August 20, 2006

20th Sunday of Ordinary Time (B)

Rev. David J. Shea

Proverbs 9:1-6   X       Ephesians 5:15-20   X   John 6:51-58

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          I was very close to my grandfather growing up. He had immigrated to the United States from Canada and I called him Pepere. We used to spend hours and hours in his workshop, and he taught me how to operate a drill press and a lathe, and how to use calipers. And when he died I lost not only my Pepere but my best friend. My grandmother wanted me to have one of his tools to help me remember him—she gave his calipers, those same calipers he had once taught me to use. I had them put into a shadow box with his picture; it’s hung in our hallway and I look at his picture and his calipers every day, and I remember him.

          When we remember another person, we bring them back to the present. We give them life in our life, and we keep the past from being forgotten. I loved my Pepere very much . . . and after more than forty years, I still love him. The memory of love is life, and, in a way, the memory of someone we love becomes part of us. I hope that my grandson Aidan remembers me like I remember my Pepere.

          No one wants to be forgotten. We may lose people we love; our friends may move away, yet our connection with them remains. We give them a gift when they leave, something to remember us; we write to them and tell them that we’re thinking of them. We phone them and tell them how much we miss them. And they remain a part of us even though they’re far away and even though we haven’t seen them for years.

          When I baptize infants I like to ask the parents and the family: “What is the most valuable thing that you own?” It only takes a few moments and people start talking about the family Bible that used to belong to their great grandmother, the wedding ring that was once their mother’s, the baptismal garment that’s made from grandma’s wedding dress, the old photos, and the crucifix from their grandfather’s casket. It’s never money; it’s never an expensive piece of furniture. No, it’s always a different kind of treasure, something far more valuable than gold—it’s the things that help us remember people we love who were once a part of our lives.

          Jesus is the same way—he experienced this profound desire to be remembered. He knew he was going to die and he gathered his closest friends and he gave them an incredible gift. It was a gift unlike any other and when he tried to explain it to them he shocked them. Jesus wanted them to see a new reality and they were having some real trouble with his distasteful and repulsive language.

          You can imagine their reaction when they heard those words for the very first time: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you.” Any normal person would have recoiled in horror and disgust; it sounded very much like cannibalism. No wonder people thought that he was out of his mind. They complained about his grandiosity—the nerve of him claiming to be bread from heaven. How could his Father give them true bread from heaven? They knew his father, Joseph—an ordinary carpenter, not a baker of heavenly bread. These were hard words, too hard for some, and they just couldn’t accept what he was saying.

          Jesus was trying to teach them that he wasn’t simply the provider of the food; he wasn’t just feeding them fishes and loaves of bread, a meal that would only last a few hours. No, Jesus was the food itself. Jesus was claiming, literally, to be the food, the life-giving sustenance for his people. And those who eat his flesh would live not a physical life, but a spiritual life for all of eternity. This food is not the flesh of any mere man, but the flesh of God. 

          Chances are that we’re little different from those first followers of Jesus. Chances are it’s just as hard for us to grasp what Jesus is saying. It sounds impossible doesn’t it? If we’re really honest with ourselves, we’re asking the same question—“How can Jesus be making this outrageous statement; how can he give us his flesh to eat?” The truth is that this is a great mystery and it defies our understanding. It has nothing to do with rationality or logic, and it has everything to do with faith. Faith in Jesus—faith in his teaching, faith in his way of life, faith in his passion and death, faith in his resurrection, faith that he is who he said he was. In giving up his body in death, Christ became this bread of life—a gift that isn’t just given but given up.

          To eat the flesh of Christ and to drink his blood, to take him into ourselves, is to become totally identified with his very person—with his deepest thoughts, with his vision of life, with his values, and his mission. To eat the flesh of Christ, to take him in the Eucharist, means that his way of living and giving of himself to others is to become our way of living. It is saying “Amen!” and accepting the whole Gospel message, the easy parts and the hard parts, the victories and the failures, and all the joys and the sufferings of following Christ.

          We gather here every Sunday to celebrate and to remember Christ. We come forward to reach for that little bland dry host that is no longer bread, but Christ— we reach for him. It’s his real and intimate presence. And when we take that flesh and take it into ourselves, we are at that moment closer to Christ than we can ever be in this life. Embrace him, hold him tightly, talk to him, whisper to him as you would your dearest friend, your brother or sister, your spouse. Be with the Lord and tell him how much you love him, how much you miss him, and accept this gift of his own flesh, his own life, the most personal of all gifts, so that you will never forget him.

©David J. Shea