Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life…”
On hearing it, many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?”
(John 6:53, 60)
“This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?” Of course, these were Jews, who had been told since their youth that God forbids you to eat any meat with the blood still in it, for the life of a creature is in the blood. (Genesis 9:4) Surely if you are not to eat the blood of an animal, the prohibition extends to the blood of a man, especially the blood of a man who was a friend; Jesus was all of this, and – they hoped – he was the Messiah. Eat his flesh? Drink his blood? To say, “this is a difficult teaching” understates the matter rather dramatically…
I watched a movie about a Gladiator. It was called “Gladiator.” The hero of the story is a gladiator… (Is there not the possibility that we could make another verse for the song “I just wanna be a sheep” based on the gladiator? You know the rubric: “I don’t wanna be a Pharisee/’Cause they’re not fair-u-see… I just wanna be a sheep.” I charge the noble readers of the casuist with the task of writing a reason why we don’t want to be gladiators. (Also, is anyone else bothered by the fact that we don’t wanna be Saducees because they are sad? I always sing “I don’t wanna be a Saducee, ‘cause they deny the resurrection of the dead,” but it throws the rhythm off so badly...))
Anyway, after the gladiator violently decapitates some poor sod, he calls out to the crowd, “Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is that not why you are here?” And the crowd goes nuts, chanting his name, because that is why they are there. They have come to be entertained; they have come to see a good show, and he has provided it for them.
Every Sunday morning, my alarm goes off, and I wonder why I would bother getting out of bed. I have to tell you, I am used to being entertained, and this ceremony is not entertaining. Am I here to learn? Is this a time to be meet with friends who I would not otherwise see? Am I here to prove my devotion to the relevant church leaders, or to God himself? It doesn’t seem worth it.
We are here this morning to be restored. To imbibe the blood and so take the life of Christ into ourselves; we drink the blood precisely because the life is in the blood. I am here this morning to fill a need that I feel desperately. I am here because I need Jesus’ life; nothing else can liberate me, nothing else can free me from this body of death.
If this feels like an incomplete thot, I suppose it is. There is nothing to tie this together, no snappy line to neatly articulate the theology of the table. It is a reminder of why I came: not to be entertained, not to be taught some new truth, or to see my friends, but to be reminded of the story of sinners ransomed from the fall, and to find my life again, in the only place that it can be found.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
devotional thot 6
I have a close friend who, when he prays, sounds like a Texan. He prays with a strange drawl that I never hear any other time; the first time I heard him pray out loud, I opened my eyes, just to make sure it was really him. He sounded like a hillbilly from Midland. When he meets God, I wonder if God will say, “James, your voice sounds so different in person.”
I have often though of Jesus’ words: “Away from me, I never knew you.” I am so ashamed to have God see me for what I am, I sometimes wonder if when he meets me, it will be like those people who meet over the Internet, and send each other pictures, but never meet in person. I wonder if, when he sees me for the first time, Jesus will say, “You look nothing like I thought you would.”
He didn’t turn them away saying, “You never knew me.” He said, “I never knew you.”
I have this to confess: I find it difficult even to admit the reality of my sinfulness, and the depth of my failings. I am anxious to know God, enamoured with the idea of friendship with the creator of the universe, but much less pleased to allow unencumbered access to the facts of my life. I come this morning to take: to take this bread, and take this cup. But the mystery of communion is that it is essentially reciprocal: I cannot take Christ into me without allowing Christ to take me into himself.
I have often though of Jesus’ words: “Away from me, I never knew you.” I am so ashamed to have God see me for what I am, I sometimes wonder if when he meets me, it will be like those people who meet over the Internet, and send each other pictures, but never meet in person. I wonder if, when he sees me for the first time, Jesus will say, “You look nothing like I thought you would.”
He didn’t turn them away saying, “You never knew me.” He said, “I never knew you.”
I have this to confess: I find it difficult even to admit the reality of my sinfulness, and the depth of my failings. I am anxious to know God, enamoured with the idea of friendship with the creator of the universe, but much less pleased to allow unencumbered access to the facts of my life. I come this morning to take: to take this bread, and take this cup. But the mystery of communion is that it is essentially reciprocal: I cannot take Christ into me without allowing Christ to take me into himself.
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