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John 6:25-59 · Jesus the Bread of Life
Metaphors Be with You
John 6:35, 41-51
Sermon
by Dean Feldmeyer
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His name was John Davis, he was my neighbor, and he was a peculiar person. Don’t get me wrong. I liked him but even his wife said John was an “acquired taste.” I sometimes think that, had he been born thirty or forty years later, he would have been correctly diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome or some other condition associated with the higher functioning end of the Autism spectrum.

He was a gifted man, to be sure, a tool designer and metallurgist who worked for a big corporation, very smart and very detail oriented. He loved machines and discovering how they worked. He invited me, one time, to accompany him to hydroplane races on the Ohio River and he spent the day down on the dock talking to the mechanics and the drivers about the boats, their design, the engines, and any other technical detail he could pull from them.

We went to a tractor pull and he spent most of the time lecturing me on the different kinds of tractors and their engines and what had been done to them to give them more power.

His wife said that he loved to visit museums but he could not leave until he had read every single placard and plaque in the place and explained to her what they said. He was especially delighted when he caught one in an error. He was the neighborhood fix-it guy with a basement workshop full of old radio tubes and switches and small, old electrical appliances from which he cannibalized parts for the ones he was fixing.

He never allowed a mechanic to touch his car and insisted on doing all the engine repairs himself.

That man loved machines.

People, not so much.

He had a hard time making eye contact and he had a habit of standing too close when he talked to people and then mumbling what he said until it was nearly indecipherable. He hated parties and any situation where he was forced to talk to people he didn’t know. At neighborhood functions he could usually be found on the perimeter, nervously clearing his throat and scratching his forearm. Or he would find someone who was interested in machines, corner them and mumble to them incessantly until they could figure out how to escape.

He was a literalist in every sense of the word. He took everything anyone said to him literally. He didn’t understand or use figures of speech. When someone spoke a metaphor in his presence I could see the wheels turning in John’s brain as he deconstructed the mental image and, after a few moments, came to the conclusion that this was not a thing to be taken literally. Then, sometimes, he would chuckle to himself and repeat the metaphor a few times, often to the person who said it but more often just to himself.

I never realized how much of our normal speech is made up of metaphors until I moved in next to John and had to try to communicate with him. Eventually, I learned to stay away from figures of speech, hyperbole, or metaphors of any kind when talking to him. Other folks, who were not forewarned and just talking to John as they might talk to anyone, often found themselves trying to explain a common, harmless metaphor or, even worse, listening to John deconstruct and explain it.

They might mention, for instance, that they had just been to a “coin laundry” and after a few brief moments of cogitation, John, snickering, would ask them if their coins were clean now. Several times.

One time he and I were sweating profusely in the summer heat as he helped me do some things that would keep my miserable, old car running a few more months. His wife, Ginny, brought out a couple of tall glasses of lemonade and reminded us that as hot as it was it would be prudent for us drink lots of liquids.

When she was gone John looked at me, rolled his eyes, and asked, in all seriousness, “What, did she think we were going to drink, solids?” Then he shook his head. Women. Whata ya gonna do, right?

When his daughter said she’d be back in a few minutes he insisted on knowing how many a few was. When she said she’d see him later he wanted to know what time later came at. He refused to countenance phrases like “awhile” or “some” or “a bunch.” He insisted on concrete numbers.

At first. I found all of these quirks of John’s to be ridiculous and just plain rude. After a couple of years of knowing him, however, I began to learn that John wasn’t being intentionally difficult. That was just his way. It was the way his brain worked. He was simply incapable of deciphering the thousands of symbols and metaphors we use in everyday language, and the effort required to do so often left him exhausted and confused and impatient.

As you can imagine, John had no patience with anything so frivolous and inexact as religion with its symbols and rituals and its multitude of metaphors.

Today’s gospel lesson, for instance, would have sent him running to the door, shaking his head, clearing his throat and scratching his arm in a flurry of confusion and frustration.

There’s Bread, and then There’s Bread

I sometimes think that the gospel’s author, who is also named John, selected a whole bunch of metaphors, symbols, parables, stories, quotations, that sort of thing, and dumped them all into a giant blender, turn it on “frappe” for a few seconds and then dumped them all out onto paper. That is, for me, a pretty good description of chapter six of the Gospel according to John.

It all starts with the feeding of the 5,000 with five loaves of bread and two fishes. Then comes the crossing of the Sea of Galilee at night, when Jesus decides to walk across the water instead of riding in the boat. When the crowd wakes up and sees that Jesus is gone, they run to the other side of the lake so they can ask him some questions, the most pressing of which is, “What must we do to do God’s will?” Jesus answers that believing in him, the one who is sent by God, is God’s will. They respond that they need a sign of some kind to know he’s authentic. After all, Moses gave the people manna (bread) to eat and they followed him. What can you give us? they ask.

Jesus answers with a metaphor.

First, he says, it wasn’t Moses who gave you that bread, it was God. And now God is giving you a new kind of bread the bread which can save the world, the bread that is life itself.

The people respond by saying that this new kind of bread sounds pretty good. Give us some of this bread of life, they say. Where is it? And Jesus responds,” It is I! I am the bread that comes from heaven (like the manna did) and who comes to me shall never hunger or thirst anymore.”

That’s verse 35 which the lectionary gives us as an introduction to today’s reading. It’s a metaphor!

Unfortunately there were some John Davises in the audience that day. The author calls them “the Jews” but he obviously doesn’t mean every Jew in the audience. More likely, he’s talking about the Jewish leaders, the scribes, the Sadducees, and the Pharisees, the priests, people like that. And they are as incapable as John Davis of deciphering a metaphor.

In verses 38 which the lectionary skips over, Jesus has also said that “I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me.” And it’s that line that the Jewish leaders latch onto. The obvious metaphor, here, is Jesus comparing himself to the manna which saved the Jews when Moses was leading them out of the wilderness. Remember? They were starving and it fell from the sky every night and was collected and eaten the next day, thus saving their lives.

But these learned scholars and leaders don’t get the metaphor. They take it literally. “Wait a minute,” they all say. “We know this guy. We know his mother and father and we knew him when he was a snotty nosed little kid and when he was a wild teenager and we know for a fact that he didn’t come from heaven. Please! Don’t make me laugh.”

So, in verses 43-47 Jesus gets literal. He says what he means and he makes four important points:

1) Stop whining and complaining about the things I’m saying when you obviously don’t get it;

2) Stop worrying that I’m drawing people away from the one true religion. Anyone who follows me has been selected by God to follow me and they will be raised up on the last day; and

3) This is all according to scripture. Check out Isaiah 54:13 and Jeremiah 31:34; and

4) I have seen God, the Father and whoever believes in me and what I have to say has (not will have, but HAS) eternal life.

Then, in verse 48, Jesus jumps right back on the metaphor again. “I am the bread of life.” The manna which fell from heaven saved your ancestors’ lives but that was a temporary save. They all died anyway. I am talking about the new bread, the next bread, the final bread. You eat this bread and you never die. And that next bread that I’m talking about? It’s me.

I am the new manna that has come down from heaven to save the people. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. And be clear, the bread that I will give so the world can be saved is not just an idea. It’s not just a new philosophy or a new perspective on life. It’s not a saying you can put on a bumper sticker or a bromide you can cross-stitch and frame and hang on the wall. It’s not a secret formula for better living or a three or five or twelve point plan.

No, it’s my flesh. My body. My very life.

I will give it freely and, if you accept it, your life will be eternal.

After the Bread Is Eaten

It is unfortunate that for much of Christian history we have turned this vital and powerful movement, this dynamic, transformative, spiritual experience that is the encounter with Jesus Christ into a list of rules no different, in character, from those found in the Torah.

You must believe this.

You must do that.

You may not, under any circumstances, do this.

You must not believe that.

Virgin birth? Yes or no!

Miracles? Believe or don’t believe?

What about tobacco and alcohol?

Conservative or Liberal.

Christianity in so many of our churches and communities is not so much about being struck by the grace of God as it comes to us in Jesus Christ as it is about lining up and fitting in with everyone else in the church – doing the right things, wearing the right clothing, observing the right rules, and believing the right doctrines.

If you don’t line up perfectly with this group, go across the street. There’s another group there and maybe you’ll line up with them.

This is especially tragic when we realize that this is nothing like what Jesus talked about us doing and being. For Jesus it wasn’t about rules, it was about relationships. For Jesus, it wasn’t about outward appearances, it was about inward transformation. For Jesus, it wasn’t about obeying the rules, it was about living the gospel

It was and is about being struck by the reality that Jesus lived and loved and taught and healed and forgave so that we might know what it looks like to live a full, robust, authentic, eternal life. And he voluntarily went to the cross, and gave his life, so that we might come to know on that third day after, that death has no power over us, that our lives are gifts of God to take up and lay down as we choose.

I don’t suppose we can talk about bread as a metaphor without thinking of Holy Communion and the bread and wine that are part of that powerful, metaphorical ritual that is to the Body of Christ what the spine is to our bodies. For it is in that symbolic meal that we find ourselves living out our faith as more than a list of rules. It is there that we come to know the love of God in Jesus Christ as saving sacrifice, warm acceptance, total affirmation, and resounding reconciliation.

It is at the table of the Lord and in the bread which sits thereupon that we come to know the true meaning of God’s grace. I’ve never seen this more clearly demonstrated than I did when I was doing youth ministry, years ago.

I was the youth pastor of a large, suburban church and we had a fairly robust and enthusiastic youth ministry, especially for the senior high. All of the kids went to the same high school and they all knew each other and, for the most part, liked each other, or at least tolerated each other pretty well.

All but Andrew. Andrew was a nineteen year old junior. An only child, he was nearly as big as me, awkward, a little overweight, and he had a learning disability that had slowed his progress through the private school he attended. His communication skills were hindered by both his intellectual deficit and his basic shyness. He had been in the youth group, showed up at regular meetings, for most of the year but had not participated in any special events, trips, or outings.

Much to our surprise, when it came time to register for the summer mission trip to Appalachia, Andrew’s was one of the first registrations returned. All through the Spring of the year he participated in the fund raisers and group building games and exercises but always reluctantly and unenthusiastically. Basically, he just stood there until he was allowed to come over and sit with the adults.

The other kids in the group were never mean or even abrupt to him but when their meager attempts to include him were spurned, they gave up. When we met in the parking lot — about 18 kids and 5 adults — to begin the trip, he chose to ride in the van with my wife and me and our three-year-old son and one-year-old daughter and the luggage and tools rather than with the other kids.

The week went off pretty much without incident and Andrew was, again, a reluctant and unenthusiastic participant in nearly every aspect. When we were painting a house he lasted about an hour before he decided that he couldn’t stand to have paint on his hands. He tossed his paint brush in the bucket of solvent and went over and sat in the shade. During evening programs he sat with the adult counselors or managed to find a way to sit by himself. He didn’t seem unhappy so much as he was just disinterested and bored. Every night we took communion before turning in and he refused to participate.

I had scheduled the trip so that, on the way home, we could stop for one night in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to just have fun and enjoy ourselves. The first afternoon we crowded everyone into two vans headed to the Dollywood amusement park. My family allowed that we would be spending the day with Andrew because he felt more comfortable with adults than he did with the kids.

In the parking lot as we were preparing to make our way to the gate I gave them my rules, one of which was that they were to never be alone in the park. They were to stick together in at least pairs and, preferably, small groups. We got to the gate, I paid to get everyone in and turned to see Andrew waiting for me. I silently resigned myself to spending the day with him but before I could say anything one of the boys from the group along with two of the girls came up and grabbed Andrew and began dragging him away with them. I heard one of the girls saying something like, “You do NOT want to spend the day with THEM.”

Six hours later we adults were standing near the gate waiting to rendezvous with the group when we saw them coming from a distance. They came in mass, all of them together. They had found a souvenir booth that sold beany hats with helicopter blades on the top and every single one of them, including Andrew, was wearing one. They were giggling and laughing and taking pictures of each other and right in the middle of it all was Andrew, wearing his beany and grinning until I thought his face might explode.

But that’s not the best part of the story. This is:

That evening, after supper and telling stories about the day and laughing again, we ended our time on the last night we would be together with some scripture, a prayer, and a very simple, rudimentary service of Holy Communion. Andrew had refused to participate in communion all week so I was a little surprised that when I came to him with the bread he didn’t back away. He held out his hands making a bowl, stepped from foot to foot, rocking back and forth and nodding his head as I spoke. “Andrew, the body of Christ, broken for you.” With those words his faced opened up into that same grin I had seen at the park and he took the bread and placed it in his mouth and closed his eyes as though this little piece of half stale, metaphorical white bread was the best thing he had ever tasted.

And who knows? Maybe it was.

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Like a Phoenix: Cycle B sermons for Pentecost through Proper 14, by Dean Feldmeyer