John 6:24-35
So when the crowd saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus. 25 When they found him on the other side of the sea, they said to him, “Rabbi, when did you come here?” 26 Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me not because you saw signs but because you ate your fill of the loaves. 27 Do not work for the food that perishes but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal.” 28 Then they said to him, “What must we do to perform the works of God?” 29 Jesus answered them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” 30 So they said to him, “What sign are you going to give us, then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing? 31 Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, as it is written, ‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat.’ ” 32 Then Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. 33 For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” 34 They said to him, “Sir, give us this bread always.”
35 Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and
whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.
O Lord, uphold me that I might uplift thee. Amen.
“Hitting the wall” in a marathon feels like your legs are simultaneously made of
pavement and jelly. Your vision is blurry or feels delayed. You might feel intolerable pain or like you are not really connected to your body. Your brain starts to say, “It’s over,” and the wave of tears or rage cuts the connection between you and any coherent thought. Maybe you have only a few miles left, a measly training distance you could do on a Wednesday, but suddenly it feels as far away as the moon. What do you do when you have outrun your fuel, and I mean this metabolically or spiritually or emotionally? You might pray or cry but one thing happens automatically, you stop.
I have run five marathons in my life. Despite all my reading and training, I hit the wall in
four of them. I eventually was able to finish those but it was ugly. But in my last race, I didn’t hit the wall, even though my running partner did, and even though I tripped at mile 17 and skidded on my knee. The only difference between that race and the previous ones was a phrase I had picked up thanks to long training runs with some elite distance runners, Paul and Dianne. “Focus on your fuel.” Paul and Diane did not wait until they felt depleted to refuel. Every five miles, even if everything was feeling great, they still had an energy gummy or a salt tablet. They carefully monitored their pace, their gear, their form, even what they listened to, to make sure whatever they could control was on their side, because they were well aware of what was beyond their control and knew it might not be on their side… such as the weather conditions or unpleasant surprises of the day. Focus on your fuel taught me how to run a long way without crashing. And the coolest part, I learned it applied to more than a road race.
By this point in the Gospel of John, the crowds following Jesus were hungry. They had
just shared the feeding of the 5,000 with Jesus. But it was an experience of such transcendent fullness, they want more of “it.” The only word they had for that kind of belonging, that kind of enough, and that kind of just-in-time satisfaction was manna, like their ancestors had in their marathon wilderness time with Moses. I wonder if the scholars among them knew that manna is just the Hebrew word for “what is it?” Even their ancestors didn’t know what “it” was.
Jesus says simply, “I am the bread of life. I am.” The Gospel of John has 7 “I am” sayings… I am the good shepherd. I am the resurrection and the life. I am the vine, etc. I am is what God always says, especially when we want to know the brand name for something that cannot be bought. The fuel of life, the bread of heaven, is not something you can buy at the fancy running store. It is not some magic product that an influencer swears literally changed everything for them. It is not the brand on the packaging. It is not the calories on the label. It is not the carbs or the protein. It is not the time of day you eat it. It is certainly not what they cart out on those indestructible plates at the hospital. No, it is not anything you can store up in your barn or backpack or pantry or refrigerator so that you can finally rid yourself of that deep longing.
“This” is a relationship between God and humanity that is as cosmic as it is cellular.
“This” is the intersection between action and belief, doing and knowing, faith and practice.
“This” is the gift of being alive and knowing why. “This” is love that takes you further than any training plan says is possible. “This” is grace that picks you up off the pavement when you are relatively certain you didn’t just hurt yourself but probably the people around you too. “This” satisfies the body that has been waiting in a very long line for a bag of groceries at the food pantry and “this” satisfies the body that has been judged relentlessly for its weight. When you have hit the wall, spiritually, emotionally, politically, and even your thoughts have turned to powerlessness, “this” is what walks alongside you, “this” is broken and blessed, vision restoring, peace outpouring, and eternally for you. You can’t explain it. You have to live it.
When Jesus fed people, they thought that was the finish line, but it wasn’t. It was fuel.
Fuel that led them into the lives of other hungry people, outsiders, children, sick people, and especially those famished by their religion. Are there any people hungrier than those who think they are the ones who have to give out the bread but don’t need it themselves? Those who deprived and censored themselves, swallowing the questions that matter most, those who followed all the rules and had completely bought into the idea of religious success to the extent that when they hit the wall, they felt not just empty but betrayed. Jesus fed them first. “This” bread is not from you, but it is for you.
Marathon running is a ridiculous sport. Thousands of people willingly sign up for an
event patterned after a guy who ran to Athens, declared “We won!” and then collapsed and died. But you know what, maybe the Gospel is ridiculous too. Millions of people willingly sign up to follow a man who preached his way to a hideous cross, died, and yet on Easter morning, dared to claim, “We won.” And so it must have something to do with the funny math of life. The more you hold on to it, lock it up, taking only the smallest bites, the less there is. But the more you give it away, making of yourself a filling station for others, the more life you find. Death isn’t even a finish line because life is a relay.
So, I wonder what it would look like to fuel ourselves with Christian devotion that can go
the distance. For starters, don’t fill up on media that gives you heartburn. Don’t buy into a
training plan that suggests Jesus will make the course less hilly or give you a special lane. Don’t trust any voices on the sidelines that point to a short cut or who are loudly rooting against other runners. Don’t burn energy comparing yourself to other runners. You really can’t run in their shoes. That’s rude. In all my races, I would write Isaiah 40 on my shoes. I figured if I was looking down I would need a boost. Find people to run with. Fill your ears with music and bird songs and the sound of your own breath. Find ways to bring humor, like the guy with the sign that says “loving every wonderful horrible moment of this.” Let people know who you are. They will cheer for you by name. And beyond aphorisms, the tricks and the tips, Jesus said you need to believe. Believe that this one who created your heart and mind and soul and strength wants you to use it fully.
Earlier this week, I got the call that Bill Campbell had died. Bill who sat in the front row
and sang loudly, even though he couldn’t see the hymnal. For 91 years, he poured his heart and soul into four churches in our area and into his four children and who crooned a love song in his 69 years married to Jane. I suspect the last two years without Jane were his hardest miles. But music fueled him and hearing him sing fueled me. His favorite hymn was Amazing Grace, and I don’t think I’ll ever sing the last line without hearing an echo of Bill from that heavenly choir. When we’ve been there 10,000 years bright shining as the sun we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we first begun.
Take this bread, broken and blessed, and like Christ did, give it away.