John 6:51-58
Today is a typical Sunday for me in that I typically do find
myself in churches I have never been in before, meeting people I have never met
before, in a denomination that I am not ordained in and bringing my kids to a
place where they have never been before … and they have to ask where the bathroom
is and hope that the coffee hour offerings include sweets and that maybe there
will be other kids. But, this Sunday is not typical in other ways. Typically,
these days I am arriving with either a miter or crozier in my hands as I help
carry my husband’s things into the church. Since February, when my husband was
consecrated as the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany, me and my kids
are typically traveling with him on Sundays to one of the 106 churches in the diocese
and getting to know folks from the Catskills to the Adirondacks to the Hudson
Valley.
On a typical Sunday our GPS takes us to a beautiful
building that’s been standing for over a century, we walk into a thoughtfully
designed worship space with absolutely stunning stained glass windows, a
sizable pipe organ that fills the space with music and often a historic cemetery
next door. We are met with big smiles, warm welcomes, and many times a big cake
afterwards with a thick layer of icing. My husband and I post pictures on
social media of the unique experiences we find at each location, the beautiful
architecture and smiling faces. But … typically … there is another story too …
the one we hear after the cake is consumed, the folding chairs are stacked and
the bulletins put in the recycling bin. It’s the story of their very real
struggles as small churches. A story that transcends denominational lines- one
of clergy shortages, inability to pay medical benefits and a full time salary,
leaking roofs and diminishing endowments, and a deep desire to welcome more
people, but a frustration in not knowing how to do that in a way that is
authentic.
Both stories – the one of the beautiful historic building
with loving people and the one of decline and struggle are the very real truth
of these communities of Christians. It is a reality even though it might not
always be what people see. When many people think of “church” these days they
may think of hypocritical, judgmental people proselytizing and condemning
others. Or they may think of big fancy churches spending large sums of money on
clergy who only work on Sundays and spend most of their time looking down on
others. But of course, we who are here, we know that is not reality.
But most people don’t really know what’s real. They don’t
know the real stories in people’s hearts, the struggles and pain. They don’t
know the motivations and true intentions of others. We live in a world where it
is increasingly harder to know what is real. Is the photo, video, essay, social
media profile, email or phone call from a real person or Artificial Intelligence?
We learn that if something is too good to be true it probably isn’t real. We
put our guards up and wade through a world of biased news, edited looks, spam mail,
fake calls and highly processed food. And as we get closer and closer to a
presidential election, folks have a lot at stake and a lot of money invested in
making sure you accept their version of reality. It’s about rhetoric and algorithms
that only serve to confirm what we already are thinking. And so … what is real?
In the Gospel reading today, people bring this question to
Jesus. What he is saying is outlandish. He is standing among Jewish leaders
celebrating Passover and saying that he is more perfect than the manna God sent
from heaven to feed their ancestors in the wilderness. And he won’t stop saying
these really inappropriate and uncomfortable things about eating his flesh and
drinking his blood. Surely, this is not real. So they question Jesus about
this. Maybe when questioned he will realize how wild he sounds or realize other
people are listening and make his message more appropriate and less offensive.
But no … he doubles down. He digs his heals in to this cannibalistic message of
eating skin and drinking blood and he just won’t seem to stop even though it’s
clearly making people uncomfortable.
Even as we read this thousands of years later, the idea of
publicly talking about blood and broken flesh is still uncomfortable and not generally
socially acceptable. He would do much better if he would use flowery language
or clever jokes or pictures with silly cat faces … something more comfortable,
easier to digest. But no … it’s all flesh and blood.
In fact, Biblical scholar Francis Moloney points out that as
Jesus is questioned about these offensive claims, he actually changes the words
he is using to become even more graphic. Moloney states, “the shift from the more
respectable verb “to eat” to another verb that indicates the physical crunching
with the teeth accentuates that Jesus refers to a real experience of eating.” So before this passage, in
the Greek language, Jesus is using a more general verb meaning “to eat” but in
this passage he shifts to use a different verb that is more graphic and
actually means crunching one’s teeth into. Jesus is not messing around, he is
not backing down, he is being direct and real- even if that realness is too
much for people. And soon after this we see that it is, some people stop following
him.
What Jesus is offering is not fake, it is not always
comfortable, it is not polite and it does not fit with what people expect. He is
calling people to consume him, to ingest him, to let his presence sink into
their cells and change the fabric of their being. It is a deep kind of
closeness he is talking about. And it may sound shocking or weird or uncomfortable
but also amazing. An invitation into a deep and real and incarnate relationship
with God, one that comes from a love that has no end and will see us through
this life and the next. We are invited to something real, in a world of distance
and fakeness and artificial- we are called to let our guard down, put down the
walls and let the blood and flesh of Jesus enter our bodies and sustain us in a
way that is real.
I work as a part time hospital chaplain and in that role I
have the privilege of entering into a very vulnerable and personal space with
others. When I enter the patients’ rooms they do not have all the masks they may
typically wear: clothes, make up, friends, distractions, strong fronts, busy
schedules or any of the other things we use to fit into the world. They are
themselves and what I find again and again, is a craving for real connection.
People want to be seen, heard and feel connected to another person. They want
to show their true selves. And in my role as a chaplain, I don’t have to
convince them of anything, get any information from them or impress them, I get
to just create space and remind them that God is with them.
Those real interactions are actually my favorite part of
the church visits I do with my husband. Behind the stone church walls and fading
carpets, behind the unbalanced budgets and fears for the future, are real
stories, real people. And they care deeply about each other and the saints who
have prayed in their pews before them. They love their church because it’s
where they feel real relationship, where Christ shows up in the person next to
them, in the quiet space and in the body and blood offered every Sunday.
What we do every Sunday is pretty wild. We talk about flesh
and blood, we talk about eating flesh and blood. We gather together as real
people and open our hearts to a love that is eternal and sees us for who we
are. We believe that this is real. This talk of body and blood, this call to
union with the creator of the universe, this invitation to consume Christ into
our flesh and blood bodies. In a world that feels increasingly artificial we
have this offer of something real and deep and motivated fully by love. An
invitation, a wild, outlandish, inappropriate, offensive invitation to ingest
something real and lasting and enter into a closeness that lasts an eternity.
