[Sermon from Sunday, Aug. 19]
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been
thinking a lot about relationships. Last
weekend, Ann and the kids and I were out of town, in Springfield, to celebrate
my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. The party was at my folks’ parish, Christ
Church, which was very appropriate, given the relationships that matter most to
them. Because my family loves to sing, we
began the celebration with Evensong and then continued with a reception in the
parish hall – very intimate and lovely. As
my parents were blessed in their wedding 60 years ago, so we invoked God’s
blessing on them still, praying that Christ would empower them “to honor and keep
the promises and vows they [had made]” (BCP 425). For them, for my sisters and me, and for
their friends from 60 years of married life, it was a great opportunity to
remember how deep my parents’ relationship runs.
Ironically, or maybe fittingly, this
party took place on the 22nd wedding anniversary for Ann and
me. Our celebration took a back seat to
my parents’ party this time; but still, we remembered. We had cards for each other, at least – small
tokens of the day when we covenanted to give each other “all that I am and all
that I have” (BCP 427).
Then yesterday, a very different kind of
relationship began. We took our
daughter, Kathryn, to college at Truman State and moved her into her dorm. For the first time since our kids were very small,
Kathryn will have to negotiate the relationship of being a roommate with someone
– another person who, remarkably, may not always recognize just how often Kathryn
is right about things. Now, I don’t know
how Kathryn and her roommate will work out the details of their new
relationship: Your things go here and
mine go there; we’ll be quiet after 11 p.m., you control the TV on these days
of the week, and I control the TV on those days of the week. But I could imagine something like a contract
coming in pretty handy in that situation.
It’s very helpful to be able to go back to the agreement and remind your
wayward roommate that yes, indeed, it’s Wednesday; and that’s my day to take the remote.
Roommates and spouses have very
different relationships, obviously.
Roommates may have contracts, but spouses or partners share covenants. A covenant is about more than keeping certain
terms; it’s about fulfilling a mutual commitment. And that deep, intimate commitment is what
keeps you together through the rough times.
After all, spouses or partners always end up failing in their mutual
obligations; and if it were a contractual relationship, any sane person would
simply note that the terms were broken and make a new contract with someone
else.
But in deep relationships, the
commitment trumps the specifics of the agreement. In fact, the commitment takes on a life of
its own, forming you as the marriage goes on, shaping you into someone who
gives yourself away rather than someone who meets obligatory terms. Ultimately, that sacramental commitment makes
you into someone with the capacity to work a miracle – to live out the
impossible vow to love another person with “all that I am and all that I have.” That mutual commitment empowers the couple to
love each other into submission – not submission to each other’s will but
submission to God’s purposes.
And an anniversary is a moment to
remember all that. Whether it’s been 60
years, or 22 years, or whatever, an anniversary is a moment to remember the
sacramental nature of the relationship, making it real and tangible in a way it
can’t be every day. On an anniversary,
we bring our covenant into active and living memory; and in doing so, we bring
it to life anew.
So you may wonder what all that has to
do with our readings today. Well, the
kind of deep relationship people enter into in marriage – that’s the kind of
relationship that Jesus is asking us to make with God. You might think of it as a divine proposal.
The Gospel reading today picks up where we
left off last week, with Jesus trying to explain to the thick-headed crowd what
it means for him to be the “bread of life.”
He reminds them that, centuries ago, God gave the people of Israel manna
to eat in the wilderness. It kept them
going as they journeyed to the Promised Land, but that was as far as their
deliverance went. Now, Jesus says,
there’s a new promise, a new covenant of relationship between God and
humanity. “I am the living bread that came down from heaven,” Jesus says. “Whoever eats of this bread will live
forever.” (John 6:51)
You can almost hear what the crowd is
thinking: “OK, this rabbi’s teaching
will give us spiritual nourishment.”
Great. The symbolism with the
bread begins to makes sense.
But then, Jesus takes the intensity up a
notch and confuses the crowd again.
“Whoever eats of this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will
give for the life of the world is my flesh” (6:51). Wait – what was that? Did he really say that? Eat his flesh? Yes, and not just that: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
and drink his blood, you have no life in you. …
Whoever eats me will live because of me.” (6:53,57).
No wonder this movement didn’t catch on so well in Jesus’ day. There’s a pretty significant “yuck factor” to
what Jesus has to say.
The people listening to him don’t get it
because they can’t fathom the terms of God’s proposal. This “bread of life” won’t just keep us alive
as we wander from one day to the next.
This bread is literally God in the flesh; and through Jesus’ body and
blood, God is offering us God’s own
life, eternal life – right here, right now, and forever. “Just as I live because of the Father,” Jesus
explains, “so whoever eats me will live because of me” (6:57). It’s so straightforward we think it must be more
confusing than that. He can’t really
mean what he’s saying, right? Well,
yes. Eat my flesh and drink my blood –
take my life into your own life – and I’ll empower you with eternal life.
OK.
There’s God’s part of this covenant.
What’s our part? What are the
vows we’re asked to make in this incredibly intimate relationship? As the crowd asks Jesus earlier, “What must
we do to perform the works of God?” (John 6:28).
The response God asks of us is both much
simpler, and much more demanding, than we’d expect. Again, it’s less like a business contract and
more like a marriage covenant. Our part
of the commitment is to match Jesus’ commitment to us. “[B]elieve in him whom [God] has sent”
(6:29). That’s it. There’s no to-do list, no contract to check
for compliance. Instead, Jesus says, pay
attention to what you see the Father doing through me, and commit yourself to
it. Remember, and believe.
That’s easier said than done, in the
midst of life that distracts us with constant input and overwhelms us with
impossible expectations. When all I can
see is everything I have to do, how can I remember my covenant with God and actively
believe in Jesus? We humans need
concrete reminders. We need signs to
help us remember where we are. It’s why
the crowd asks Jesus, “What sign are you going to give us then, that we may see
it and believe you?” (John 6:30). Now,
24 hours earlier, the same crowd had watched him feed 5,000 people with five
loaves and two fish. What more of a sign
do you need? But that was then; this is
now. Then they were full, but now they’re
hungry again. With the needs and
obligations of life crashing in, how can we remember and believe?
That’s why we’re here today. That’s why we’re here every Sunday. That’s why we do basically the same thing
here every week. It’s what Eucharist is
all about: Remember, and believe.
Go back to what you learned in Confirmation
class or Episcopal 101. What happens in Eucharist
is called anamnesis in Greek, and it
means living memory. It means
remembering, but with flesh and bones on it.
It means bringing a past reality into the present reality as a foretaste
of a future reality. It means making
Jesus present in your hands and on your lips, bringing you the power of divine
life in the here and now. It means
making eternal life real. When we remember, we believe.
And from our remembrance and our belief
will come the “works of God,” in the sense we’d typically understand that. Filled with the bread of life, we become the
conduits through which eternal life flows.
As Jesus gives himself to bring life to us, so we give ourselves to
bring life to each other and to the world.
Nourished with the body of Christ, we become the Body of Christ – bread for
a hungry world.
Every Sunday, we gather to celebrate the
anniversary of a marriage – the marriage of heaven and earth, the marriage of
Christ and his Church, the marriage of God with each one of us. So consider every celebration of Eucharist an
opportunity to renew your vows.
Remember, and believe. And in the
power of that memory, recommit yourself as a partner with God in the project of
loving the world into submission.
