Pentecost+11/Proper 14B (John 6:35, 41-51)
One of my favorite cooks is Anthony Bourdain who died by suicide in 2018. I very much enjoyed his last show, Parts Unknown. While he’s such a complex figure, one of the main reasons why I like him as a person is his openness to food. He would at least try something completely new to him though it can be quite awful, for example, like Icelandic fermented shark, along with Namibian warthog rectum. His openness to food manifests his openness to different cultures in the world. He knew how to connect deeply with people through sharing meals. Here’s some lengthy quotation from him: “The little moments that I have regularly in places like Saudi Arabia, Palestine, Libya, Borneo, Barcelos in Brazil, Liberia, the Congo—the moment they’re looking at you and you put your hand in [a repugnant-looking offering] and you eat and you experience that thing with them. You share an intimate moment. You can’t say, ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll pass.’ If you blow that moment, it’s done. They’re not telling you the interesting thing they might have said afterwards. Because you’re rejecting everything they love. You’re rejecting their mom. It’s a simple thing. But openness to that, simply a willingness to say, ‘I’ll have that; I’m interested. Wow, where’d you get that?’ Then people tell you.” (smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/anthony-bourdains-theory-foodie-revolution-180951848) Now, let’s reflect on the bread of life in our Christian tradition since we’re all about eating. One doesn’t need to take any course on Christian liturgy to understand how our practice of partaking in the Eucharist comes from. While there are many scriptural references to the Eucharist, Jesus’ own words about redefining himself as the bread of life or the living bread that came down from heaven in today’s gospel lesson are the most obvious ones. However Jesus means it, it has one clear purpose which is to connect people with God in the way that transforms their lives so that they will never feel hungry or thirsty. This cessation of hunger and thirst may mean our desire to fill the void in our hearts is fulfilled. Only in God, only in our union with God can we experience something beyond ourselves, beyond birth and death. We taste the life of the resurrection. What do we mean by tasting the life of the resurrection in partaking the Eucharist? As much as I can describe things in the most abstract sense to hide what I actually don’t know about, this taste of the resurrection is real. It’s the taste of intimate connection among us with God. While our Eucharistic host is probably the most tasteless wafer bread and has no distinct flavor or characteristic that defines a person or a culture as who she or he is, it may be the most tasteful food. In our baptism, we declare our own death of the ego as we join the death of Jesus. In this same baptism, we are born again in Christ that who we are is only identified with our union with God. God is not just God but always God with “us.” This “us” is how we see ourselves and who we’re called to be. Through baptism, we no longer see ourselves apart from God. That God is with us sheds light on who we are. This baptismal identity is the core recipe for our Eucharistic meal. Its blandness might feel like there’s no distinctly unique culture but because of it, it can embrace all different cultures into itself as God embraces all. In its tasteless nature, it becomes most tasteful as it is eaten by all different people. Paradoxically speaking, something with no taste has the most potential to taste like everything. In some sense, we are to be this Eucharistic bread to the world in which our egoistically toxic taste is dissolved and only the ingredient of God’s grace and compassion is tasted so personally and intimately. Would it be too much to say God’s love may also taste bland but due to its blandness it is eternally faithful and accepting of all? Ludwig Andreas von Feuerbach, the 19th-century German philosopher who was one of the sharpest atheist critics of Christianity said perhaps the most relevant saying to our Christian faith: “Der Mensch ist,” meaning “You are what you eat.” Regardless of our differences (e.g. cultures, racial, ethnic, gender, sexual, socioeconomic, political backgrounds), we are what we eat. In our baptism, we have committed ourselves to eat the bread of life to be the bread of life for the world. The question of whether we really are what we eat is already answered in our baptism, and the real question is how we, homo eucharisticus, become the bread of life for the world. St. John’s gospel depicts the disciples and the people that follow Jesus as clueless. They don’t quite get what Jesus means. Usually, they either take the words of Jesus literally or do not carefully listen to him. For example, let’s talk about Nicodemus whose story is told in the third chapter of St. John’s gospel. When Jesus tells Nicodemus, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus quite innocently or uncritically asks, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus’ teaching of changing one’s perspective radically in the form of metanoia (turning away from ways one’s used to go) is taken literally and physiologically. Spiritual transformation may have some positive impact on our bodies but it’s never a matter of biology.
St. John’s gospel consistently manifests how people’s minds are so fixated on their own views of self, others, the world, and God. Unconscious biases are in the way of Jesus getting to their hearts. Much of what Jesus does is to undo their conscious and unconscious biases and help them unlearn. In today’s gospel, St. John shows us the same literary craft in which people just don’t quite get what Jesus is saying. Jesus clearly sees through the intention of the crowd that follows him from the dessert to Capernaum. They’re more interested in his ability to fill their stomach than the signs of God that he wants them to see for themselves. There’s nothing wrong with the crowd’s desire to meet their basic needs in life. The system in which the crowd is positioned doesn't work for them. They have no easy access to food, medicine, and other benefits. Miracles of feeding the hungry and curing the sick are desperately needed because their society wouldn’t provide any of basic human needs. There’s this great necessity, and Jesus may be the only person or system that they can rely on. (In the early twentieth century, the Azusa Street Revival shares a similar social system as the crowd in the gospel lesson where miracles of curing illnesses occurred to the vulnerable to whom the system didn’t and couldn’t reach out.) This phenomenon of looking for a person who can substitute a dysfunctional system still continues. The rise of the former president, Donald Trump can be a recent example. His supporters look for a system that works and speaks for them and projects that alternative system on Trump. Whether this system incarnate actually works or not is a different subject matter. What we want to learn from the gospel lesson this morning is that Jesus seems to know the crowd’s expectation of him. He is to be the system that works for them. He also seems to know that this would fail at the end, which leads him to the crucifixion and death. Let’s not forget that the crowd’s shout for “Hosanna in the highest!” quickly changes to the chant of “Crucify him!” I would like us to further ponder on two questions that the crowd asks: 1) “What must we do to perform the works of God?” and 2) “What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing?” The first question sounds as if it has nothing to do with what Jesus expects from them. He never asks them to perform the works of God. He says, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life.” They may want to ask, “How do we work for the food that endures for eternal life?” and “What is that food?” Jesus’ response to their first question is simple: “...that you believe in him whom he has sent.” The second question is a follow-up question to the first one. The crowd is ready to believe in the one who God has sent but it’s not enough. They need some good reason to believe Jesus and gives him a detailed example: “Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, ‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat.’” We can now see what Jesus sees in them, in their intention of following him that they haven’t moved an inch away from their fixated view of the Savior or the Feeder or the Filler of their stomach. The crowd specifically wants Jesus to be the one who gives them bread from heaven to eat. Jesus needs all these seemingly frustrating dialogues with the crowd to let them reveal their true desire. They want a system that can give them bread from heaven to eat in the wilderness. The crowd seems to negotiate with Jesus, “Can you be that system for us so that we may believe you?” What the crowd secretly and probably unconsciously desires is finally exposed in their dialogue with Jesus. (How often do we really know what we honestly desire? We too often deceive and justify ourselves that what we desire is for others or something for good.) Jesus quickly points them to see that the one who gives them food to eat is not Moses but God, which also means he’s not the one either. Moses might give to them food that perishes, but the food that God gives doesn’t. He then directs the crowd to look for this eternal bread that God gives. Now, Jesus and the crowd are back to where they’ve initially started: Work for the food that endures for eternal life. What then is this food? It’s the Great “I am.” Jesus is pointing deep inside himself where the Great I am is. Whoever comes to this place of the Great I am will never be hungry and will never be thirsty. Jesus himself becomes the sign that directs the crowd and all of us to go deep inside our hearts to be united with the Great I am who is our eternal food. The Eucharist is that sign, that reminder for us and the world. Amen. In the lesson from the Second Book of Kings, we hear a miracle story of feeding people when food is scarce. This is something we’re familiar with that the gospel lesson for this Sunday is about Jesus feeding the five thousand. We can see there’s a theological intention of John who retells the story about Jesus in comparison with Elisha that Jesus brings back the ancient miracle story of the Israelites in himself. Jesus is as great as Elisha and is described even greater. Jesus makes true the story that the Israelites have probably heard before in the miracle story of Elisha.
What we see in common in these two miracle stories of feeding a large crowd is that there’s always something small to start with that it becomes abundant to feed all. It’s neve from scratch. Neither Elisha nor Jesus turns stones into bread. A man from Baal-shalishah provides twenty loaves of barley and fresh ears of grain whereas there’s a boy with five barley loaves and two fish in the gospel lesson. We might be curious exactly how both Elisha and Jesus are able to feed a large number of people when there’s clearly a shortage of food. We have no way of finding out how this is possible. But this gives us a chance to imaginatively explore different interpretations of this miracle story. I would like to suggest something that is quite realistic yet not so easy to put into action. Let’s pay attention to the man from Baal-shalishah or the boy with five barley loaves and two fish. They have no logical reason to offer what they have to Elisha or Jesus. The man does because Elisha is the man of God out of reverence. What about the boy? Probably, the same reason, considering that he follows Jesus to the Sea of Tiberias. This act of sharing their resources is a form of offering what they consider important. This is sacrificial, self-giving, and others-serving. Now, imagine what those around the man and the boy would think about this act of selfless giving. This may look foolish from our capitalist perspective but something in these bystanders might have changed. Their hearts might have been moved that they not only give up what they have but also decide not to eat first but feed those more vulnerable than themselves. This means they’ll not be able to eat food that belongs to them. This courageous act of giving up is only possible when this food comes from God that they offer back to God. “All things come of thee, O Lord; of thy own, have we given thee.” The more all those gathered around Jesus or Elisha give up, the greater God’s presence is revealed. The more they empty their food, the more God fills them and others with God’s abundant mercy and compassion. Offering their food is to give themselves, to become selfless. To be empty of self doesn’t take away who we are but creates room in our hearts that we’re filled with compassion for others because there’s no separation between them and me but one. Their suffering is part of my suffering though I can never suffer in the same way they do. A sense of “me, my, mine” is no longer there that there’s no “my” food. This spiritual emptiness, kenosis in Greek bears a sacred fruit of fullness, plerosis. If food symbolizes what defines who we are or that which makes us who we are that we cannot give up out of existential anxiety of losing ourselves, what is this food that we’re grasping with? It can be money. It can be a social status. We probably have all different kinds of food to which we’re so attached that we cannot even think of ourselves without it. From this perspective, the real miracle in the stories of Elisha and Jesus isn’t so much about feeding a large number of people but that those gathered around them are able to offer themselves to the Source of their being, which we do at the Eucharist. (Our offering of the bread and the wine symbolizes our offering of ourselves.) There’s no existential anxiety of losing them due to the fulfillment or fullness of God of which their emptying of themselves is its foundation. This is nothing different from willing “Thy Kingdom come” and our union with God. Where’s the man from Baal-shalisha around you with twenty loaves of barley and fresh ears of grain? Where’s the boy with five barley loaves and two fish? What then is your twenty barley loaves and fresh ears of grain or five barley loaves and two fish? Every era needs a prophetic voice. It’s the voice that speaks against injustice in the world. It’s the voice in the wilderness that prepares the way of God. This voice is only heard in the context of the wildness. It doesn’t exist in a place where no one suffers, and this place doesn’t exist! Look around us. We’re living in a very unjust world. Because of this reality filled with suffering (and stress), we Christians are called to be that prophetic voice in the wilderness.
We can easily imagine some of the prophetic voices such as Rosa Parks, Malcomb X, and Martin Luther King Jr. in the 1960s and Greta Thunberg and Amanda Gorman in our time. Rosa Parks exemplifies that a prophetic voice doesn’t always have to come with fashionable verbiage and bombast. She only said, “Nah.” with her act of courage that would cost her a great deal of hardship and sacrifice. A prophetic voice doesn’t need to be aggressively expressed, raising one’s arms with clenching fists. Amanda Gorman at the inauguration of President Joe Biden with her graceful gestures was this elegant prophetic voice that speaks, “We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what ‘just’ is isn’t always justice.” In the time of Jesus, his cousin John was that prophetic voice. It seems he wasn’t too afraid of making dangerous political statements. For those who think that religious people, particularly Christians, must keep quiet about political matters, think again. Both John and Jesus were politically accused and executed as criminals in the eyes of justice in their time. They received a death sentence after all. It’s clear why they were “legally” murdered. They said something that bothered those in power. John, for example, corrected Herod’s incestual behavior of marrying his brother’s wife. He called them out, and they also knew it was wrong. They just didn’t want to hear anymore and decided to shut him down by killing him. Herod, on the other hand, seemed to have mixed feelings about John. In the gospel lesson, we hear, “...he [Herod] protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.” I think I can get what Herod was thinking and feeling. Can you think of a friend who can sincerely be honest with you so that she or he can tell you when you’re doing something wrong? When this friend gives me brutally unfiltered feedback such as “something you desire right now is actually a stumbling block to your flourishing,” I would feel a bit upset and perplexed. But since I can trust our deep friendship, this friend is saying it for my sake. Whenever I have complicated issues to deal with, I’ll definitely share them with this friend. John knew sharing his thoughts and constructive criticism would cost him death. But he did it anyway. This is the point we need to further reflect. What do you imagine John’s true motive was to speak against Herod? Was it to show the world how he was so much more righteous and holier than Herod? I strongly doubt it. I think he did it out of compassion and good faith. He wanted Herod to do the right thing. If we define love as one’s sincere desire for the good of the beloved, John had it for Herod. This interpretation of today’s gospel lesson then provides us a prerequisite for a prophetic voice. It’s love. This requires self-examination that we ought to question ourselves if we have a genuine desire for the good of others who we’re to speak up our prophetic voice. Is it motivated by self-righteousness or anger towards that person? Am I being judgmental that I want to expose that person’s mistakes and wrongdoings or compassionate that I truly care about that person’s wellbeing? We might see others’ faults immediately. But we better keep quiet before we spiritually examine ourselves because love has not yet been born. Our emptying of self-righteousness and judgmental attitude grows love and grace in our hearts so that it will drive us to speak the prophetic voice regardless of consequences and do what’s required. This prophetic action is always based on loving-kindness and compassion that it is not afraid of self-sacrifice. Let’s think about how Christians are perceived in this world. Are we considered the people of the prophetic voice that speaks against injustice because of love? As a person of color, when I talk and think about racism in our nation, it is crucial for me to examine myself so that I’m not consumed by rage against white body supremacy. Any voice born out of rage (not anger which is pure energy that helps us move forward) is harmful to me and those whom I’m standing against. My spiritual duty is to rechannel my anger energy to grow compassion for them, believing that my voice will make both of us become better-loving humankind. As much as I need them, they need me to live a fulfilling human life. Our diversity makes our lives together fruitful, beautiful, and holy. In these human lives shared together, something divine arises. Let love be born in our hearts, and let love be the foundation of our prophetic voice in the wilderness that we’re living right now. “Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?” “I will, with God's help.” (“The Baptismal Covenant” BCP, p. 305) How many of us enjoy (or never consider) going to a class reunion? It might take lots of courage to get together with your former classmates and friends. This kind of gathering where we meet people who we have known for a while but have not been in contact too often enforces us to revisit or face past versions of us that we no longer identify with.
I sometimes run into my old college friend, Tony at Theodore’s daycare. We used to hang out a lot. After graduating from college, we took our journey to find our place in this society. Now, we see how we’ve lived our lives quite differently. A couple of Saturdays ago, I ran into Tony at a soccer field with all our family members present. As he and I were introducing each other to our wives and children, he talked about how he was shocked to learn that I’ve become a very religious person. I wonder how he thought of me back when we were in college! One thing that is very clear to me in my interaction with Tony is that I can never function as his priest. This applies to my wife, Theodore, Henry, my mother, and sister. It’s not just because they know me very well and too frequently see my very human side which requires forgiveness but because they have developed a fixed image of me. This, in turn, means we generally think that we don’t change much. It’s like imagining that we are always remaining as the same entity. And so are others. We might have this inner dialogue: “I haven’t changed a bit and how dare you think you’ve changed and grown? I don’t see it. Don’t pretend!” This may be one of the reasons why prophets are neither welcome in their hometown nor heard nor taken seriously. “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” (Mark 6:4) In the first lesson from the Book of Ezekiel, there was a prophet, Ezekiel among the Israelites but they didn’t listen to him. Instead, he was considered a lunatic. What does this unwelcoming nature of prophets in their hometown tell us? Is it about an HR policy on not recommending an internal hiring practice? Maybe. But this story of unwelcome prophets in their hometown is more than a hiring policy. It tells us about the impact of how we see ourselves on how we see others. Do we believe that we are biologically and spiritually changing? Take a look at our childhood pictures. Who is it? Is it you? It was but not anymore. Look at yourself in the mirror now. That we constantly change is a fact. We too often forget that this is an inevitable human nature that we tend to forget or set aside. If we accept this scientific fact, we admit others are also changing like us. Then the point is not about whether this person I have known for a long time can or cannot change. No matter what, every single person changes one way or the other. Even our old habits change. They either get worse or better, depending on how much we are aware of them and how much we want to turn them around. Once we acknowledge this reality of change that occurs to everyone and everything in this world, it calls us to see how this person has changed for better or worse. Which then invites us to examine ourselves. Have I matured to be a better human being? Have I grown to be kind, gentle, and compassionate to others and myself? The lesson this morning is about how much we are open to change that is always happening in ourselves and others. This constant change is, spiritually speaking, what the resurrection of Christ is all about. We are called to move beyond our past selves, renouncing our old unhealthy thoughts, feelings, and actions. As one toxic piece of me dies, a new piece of me sprouts in Christ. While holding on to this hope of becoming like Jesus, we hold this same hope of spiritual growth and maturity for others. If we consider that the person we see everyday changes, we become curious and open about this person. It’s not the same person though in our human eyes she or he or they look the same. Our spiritual attempt to notice changes in others opens up a new horizon in our relationships. You have heard me say in the past that we are a human “being” not “doing.” This is to pay attention to the primacy of our sense of being or existing before we judge our values based on the amount of our doing or productivity. I want to go a bit further than being. Let us not just be but also become. We are always a human “becoming.” We’re constantly becoming the image of God with the help of the Spirit. We’re becoming one with God in Christ in our action of parking the Eucharist. This becoming one with God in Christ is the key to our spiritual transformation, not merely a change of bad habits, in which we become what we’ve never thought of. God’s present for us is the present moment that we can turn things around for godly changes. Do we have this openness to the present moment of God, to ourselves, and others? If so, we’re able to hear the voice of God’s prophet who shouts for change of our heart, of our hostile culture. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
January 2025
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