19 Ordinary B 15

Posted on 10 Aug 2015, Preacher: Kevin Maly
Share

bible-162734_1280

Reading:
St. John 6.35; 41-51

Today we arrive at Act Three, the mid-point of the Bread Story, St. John’s five-act drama that lays in front of us some relationships between bread, Jesus, and us. Two weeks ago in Act One we heard how the people wanted to take Jesus by force to make him be their Bread King. However, to the dismay of the crowds, Jesus somehow slipped right out of their grasping clutches. Last week, in the second act, with Jesus having refused to acquiesce to the demands of the people, and upon hearing Jesus tell the people that their desire should not be for bread that perishes but for the food that endures for the life of the ages, the demanding mob wanted to know exactly what work they must do to secure this sort of bread. In a move most puzzling to many – and down throughout the ages – Jesus then informed the people that the true work that God desires is simply to trust in the One who has come from God, from God who gives, as an utterly free gift, the true bread from heaven, the bread that gives eternally blessed life in and with God. “OK, then give us this bread!” the people – again – demanded. To which Jesus replied, “I AM the bread of life, whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever trusts in me will never again be thirsty.” And with these words, we pick up Act Three.

Act Three is primarily a monologue by Jesus. But before we get to what Jesus has to say about bread and us, a little detour. One of the ways people try to make conversation when they meet me for the first time is to ask, “What made you decide to become a pastor?” I don’t know what they expect me to answer, but most people register some disappointment when I tell them I have no clue. That of course isn’t exactly true. The story’s a long one, but I’ll give you an abridged version. For some utterly unknown reason, people in my home congregation from the time I was quite young and all the way through college seemed always to be telling me I should think about being a pastor. I hated the idea and hated it when people came up with that line. Then, when in grad school the first time (I’ve been there three times . . . slow learner) I wrote a paper comparing John Milton’s Paradise Lost with John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. The evaluation of our work in that class was in form of an appointment with the professor, Dr. Joe Duncan, a man I respected beyond measure. When it came my turn to visit Dr. Duncan, he began by saying, “Many students are religious. Few are theological. You are theological. You belong studying theology.” Oh great. Another one pushing me in the direction I didn’t want to go. But for some reason I’ve since forgotten I did apply to a theological seminary, was accepted, and then at the last minute chickened out and got a teaching job instead. But still I was surrounded by people nudging me toward divinity school. And finally after three years of teaching and with grave misgivings, off I went to Luther Seminary – where I thought I was enrolling in the graduate theology program and not in the program leading to call and ordination. Somehow though, paperwork got mixed up, and I discovered I was indeed on the pathway toward parish ministry. I tried my hardest to go some other direction – so much so that my seminary graduating class voted me the least likely to be ordained. But there I was anyway – on seminary graduation day accepting a call and a week later being ordained at Synod Assembly. How could this be happening? If this was God’s call, I thought, surely he has gotten the wrong number. I didn’t come easily to this place. You might say I was dragged, kicking and screaming.

The kicking and screaming remain with me. So many Sundays I would like to roll over and stay in bed until 9.00 or 10.00, drink coffee, read the Sunday papers and then go find a place for brunch, preferably one serving bottomless Bloody Marys. But no, I get my butt out of bed at 4.00 a.m., wondering all the while why I seem to be having little or no free-choice about this church thing. But sure enough, each Sunday I come, and I do get fed – not a brunch, but by the bread of life come down from heaven for the life of the whole cosmos. And I am satisfied. And thankful – thankful that I have been compelled to come to this place where I keep getting fed – over and over and over again.

hear me and know that your presence here this day has been the work of the Father through ordinary means – the work of God, drawing you to Jesus, the Living Bread Come Down from Heaven for the sake of the whole cosmos.

Some of you doubtless know the so-called poem about the footprints in the sand. In it a person dreams of walking the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from the narrator’s life pass before the narrator’s eyes during this beach walk. Sometimes there are two sets of footprints in the sand – other times just one set. This bothers the narrator who realizes that there is only one set of footprints during the low periods of her life – when suffering from anguish, sorrow, defeat. The narrator then says to the Lord, “You promised you would be with me always – but I noted that during the most trying periods of my life there have been only one set of footprints in the sand. Why when I needed you most you haven’t been there for me?” The Lord replied, “The times when you have seen only one set of footprints is when I carried you.” In a variation of this little story, a variation I like very much, the narrator then notices that alongside the one set of footprints at times there is a deep groove in the sand, sometimes interrupted by the marks of a skirmish. “What’s with the deep groove and those other marks in the sand?” asks the narrator. “Oh that,” replies the Lord, “that is when I dragged you, kicking and screaming.” I know all about God dragging me. It’s the story of my life – not me following the Lord, but me being dragged by the Lord, and yes, at times with a great deal of kicking and screaming.

And Jesus says in the third act of the Bread Story, “No one can come to me unless drawn by the Father who sent me . . .” But the Greek verb translated “drawn,” is, in Greek a much stronger action than merely be “to be drawn” by the Father. It’s much more a sense of being dragged, of being compelled to do something outside of one’s own will. You – all of you here – you may think that you have come to this place this morning by your own free will. But no, I tell you – you have been dragged here, compelled to be here. How? By many and various ways. Perhaps coming to church is a habit deeply ingrained in who you are, a habit that started when you were growing up in a family like mine where you were made to come to church every Sunday.  Perhaps you felt yourself this morning deeply in need of something offered here. Perhaps you have received here or in a place like this a kind of food and drink that you’re not going find at any Sunday brunch, rather you have by some-mysterious-how found the food and drink given here to be much more satisfying than French toast and bottomless Bloody Marys. Perhaps the presence of other people here has drawn you to this place. Perhaps you know you need to hear the Promise again so that you be strengthened for yet another week of struggling through the shit-storms of this world. Ultimately how you have been drawn to Christ, here present in the Holy Eucharist and the proclamation of the Gospel, the how you have been drawn here, dragged here, isn’t as important as that you have been drawn to Christ, dragged to Christ perhaps kicking and screaming like I have been. But hear me and know that your presence here this day has been the work of the Father through ordinary means – the work of God, drawing you to Jesus, the Living Bread Come Down from Heaven for the sake of the whole cosmos. You, yourselves are just that important to God – not that God needs you to be here – but that God wills to draw you here so that you may once more taste and see that the Lord is good – so that you once more hear what God in Christ Jesus has to say to YOU: “No one can come to me unless dragged by the Father who sent me and I will raise you up on the last day.” God has compelled you to be here that you receive the Promise yet one more time – because one way or another you need to hear, taste, and see this Promise, the one Promise that ultimately matters the most. On this day, Christ promises you yet once more: And I will raise you up on the last day.

And the one in the pulpit who is ordered to proclaim the promise to you this day knows his testimony is true – yet again I have been dragged here against my own free will – so that I too may taste and see that the Lord is good, that I too may hear these words: And I will raise you up on the last day. Oh, dear God, how I need to hear those words.