Pentecost: Knit Together into a Divine Whole

This poem by Jan Richardson caught my attention over the weekend when I first saw it. And its Divine message to me landed this morning as I’ve been feeling lonely.

When We Breathe Together
A Blessing for Pentecost Day

This is the blessing
we cannot speak
by ourselves.

This is the blessing
we cannot summon
by our own devices,
cannot shape
to our purpose,
cannot bend
to our will.

This is the blessing
that comes
when we leave behind
our aloneness
when we gather
together
when we turn
toward one another.

This is the blessing
that blazes among us
when we speak
the words
strange to our ears

when we finally listen
into the chaos

when we breathe together
at last.

I’m so grateful to Jan Richardson for this perspective of Pentecost, this reminder of what I experience to be the deepest Truth of being human; I need together. Alone, while an essential part of my journey and an indispensable source of blessing in its own right, is also death. Without you, without together, without we and us, without connected, I am apart from the Divine.

Not that you are God. …Or are you? There’s a discomfort in much of traditional Western evangelical Christianity with the idea that God might be in us. Or that God might be us in some robust way. That we might be God incarnate, because “we’re fallen, broken, sinful, and God is perfect” (which we understand to mean the absence of those). As time goes by in my life, I resonate less with the idea that we’re separated, that there’s a distance between divine and human. It feels more and more right to me that there’s instead a profound overlap between divine and human. I don’t see them as exactly the same––God is bigger, beyond human––but I experience them as stitched together. The Creator has chosen to create a world that shows us Divine identity. And perhaps not only reflects divinity, but is Divine.

Pentecost is a time for recognizing the collectivity of God, that God is fully God only through the interconnected Created order. That we––and the rest of Creation––are a significant, essential part of God. So to know and experience God, I must know and experience you and the rest of Creation. I must share my self and receive you. As the Spirit arrived in dramatic fashion at the Festival of the 50 Days, it wove humanity together across boundaries, across differences, across fault lines and feuds and rivalries and hatreds and histories. That’s the mark of a Creator who is complete in the connectedness of the Created. A God at work completing Creation by weaving it all together. An infinitely patient Divine being who continues to connect no matter how many times we try to disconnect, because it is literally the Divine body, the incarnation of spiritual reality, that is at stake in human life.

In this perspective, lonely is my longing to heal a wound in the Divine body. Lonely hurts because it is an unnatural tension. I am made to be in relationship. I am made to breathe with you. Spirit is the name we give that togetherness, that connectedness, that being stitched together.

I hate feeling lonely, feeling the sadness that comes from loving and being separated, whether by death, or miles, or relationship rift, or illness, or fear. It is the pain of loss I feel. Pentecost reminds me where that sadness ultimately comes from: it is the longing to be reconnected to the Divine I know in you. The more I love you, that is, the more I know the Divine in you, the more it hurts to be separated. And in general, the more I love, the more loss I feel as those connections are strained and broken by life as a human being.

Far too often, I feel shame when I’m sad. There’s a cultural voice in my head that labels sadness as something to be fixed, a sign of pathology, something to be afraid of. We cover up sadness, we deny it by putting on a smile and bucking up, we hide it for fear of being judged as broken, we avoid sharing it to avoid the pain of being told how to fix ourselves. The church has been a major culprit of this violence to emotional truth, telling people that holy equals happy and using scripture to prove it.

But my experience of the Divine is richest when I accept what I’m feeling and receive the embrace of love that follows––especially when that embrace has literal arms and accepting eyes. This Pentecost I hear the exact opposite of the broken cultural narrative I’ve absorbed that tells me needing others is needy, that reaching out for connection is dependence, that sharing my self is selfish. Pentecost is telling me that needing others is exactly how I was formed; reaching out for connection is fulfilling the Divine intention for Creation; sharing my self is my gift to another that offers them permission to share their self.

Thank you, Jan, for Divine wisdom on Pentecost:

This is the blessing
we cannot speak
by ourselves.

This is the blessing
we cannot summon
by our own devices,
cannot shape
to our purpose,
cannot bend
to our will.

This is the blessing
that comes
when we leave behind
our aloneness
when we gather
together
when we turn
toward one another.

This is the blessing
that blazes among us
when we speak
the words
strange to our ears

when we finally listen
into the chaos

when we breathe together
at last.

Postures of the Spirit

One of my good friends, let’s call him Jim, told me about an extraordinary experience he had at work recently, and it has me reflecting on discipleship and a major purpose of congregational community.

Jim’s company has been through a great deal of struggle in the past few years, including facing significantly changing market conditions, poor management, changes in top leadership, labor struggles, and an organization-threatening work stoppage. It’s been a tumultuous ride for all involved. They’re coming out on the other side these days, and as they emerge from the crucible, they are taking seriously the need to attend to some real hurts inflicted during the struggle and some baggage that’s getting in the way today. Jim is helping carry out a process that’s accomplishing what the Truth & Reconciliation Commission did in South Africa following the end of Apartheid: tell the truth, really hear each other, and seek healing for the wounds that are named. The process Jim’s participating in called for a few people to serve as reporters to top management, interviewing folks throughout the organization about their experiences through the crucible time, seeking understanding of their concerns, and then voicing them in a feedback session with the organization’s top leaders. Jim was one of the ‘reporters’ in this process.

During the feedback session, the reporters were asked to share, in the presence of the leaders who serve as their bosses, what they had heard in their interviews with their colleagues. Sometimes, the feedback they had heard was strongly critical of those leaders. Most of the reporters, apparently so uncomfortable with speaking critical feedback in the presence of the leaders, softened their words to the point that the message was getting lost. The reporters had heard significant concerns and wounds that were consequential to the leaders of the organization. In order for the leaders to have the confidence and trust of the rest of the employees, they needed to be able to take steps to acknowledge and heal the wounds caused in the crucible. But it was so uncomfortable speaking the hard truths face-to-face that the feedback that mattered wasn’t reaching the leaders who needed to hear it. Jim felt the same fear as his reporter colleagues in the moment, fear that passing along what he had heard through the interviewing process might hurt others’ feelings, might lead to him being perceived as a jerk, might lead to reprisals from his bosses out of their hurt at hearing painful comments. Nevertheless, he was able to take a deep breath and tell the truth without blame or judgment. He simply spoke what he had heard in his interviews with his colleagues. Sometimes, one reporter would say something like, “People are excited about the future now and grateful we got through the hard time,” and then Jim would feel compelled to add, as evenly as possible, “I heard many folks say that they don’t trust Mr. Smith anymore after the way he talked about them in the media in the middle of the struggle, and they’re seriously concerned that nothing has changed.” That’s a really hard thing to say with Chairman of the Board Mr. Smith in the room, but that was the whole intent of the process. After the meeting, other reporters expressed their gratitude to Jim for having the courage to report what they had all heard in their interviews. It turns out most of the reporters were simply unable to tell the whole truth when the time came. They didn’t intend to avoid the process, but in the heat of the moment and in the face-to-face setting of the feedback meeting, they couldn’t bring themselves to say the hard things.

I asked Jim what he thought prepared him to be able to take that deep breath and choose to calmly speak the truth, in the face of potential consequences. He said it was primarily that he’s part of a community that practices telling the truth all the time. Jim is a recovering addict, and his 12-step recovery community is a place where he’s accustomed to hearing people say hard things about their own experience. The 12-step community is a place where Jim has spoken painful truths out loud about himself regularly. Recovery meetings are safe places for truth-telling, places of listening without judgment, and Jim realized as he sat in this challenging workplace meeting that he was prepared to say what needed to be said because he had spent years doing this in another setting.

As a result, Jim became a hero of many in his workplace––his colleagues whose concerns he reported accurately and his bosses alike––because his courageous truth-telling gave the process integrity and value that it wouldn’t have had if things had stayed in the ‘polite’ realm of avoiding the challenging things. Growth can happen, change is possible, reconciliation and deeper relationship are likely because there was a real sharing and hearing of experience and perspective in an attitude of humility and openness.

I see much in this for the church. There are certainly direct applications of this reminder that speaking directly and honestly with those with whom we have struggles is the best way forward. That’s biblical wisdom (see Matthew 18:15-20). At another level, I see that Jim was able to be used by God for the godly purpose of reconciliation at a pivotal moment in his organization’s life––because he was prepared. Not for the situation itself; he didn’t practice saying these particular things out loud. His life in recovery had prepared him to speak honestly even when it’s scary. It’s like the moment called for a posture that requires considerable flexibility and balance, and those who had rarely (or never) adopted it were simply unable to assume that posture in the moment. He was able because he had assumed it over and over again through the years. The posture of courageous, calm, humble truth-telling is one he learned by being part of a community that practices this posture every time it gathers.

That’s what the church is, at its best: a community that lives in a set of postures of spirit, mind, and body, postures that reflect the life of the Creator in human form. Jesus lived those postures throughout his ministry, even through facing his own death, so the Body of Christ in our time and place (the local church) is called to do the same. When we live in those postures of selfless humility, of hospitality to all people, of special concern for those at the margins, of pacifism in the midst of violence, of gracious forgiveness, of patience and faith at every level of being, of yearning for justice for all people, we can be the presence of Christ throughout our lives, especially when those ripe moments appear when God might make a significant difference and shift reality. What a profound joy to find myself in that moment when I know I have been used by God for God’s reconciling and healing purposes. Have you been able to notice moments when God used you?

The flip side of the coin is a familiar experience for me, too. There are plenty of moments when God might use me; some of them I can sense as they happen, and they pass right on by because I’m not able to be available. I can see the opportunity for God’s grace or peace or embrace to break into a moment of suffering, but I’m not able to be the vehicle. I can imagine the posture needed in that moment, but I find I’m not in it already, nor am I able to adopt it quickly enough (or at all). A helpful thought to speak pops into my head but I don’t say it, and then the moment’s gone. An insight appears in my mind, but I don’t share it. A newcomer is uncomfortable and alone, and I feel the tug to engage and welcome them, but I hang back. A person is hurting and I feel compassion, but shyness and fear keep it shut inside me. Injustice happens, and I know it’s wrong, but I stand back, a silent participant.

I need a community to form me, to teach me the postures of the Creator, to limber me up so that when those moments of deep possibility arrive, I’m in the posture to be available to God for God’s redemptive work. I thank God for all forms of this community––the church at its best is only one of them. In what communities do you experience being taught Christlike postures? What communities limber you up for lifegiving postures?

Easter

I’ve been reflecting for the past several days about how two seemingly opposite experiences can coexist.

Easter Sunday was, as I had hoped and prayed, an experience of incredible joy. Walking the road with a congregation in need of renewal is a challenging experience––for me and for the congregation. It’s a journey which cries out for an Easter. And this year, having fasted through Lent from our Sunday morning worship service, we really needed Easter. When Easter morning arrived, it was amazing. Months of hard work and difficult conversations, of dreaming and imagining, of navigating sensitive spaces, of confusion, of frustration, of groping in the fog bore some significant fruit. It was a new dawn. A new day for a congregation in need of a new life.

I concluded my sermon by playing the Michael Bublé song Feeling Good. It had popped into my head on my way home from church late Saturday night, after having finished setting up our new worship space for the first time. It’s a tune that I listened to every Sunday morning on my way to church for months after being appointed to this congregation nearly 3 years ago. Hadn’t listened to it in years, but it started playing in my head as fellow Christians in our time zone were beginning Easter Vigils. I decided to play it at the end of my sermon as a mark of the beginning of a new era. It’s a great Easter song! Could easily be Jesus singing,

Birds flying high, you know how I feel; …blossom on the tree, you know how I feel; it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me. And I’m feeling good! …This old world is a new world and a bold world for me.

There’s no doubt it was the voice of our congregation, too. What a joy!

I was full of joy to watch a vision realized. I felt joy at the actual experience validating all the theory that this crazy idea would work. I felt deep joy at doing what I am made to do––lead worship and spiritual life in community. I felt joy watching friends filled with joy. I felt joy when I experienced the embrace of God over and over through various worship elements: singing “Alleluia!”, watching my friend Sue lead and read scripture, preaching, leading the community to gather around those who lead the renovation effort & pray with gratitude for their commitment, launching the sharing of prayer joys and concerns and hearing people share their hearts with each other. It was a morning of overwhelming joy.

…And in the three days since, I’ve felt unexpected sadness. Sure, some of it is clearly the letdown on the other side of a finish line I’ve been anticipating for 6 months (and longer!). But my sadness didn’t wait to surface until we crossed the finish line; it bubbled up in the middle of worship. I was introducing the new-to-us prayer practice of sharing joys and concerns in the whole group as part of our communal prayer, and I wanted to demonstrate my request that we go beyond simply listing facts. I hadn’t thought this through carefully enough to have planned how I’d give instructions, so in the moment, the prayer request I could think of was my wife’s chronic health struggles. I had invited folks to share how they felt about what they were sharing, because when we do that, we create intimacy and compassion happens. So I said, “Instead of simply asking you to carry my wife and me in prayer as she deals with ongoing health concerns, I would say, ‘Today I’m sad because my wife couldn’t be with us to celebrate because of her health.’” I started to cry when I said, “I’m sad.” I was surprised by my own response. A parishioner wisely said to me later, “It was like when you hear your mom’s voice on the phone”––that moment when what’s inside rises to the surface and overflows.

I realized Sunday that I’m more sad than I had realized about my wife’s ongoing struggle with illness, and the challenges we both face in raising a toddler in the midst of it. But I think it’s more than that. I’ll keep listening deep inside for what’s coming up.

I share all that to reflect on the fact that joy and sadness can live together just like joy and fear, as I narrated in my last post. I’ve spent much of my life seeing happiness and sadness as mutually exclusive opposites. But, as I learn to be more and more aware and honest about what I feel, I’m learning that’s not true at all. In fact, I think the overlapping is a pretty normal reality.

When I allow the door to my soul to open, allowing real, honest emotions to rise to the surface, I don’t choose what they are. I just experience and accept what is. When the door is open, sadness sometimes comes through, but I can only experience real joy when that door is open, too. This feels like the most profound spiritual practice: choosing to be open to whatever is most real and true rising from deep within me, refusing to judge or try to filter it, deciding rather to trust that feeling it presents an opportunity to connect to the Divine. Whether joy or sadness––or both––it is when I am in touch with what is most real right now that I am most open to Divine embrace and communication.

Thank God for Easter joy! And for Easter sadness. And everything else that appears when I allow that door to my soul to crack open.

Palm Sunday 2013: The Countdown

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by space travel.  Rockets, the Space Shuttle, cockpits full of switches and lights, the vehicle on the pad with steam swirling around, the countdown. The countdown to a launch was one of the most exciting things I knew––the waiting, the anticipating, the high-stakes, high-energy drama about to play out. And the closer the countdown got to zero, the more excitement grew. The intensity of the launch itself, with its powerful sounds and piercing light and speed and danger, was like an inevitable climactic release of all the energy of the countdown’s building anticipation.

Palm Sunday is that moment in the life of Jesus when the countdown got to the really exciting part. The countdown hadn’t just begun; much earlier in the story, the gospel writers told us that Jesus was headed for this week, for this encounter with the Powers-That-Be in the capital of the religious empire. And it’s easy to not feel the energy of the countdown for much of it. Hitting the ‘T-minus 3 days’ point in the countdown to a shuttle launch is not a particularly charged moment, but ‘T-minus 20 seconds’ is.

In the long journey of renewal I’m on with my congregation, today feels like the ‘T-minus one minute’ moment in the countdown to launch. We have come a long way in the past few months (and in the 2 years before) to arrive at this Palm Sunday. Much has happened in my soul and in the souls of the folks who make up Broad Ripple UMC. Much work has been done on the building (we’re remodeling our sanctuary and main common areas, due to be finished by next Sunday). Much time has been spent in the ‘wilderness’ in Lent as we have fasted from our own Sunday morning worship practice. All the while, the countdown timer quietly ticked away in the background: T-minus 3 days. T-minus 32 hours. T-minus 8 hours, 27 minutes. T-minus 12 minutes, 34 seconds.

Today is T-minus one minute. It’s not time to launch yet, but the boarding arm has swung away from the shuttle and the umbilicals have disconnected and the vehicle is standing there on the pad, ready to fly. It’s time to make specific decisions and actually do what I’ve been imagining and talking about and dreaming for months (well, years, actually). Time to make aspirations into reality, specifically around worship. We will be reorienting the physical expression of our worship service because the space will be different. Now is the time to introduce some new elements. It’s time to redesign our worship bulletin. It’s time to figure out what I’m actually going to say when the Big Day comes next weekend.

This is a moment of two intertwined emotions for me: joy and fear. They are familiar companions, these two. They arrive together at exciting times in life of all sorts: the big musical solo, putting up the final free-throw, racing, white-water rafting, giving a speech, that first romantic moment with a new love, finally telling the truth about something you’ve been hiding, childbirth. Joy and fear live together in excitement.

These two companion emotions are one of the ways I have learned to recognize I’m following God’s lead into stretching myself, that I’m following into a realm in which I must trust God at a new level. When I am feeling joy and fear at the same time, especially in my work, I’m learning to notice that I’m often stretching just beyond my sense of competency to try to be part of God doing something great. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t particularly enjoy this sense of high-energy fear. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. But I am learning to value it, because it’s part of growing beyond what I’ve known before.

I’m feeling it today as I’m reminded that between now and a week from now, our congregational fast will end and we’ll celebrate Easter in our new space together. Our next chapter as a congregation will begin. And I have a big role in facilitating that experience. I feel the weight of that responsibility. I feel fear about making the myriad decisions that need to be made between now and then. The arrangement of the chairs & the placement of the communion table. The hymns. The lights. The language in the bulletin. The sermons (there will be 4 between now and a week from now!). I feel fear about the fact that I’ve been anticipating this new way for so long; what if it isn’t so great? What if people don’t come? What if, after all this, nothing’s really different?

And, mixed right in with all that fear, I feel tremendous joy. There’s a deep part of my soul that knows without any doubt that God is up to something significant within us, among us, and, in time, through us. I’m quite certain there’s nothing I’d rather be doing with my life than this. I feel like this is where I belong in the world. That’s joyful!

I’ve come to the conclusion that this mix of joy and fear is inevitable when using my gifts in joining God’s purpose, because there’s inevitable risk and vulnerability in being used by God for God’s purposes. There are plenty of days I fantasize about an easier way of life, but I wouldn’t trade this joy for anything.

I believe that God calls every one of us beyond the limits of what’s comfortable into the greatness implanted in each of us when we were created. And I am grateful.

Joy & Grief in the Wilderness

My congregation is in the midst of rebirth. Well, death and rebirth would be more accurate. This Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter), we’re taking bold steps spiritually and physically: we’re fasting from our Sunday morning worship practice, and we’re remodeling the sanctuary and gathering space. Fasting from our usual Sunday morning worship means that we’re not having worship until Easter, and everyone has been encouraged to worship in other places (and other ways) as a way of stepping out of our familiar comfort zone in pursuit of new life for our congregation. Since we’re not meeting on Sunday mornings, we’re having biweekly communion services on Wednesday evenings.

Last night, 20 members of my congregation gathered for the first Lenten communion service. Two weeks into our Lenten fast, I asked folks to share their experience so far. There was much joy named (including appreciation for our Sunday worship experience renewed by experiencing a different one, companionship in being visitors together, worship in other forms: a walk in the woods, a drive through the country, dinner with friends, and in a much-needed restful sabbath morning in bed). I was certainly grateful to hear joy expressed, as I expected that this first two weeks of our six-week fast would be the most challenging. I was inspired at the faithful exploration my congregation members have chosen while in the wilderness of Lent. I felt joy at the fact that we, as a congregation, are taking vulnerable steps into the wilderness and actively opening ourselves to God. I am excited that new life is emerging––in our space, in our congregation, and in each of us.

Alongside the joy, there was significant grief named (and unnamed) in the space, too. I was relieved to hear it emerge in the honest sharing of one of our eldest members:

Last Sunday, I went to visit [a traditional church service like ours]. I enjoyed the service; it felt like home with the the pews, the organ, the traditional liturgy. The preacher even preached about my favorite scripture! But then, as I left, I felt sad, like I was leaving a funeral calling for a friend.

She was naming a deep truth of her (and the rest of our) experience: there is a death happening in our congregation. A few weeks ago, we celebrated communion for the last time in the arrangement that has been familiar for 60 years in our congregation.  We could begin to feel the death happening. Then a beloved congregation member died, and the following Sunday, even though we didn’t have our usual morning worship in the sanctuary, that afternoon’s funeral became the last worship service in the sanctuary before the renovation. The death felt a little more real as I stood in the pulpit for the last time. Then, as work began, the carpet was removed from the platform up front, and the lectern and pulpit were removed. The death was becoming more real by the day. This week, the pews were carried away, and the sanctuary is bare. The death feels more final than ever before.

Our wise elder reminded us that underneath the joy of our scurrying, remodeling, and exploring, there is also the loss of the old passing away in our congregation. And alongside the joy of new things emerging, the sadness and fear of loss are just as real. We often consider them mutually exclusive, but joy and grief coexist. Sadness isn’t a sign of a problem, it’s a sign of loss. Faithfulness is acknowledging grief, accepting it, and being patiently open to healing.

We all are living with grief at some level, because loss is inevitable. Grief is the flip side of love: if I love something, I feel sadness when I lose it. The more I loved, the more painful the loss. The deeper the connection––to a person, to a community, to a space, to a habit, to a pattern of life––the bigger the hole in my soul, and the more painful the loss. In my experience, our cultural norms usually ask us to deny grief, either by ignoring it altogether (messages like: chin up, don’t let it get you down, push through it; swallowing tears…) or rushing through it (assuming that after something we call ‘closure’ happens, grief is over). We learn to be embarrassed by crying, to apologize for feeling deeply enough that it spills out in tears.

I dream of our community living by different expectations about grief (and other painful emotions!): honesty and acceptance. We practiced a little of it last night, and it was beautiful. Loss was acknowledged and accepted, love was offered in response, and the Divine Presence was incarnate in the hands held and hugs shared.

Ash Wednesday 2013

Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.

To be called ‘dirt’ is a pretty rough insult. It carries connotations of sleaze.  Being dust is dirty, and dirty is shameful, because ‘you should be clean,’ says the voice inside. The little boy who is in trouble because his clothes got dirty becomes the man who feels shame because he’s not perfect. Because he’s dusty and dirty from the journey.

There’s an aspect of repentance to Ash Wednesday that gets wrapped up in that aspect of the ‘dirt’ image. I’ve spent many years avoiding the shame of Ash Wednesday, of confession and repentance––”I’m not dirt! Those other people are, but I’m good. I’m clean.” And then I spent many years relishing it––”I’m dirt. I’m ugly, dirty, messed up.” It was all about shame.

But tonight, as I smeared dirt on the foreheads of my congregation, I experienced those words differently: you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Yes, there’s the scolding side of those words. The loving slap-in-the-face Get over yourself! moment that resets perspective. God putting Job in his place with the speech that begins (Job 38:4-5 in the Message translation),

Where were you when I created the earth? Tell me, since you know so much! Who decided on its size? Certainly you’ll know that! …

It’s the loving scolding of the One who sees me with true clarity and knows my need for an ego reset. It’s the moment in the old movie Airplane when the hysterical passenger is ‘aided’ by the fight attendant’s shoulder-shaking & slap across the face. “Get ahold of yourself!” I’m forced awake from my hysterical messiah complex. I am not the savior of the world. I’m not the savior of my church. I’m not the savior of my family. I’m not the savior of myself. It’s a message that can hurt, but it’s also a message that saves me from my own self-destructive frantic scurrying. It’s Good News.

Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.

There’s another side to these words that’s even better news. As I’m awoken from my own messiah complex, I’m reminded, as was Job, that there is a Messiah. I am dust, and to dust I shall return, but there’s life abundant all around me, and I had nothing to do with its genesis. God is a Creator who makes life like me out of dirt, and my eventual return to the dirt, the ground, the humus, makes me human. And that’s all I’m asked to be. God isn’t telling me I should be figuring everything out. God isn’t demanding that I get it all together. God isn’t calling me to fix my self, my family, or my church. All those demands are coming from me. God is reminding me to be human, to be the dust from which I was made and to which I will return. God is calling me dirt, and it’s a loving reminder that sounds more like It’s okay, I’ve got this. You just be you. Dust. Humus. Human.

I hear loving encouragement tonight: The gracious giver of life who turns dust into me will also turn the dust of my congregation into a vibrant community. The longsuffering God of Job and of Israel and of Peter and of the messed-up Church looks with smiling eyes into mine, grips my shoulders with gentle, firm hands, and reminds me that I am already all that God needs in this partnership. I don’t need to try to do both parts. Just show up and be me. That’s what the dirt smeared on my forehead reminds me.

“I am the Bread of Life…”

Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.  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. (Jn 6:26-27; NRSV)

I am the Bread of Life. The person who aligns with me hungers no more and thirsts no more, ever. (Jn 6:35; Message)

As I ponder the sixth chapter of John, I hear Jesus inviting the crowd and us beyond our me-centered, consumer-minded approach to spiritual life toward the abundant life of seeking to become part of what God is about in the ongoing story of creation and redemption.

After Jesus feeds the huge crowd with just five dinner rolls and a couple of fish, he and the disciples move on during the night. The crowd tracks him down the next day, and he speaks some truth to them: You’re interested in me because of what I give you. But there’s so much more to the spiritual life than being fed.

It’s not a verse I’ve taken notice of before, but it catches my attention today. I see in the mirror that I engage in church life saying, “Feed me!” I see church (and by extension, God) through the lens of what it offers, a lot like I do a store or a plumber or a restaurant. I’ve come to see the spiritual journey as chasing God around with my hands out like Oliver Twist pleading, “Please, sir, can I have some more?” I judge the church (and by extension, God) by how well it meets my needs, how well it matches my preferences, how successfully it makes me comfortable.

In a consumer setting, this is rational. But Jesus is challenging the crowd to see beyond their consumer assumptions about what it’s all about. Sure, he says, I’ll feed you. I’m the ultimate food. But there’s more to it! I like the Message translation of verse 35: the Greek words translated “come to me” and “believe in me” get wrapped together in “align with me.”

This is a different lens from the consumerism lens that’s usually in front of our eyes. Instead of Jesus the market barker trying to get us to buy his bread, I hear Jesus the wilderness guide beckoning, Come with me. Follow me.

It’s not about receiving a product. It’s about aligning myself with something much larger than myself. It’s about offering myself as a cell of yeast in the loaf of God’s ongoing creation. It’s about allowing myself to be folded into the cosmic work of redemption and reconciliation.  Do you want to be fed? asks Jesus. Then become part of me, for I am the Bread of Life.

As we look ahead to the Lenten journey, I feel some fear, some vulnerability, some anxiety that has me wanting to focus on getting fed. Then I hear Jesus reminding me that I will be fed; I am freed from worrying about how I will find food. I am freed from shopping for fulfillment at the lowest price possible. I am freed to align myself with him in his work of redeeming the broken and reconciling the world to himself.

Here’s my prayer: Baker God, give me the courage to trust your provision and shift my focus to being folded into the Bread of Life, that others might be fed through me.