I’d
like you to sit up straight with your feet on he floor. Your spine should not be rigid, but not
slouchy either. Think of your head
sitting comfortably, supported by your spine. Sit with your hands by your side, loosely, or
clasped softly in your lap. Now, I ask
that you close your eyes . . . Close your eyes and steady your breathing. Feel
your breathing, feel it filling your lungs, then let it go, not forcing, but
letting it out deliberately, neither slow nor fast, but just right,
comfortably. In and out, in and
out. See if you can feel your breath filling
your being, first in the sinuses behind your face, then spreading out, to fill
your body. Imagine as you breath—in and
out, in and out—that you can feel it filling your shoulders, then your torso
and thighs and calves, in and out, in and out.
Now. Do you smell the bread? Can you smell the heady, yeasty, delightful
aroma? With each breath it fills you up,
then empties you . . . Don't be greedy . . . Keep your breathing slow and
steady, in and out, in and out, savor the bread . . . Did you know that when
you smell the bread, you are inhaling minute particles of the loaf? Molecules of bread, and as you breath them
in, some of them remain in your lungs, and I wonder if they absorbed into the
capillaries surrounding the alveoli, those tiny sacks where oxygen enters the
blood. Perhaps not, they are likely too
big, but I imagine they are absorbed,
anyway . . . but I know that just breathing the aroma of baking bread nourishes
us, fulfills us , if not in body then surely in soul . . . In and out, in and
out . . .
Now:
imagine you are in a dusty mid-eastern town, imagine that you’re in Capernaum
at the break of day, and the smell of bread permeates the place, inundates it,
you can smell it wherever you go. Every woman
in town is baking their day’s bread in the cool of the morning, before it gets
intolerably hot, so that they don’t pass out before their open oven doors. Women are the keepers of bread, the keepers
of life . . .
Bread
is a staple in the ancient Middle East—you can open your eyes now—it’s a
staple, or rather the staple, it is
so important. In a village like
Capernaum, on the north bank of the Galilee Sea, it is supplemented by fish, at
least in season, so there’s a faint, fishy
smell wafting up from the harbor, a ripe undercurrent to the overwhelming odor of
morning bread.
It’s
early yet, but you have been up for hours, going about your work; for you and
many others in your village, it will end only after sunset. Suddenly, there is commotion from the harbor:
boats have pulled up at the quays, boats filled to the gunwales with people. Their voices pierce the morning quiet like the
shrill whinny of donkeys, and they’re getting louder as they approach you up
the winding path from the harbor.
Suddenly,
there is a man awaiting them, quite an ordinary-looking man, of average height
and average build, with the same dusky skin as you . . . Indeed, he has the
same general features as the newcomers: though they are strangers, they are
clearly members of the tribe . . . you have heard that he has come from across
the sea, that he arrived late one night on the wings of a storm, and that he is
staying at the house of Peter’s mother, although you know him by his birth name
of Simon. And suddenly you put two and
two together, and you know who this man is: it’s Jesus of Nazareth, mighty in
word and deed, who healed the Royal official’s son right here in Capernaum,
when he wasn’t even here! And
involuntarily, you look over and see the house with the patched roof, through which
the paralytic was lowered and healed by this very man. Oh, they know Jesus of Nazareth very well
here in Capernaum, and now here he is again, waiting calmly for
the approaching crowd. A strange, wild
joy creeps over you as you sidle in closer; you just know something is about to happen.
And that overwhelming yeasty odor hangs in the air, and you breath it in
and out, in and out.
The crowd halts in front of Jesus,
and a gentle smile crosses his lips. The
first words are from the crowd: “Rabbi, when did you come here?” And you are a
bit shocked, to tell the truth, it's kind of rude, especially to someone of Jesus’ stature. The crowd seems on edge, irritated, even, and
it’s clear that they have a history together, Jesus and the crowd, and you
wonder why they speak that way to him?
Did he refuse them some favor or another? Some service?
Or maybe he gave them the slip somehow, and they really want to how he
came here, but that doesn’t explain the tone . . .
Be that as it may, you expect Jesus
to scold them for their rudeness, or at least answer their query, but what he says
mystifies you: it has nothing to do with the question. “You aren’t looking for me because you saw
signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” And you’re thinking: what does this mean?
What signs? What bread? Except you know about bread, because it’s odor caresses you still. Jesus continues: “do not work for the food
that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which will be given
by the Son of Man, upon whom God has set his seal.” And his speech grows more mysterious, more
incomprehensible still, because what kind of food endures forever, for eternal
life? What is this eternal life, anyway?
Everybody dies, every body turns to dust, some at a younger age than
others, and you reflect on all the women and men you know who have passed on, most
of them well before their allotted 40 seasons . . . You have heard that some
wealthy landowners live sixty, even seventy years, but they don’t work in the
brutal sun, or go down to the sea in tiny boats, at the mercy of the storms. Life could be brutish and short for the men
and women of Capernaum.
And because of this, Jesus’ words
give you hope: what if there was this
eternal food, this everlasting bread? Jesus
was a man Who was clearly in the favor of God . . . he’d healed the officials
son from afar, and the paralytic man as well . . . Who knows what he can do? If
there were such bread, perhaps the village women wouldn’t die so often from
overwork, or from having one too many children.
Perhaps those children wouldn’t die so often from malnutrition, or from common
infections . . . And so you are overwhelmed with excitement, because you know
what Jesus has done in the past, but the crowd asks “what do we have to do to
perform the work of God?” What can we do
to insure we get this everlasting
bread, what can we do in return for
this everlasting food?
But Jesus says “This is the work
of God: that you should believe in him whom God has sent.” But you see that it is not enough for the crowd,
they want to make sure the get their money’s worth, to insure that they are not
being deceived: “Ok,” they say, “what sign are you going to give us, so that we
may see it and believe you? What are
you performing?” And now you are
incensed, your back is up, so to speak . . . they want him to prove himself, to
perform like one of the trained monkeys passing tradesmen sometimes bring. “Moses gave our ancestors manna to eat in
the wilderness,” they say, and the unsaid question hoping in the air: what are you gonna do? And you steady your breath, breathing in the aroma
of bread, in and out, in and out . . .
But Jesus remains calm, and
reminds them that it wasn’t Moses who
gave them the manna, but the Lord God almighty, it’s the bread of God that
comes down from heaven that brings
this true and everlasting life. And your
breath catches in your throat, and a light begins to dawn within you . . . your
heart lifts up and a glow seems to surround Jesus as he stands in front of you
and the crowd.
But they are still thinking solid,
earthly food, bread that can last forever, like an eternally excellent harvest
year, where there is plenty of grain, or like endless water drawn from a well,
without a drought to slow it down. “Sir,”
they say, and at least they’re being polite, “Sir, give us this bread
always.” And then Jesus says it, and
with this, you think, he says it all: “I am
the bread of life,” he says, “whoever is coming to me will never be hungry, and
whoever is believing in me will never be thirsty.” And suddenly, the scent of bread in the air
becomes overpowering, and you are carried away on its fragrant currents. Amen.
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