your
fork, because the best is yet to come.’”
The pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he bid
the woman goodbye. He realized that she
had a better grasp of heaven than he did, and knew something better was coming.
At the funeral, when people asked him why she was
holding a fork, the pastor told them of the conversation he’d had with the
woman before she died. He said he could
not stop thinking about the fork, and knew they probably would not be able to
stop thinking about it, either. He was
right.
Keep your fork.
The best is yet to come.
We are painfully aware many in our parish are
suffering today. Over the years I have
served as your rector I have come to notice how our pastoral pains seem to come
in bunches. The risk of loss and the
confronting truth that life is difficult hits our faith community with the
force of a tsunami. The remarkable thing
is it does not seem to tax or test our compassion. Just the opposite occurs. We marshal our energy and resources and
respond. And what we offer is used by
the bread of life to do remarkable things.
Last Sunday, of her own initiating, Sandi Rekkedal,
provided cards for us to write notes to some of our parishioners who are going
through a hard time. I was privileged to
deliver packets to Connie and Cindy.
From their reactions I felt as if I was handing them the bread life. God’s grace worked through your goodness in
the midst of life’s difficulties and reminded me the risk of loving is
absolutely without question the way of the Kingdom of God. The best is yet to come.
