Pentecost 10B, Proper 13
John 6:24-35
In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
One of my favorite stories of my life as an uncle relates to
one of my favorite stories of my life in this Christian vocation. I am Godparent to my oldest nephew. He was born just weeks before I left
Louisiana to begin seminary in New Jersey, and my brother and sister-in-law
convinced the priest in their parish to move up his baptism to an irregular
date - one beyond those set aside in the Prayer Book as being “appropriate” for
baptisms - so that I could be present and begin my service as his Godparent
before leaving for seminary. His baptism
was just days before I moved out of the state.
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| Uncle Jon and Brooks (2009) |
Throughout his life so far, Charles and Amanda have taken
that role that they entrusted me with pretty seriously - as have I. One of the ways that they’ve taken it so
seriously is by keeping me up-to-date on Brooks’ growth into his life as a
church member and as a Christian. They
ask me questions. They tell me
stories. They tell me about the
questions that he asks them.
I remember one Sunday afternoon, when Brooks was probably
about three years old, and they called me almost in a panic. I was in my second year as a seminarian
intern at St. Paul’s Church in Chatham, and by that point fully engaged in the
ordination process. I knew that I would
someday be a priest.
My brother isn’t one of those people who particularly enjoys
talking on the phone, and he doesn’t call a lot, so when he does, I make every
effort to take the call. As soon I
answered the phone that Sunday afternoon I could hear the concern in his voice.
After a bit of small talk, and hearing that something was on
his mind, I finally asked him, “So what’s going on? You sound like you have something you’re
trying to say.”
He answered: “I think we may have messed up this morning at
church.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “We went up at the Eucharist this morning
like always. We brought Brooks, like
always. And then, when the priest came
by, he held out his hands to receive communion.
He’s too young, so he usually gets a blessing, but for some reason, this
morning, he held out his hands.”
There was a long silence.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, the priest gave him bread.”
Another pause…
“And then what happened?”
“Well, he ate it and we all went back to our seats.”
Clearly, with each uncomfortable silence, my brother was
waiting for me to react. Finally I broke
the silence and said, “I don’t see what the problem is.”
With a wave of anxiety washing over him, my brother said,
“But he’s so young. He hasn’t had any
classes. He’s never received communion
before. He can’t possibly know what he’s
doing!”
I couldn’t help smiling through the telephone. My Godson had had his first communion. And it had happened organically. It had happened because he knew he was a part
of the community, and he knew that he was missing something that his community
shared. When he was ready to be fed, he
felt confident enough and assured enough of his place within that community to
hold out his hands and to ask to be fed.
With the boldness of a little child he held out his hands and asserted
his belonging. I told my brother all of
that, and then reminded him of bigger picture:
“You’re right,” I said.
Brooks couldn’t possibly know what he’s doing when he receives
communion. He just doesn’t know enough
yet. But tell me, Charles - do you? Do you really understand what happens in the
Eucharist? Do you really understand how
Christ is present in the bread and wine?
Do you really understand that hunger that draws you to the table again
and again? I know I don’t. I receive communion several times a week -
every week - and I don’t really understand it.
I’ve read a lot of books by a lot of really smart people. I’ve preached and written, myself. I’ve spent hours thinking about it and
praying about it for years now, and I don’t really understand it either. I know there’s something there, but I don’t
really even have a clue what it is. I
know that it satisfies a hunger, but I don’t know how, and I don’t even really
understand the hunger.”
“So it’s okay if Brooks doesn’t understand. It’s enough that he knows how to handle
it. It’s enough that he knows that his
community is there to help him with it.
It’s enough that he knows that he belongs.”
The story we hear and study in the Gospel lesson today is
the same kind of story as the one of my nephew’s first communion. It’s the same kind of story that we heard in
my brother’s anxiety.
Last week we heard the story of the feeding of the five
thousand. You’ve all heard it
before. It’s another one of the
“greatest hits” from the Bible. It’s one
of the big miracles that captures our imagination, and makes for great artwork,
and tangible illustrations for children’s Sunday School lessons.
But in the wake of the people’s captivation after that
miracle - in the wake of their wonder, and the crowds, and the fame - Jesus
reminds us that it’s not about the bread.
It’s not about the “thing”. It’s
not about the material possession or even the physical need. It’s about so much more. So much more, in fact, that we can hardly
wrap our minds around it.
The things in life that are most real are often that way:
love, justice, faith, truth… Our
attempts at capturing them in words are feeble, at best. They’re not so much to be known and
understood as they are to be experienced.
That’s part of why I am so moved by the central place that
the celebration of the Eucharist has in our tradition: the core of what we
believe isn’t captured in a creed, but in an action. It’s an action that is rich in metaphor and
symbolism - so rich, in fact, that we have to experience it again and
again. So rich that it can’t simply be
explained - it must be felt.
We’ll spend the next few weeks exploring the metaphor of
bread. Today is its second of five
consecutive appearances. If you push
your mind too deeply into it, it might begin to feel laborious. But try not to overthink it. Try not to simply understand it, but look for
that deeper, ineffable truth that lies within it. Listen for the tiny whisper of truth that God
might have for you.
Reach out your hands with the boldness of a child to take
this bread. You’re among friends. You may not understand, but you might just
come to know. Amen.
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