Let’s recap, shall we? Last week, we
read John’s version of the feeding of the 5,000, with its boy, its five loaves
and two fishes and its green, green grass. We saw how Jesus took a small amount
of food—more than enough for the boy but not nearly
enough for the crowd—and served all that multitude. And not only did they each
get some food, they were filled,
and the disciples collected baskets-full
of left-overs in order that, as Jesus explained, “nothing may be lost.” Or,
given the symbolism of the “twelve baskets of Israel,” so nobody might be lost.
Well, the people were so amazed that
they declared “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.” And
they were so
impressed that they were fixing to grab him and make him king. Now. Jesus knew
this kind of deal never works out, and that further, they’d be enraged when they found out
just what kind of king they’d made,
and so he beat feet back up the mountain to avoid the whole thing.
Meanwhile, with Jesus gone and all, the
disciples went down to the Sea of Galilee, got into a boat, and headed for
Capernaum, which was on it’s north shore. Peter’s mom lived there, if you’ll
recall, and it was kind of a base of operations for Jesus and his ministry.
Well, you know the story: it got dark and the wind started to blow, and they
saw Jesus coming toward them walking
on the water, and they were terrified,
thinking he was some kind of ghost,
but he told them “It is I: be not afraid,” and if I were preaching that passage, I’d
explain that the Greek translated there as “it is I” is literally “I am,” which is
what God called Godself up on another
mountain, but I’m not so I won’t.
And now the people—the same ones he’d
fed, remember—see the disciples getting into the boat, and also that Jesus
isn’t with them—they hadn’t seen it when he’d given them the slip—so when some
boats from Tiberius show up, they get themselves into them and go over to
Capernaum looking for him.
Now, by this time, they’re getting a bit
testy, and they
think they own
Jesus or something—after all, they’d tried to kidnap him and make him king—so they ask, with not a
little snottiness, “Rabbi, when did you come
here?” And Jesus answers their question with a typical, Johannine non-sequitur:
“You don’t want me because you saw some signs, but because you ate your fill.”
Jesus knows that a lot of people can do flash and dazzle—remember the Pharaoh’s
magicians?—but not everything—or everyone—can
fill you up.
It’s kind of like Hollywood’s obsession
with computer-generated imagery. The wizards of Hollywood can make anything
come to life, in living color and incredibly lifelike detail, so they do—and every year there’s a
boat-load of CGI-heavy movies that are beautiful to look at but empty of heart
and spirit. There are only one or two every year that have both lots of CGI and emotional and spiritual
weight, because anyone
with a big enough budget can do razzle-dazzle, but only a very few can fill you
up.
It’s a metaphor for our modern society,
isn’t it? We love the flash and dazzle, the shiny exterior, the red, red apple
and ignore the squiggly little worm inside. Hollywood is the prime example: the
#metoo movement has exposed its seamy underbelly—and much of corporate America
as well. All the glitter, all the glamour, all the record-quarterly-earnings
razz-a-ma-tazz is only a veneer for an abusive, white-male dominated culture.
Well. Jesus knows all that—after all,
he’s had to deal with Herod, the Harvey Weinstein of Palestine—and he also
knows that the bread that fills you up, the food that endures for eternal life —which he himself gives
them through his relationship with God—comes not from fishing or farming or
working as a day laborer. And when the crowd asks him what kind of work does get them this food he
says “this is the work of God: that you believe in him whom he has sent.” AKA
Jesus his own self.
Now. I always feel the need to drill
down a little bit on this verb believe. I inherited a sign on my door—I presume
it’s from Marsha—that says “just believe.” It doesn’t say what one is to
believe, though its presence on a pastor’s door does give a clue. But it could mean believe anything, because it has no
object. Here, of course, Jesus—the one whom God sent—is the object, but it’s
not just “believe Jesus,” as in believe what he says, but “believe in Jesus.” And here’s what
I’d like to ask: what does it mean to “believe in” Jesus? Obviously, it’s not literally believe in Jesus,
like one might believe in Santa Claus. If it were,
it’d be pretty trivial . . . after all, Jesus was right there with them, right
there in front of them, it would be like believing in this pulpit or that
chair. Does it mean to believe Jesus is the Messiah? That is, the Christ? Are
we supposed to weigh all the evidence, all the pros and cons, and decide “he’s
the Messiah, all right?” Is that
the “work of God?”
Here’s a hint: the Greek word we
translate as “to believe” is pisteuow,
and the one for faith is pistos,
and they sound alike for a reason: faith is a noun form of the verb. As a
result, it might be possible to translate “believe in Jesus” as “have faith in
Jesus,” but we don’t. And the question is why not? Well, here’s what I think:
when Jesus said “believe in him whom God sent” it’s like he’s talking “all of
the above.” Does he mean believe what he says? Yes. Does he mean follow his
teachings? Of course. Does he mean act as his body on earth, both as
individuals and together as the church? Undoubtedly. Does he mean trust in
God’s promises, be open to the Spirit’s workings, live one’s life for the
divine? Yes, yes and yes.
Our evangelical brothers and sisters
have a saying—“give your life to Christ”—that catches the flavor, as does a
phrase I heard recently: align yourself with Christ. This last approaches the
goal of the perennial wisdom, that flows underneath all religions. That is,
unification, or becoming one with God.
Well. After Jesus answers their
question, after he fills them in on the work of God, they proceed to totally
not get it: What sign are you going to give us so that we’ll believe?
Apparently forgetting the sign they’d just been given—aka that they’d been fed
in the wilderness—they ask for some good old flash and dazzle: “Our ancestors
ate the manna in the wilderness,” they tell him, “as it is written, ‘He gave
them bread from heaven to eat.’” And once again he doesn’t answer with what
they want to hear
but with what they need to
know: It wasn’t Moses
who gave you the bread from heaven but God,
whom Jesus calls “Father,” who gives them true
bread from heaven which, in the manner of all bread, gives life to the world.
And of course, the people once again
misunderstand—he’d just told them it wasn’t he who gives them the bread, and
they proceed to ask him for it. And that’s when he comes out with the most
iconic “I am” saying in John: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will
never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” It was just
like Moses in the wilderness, only Jesus wasn’t Moses at all, but the manna. Or maybe Jesus was
both Moses and the
manna, the prophet and what the prophet brings.
And this is a good place to stop. Next
week, we’ll continue our look at the bread discourse, and we’ll deepen our
understanding of just what he means. In the meantime, meditate on his words,
breathe them in and out, dream upon them in the watches of the night: Jesus is
the bread of life. Whoever comes to him, whoever believes in him, will never be hungry or
thirsty again. Amen.
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