When You Can't Taste the Bread

When You Can’t Taste the Bread

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus told them. “No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” John 6:35

I think for most people the aroma of baking bread is one of the wonders of scent. Why does something that tastes so yummy also smell so enticing? And, as a staple of life, bread is ubiquitous. Every culture has its breads; flat breads, grilled breads, yeast breads, wheat, rye, oat. Well, you get the idea.

The perfect morning would be to smell both newly brewed coffee and freshly baked bread upon waking. The buttery dough saturates your tongue as the brightly bitter brew washes it down. In most homes, that is enough to get you going for the day.

Smell seems to be connected to memory. In the early 1980s I worked for Laird’s Office Supply and Business Forms. My territory included both San Francisco and the East Bay. I was hired to go to any business that did not have accounts with the firm and cold call, developing new clients.

Once or twice a week I drove across the Bay Bridge from our office in Oakland to San Francisco. If the breeze was just right, at a certain point where the freeway turned north into downtown San Francisco, two aromas met in an atmospheric elixir I’ll never forget. Folger’s Coffee was just to the south and the many sourdough bakeries were northeast. The slightly acrid perfume of roasting coffee beans met the yeasty output of the sourdough ovens. The combination was heaven to the sense of smell.

Jesus had just miraculously fed 5,000 people with a boy’s lunch of loaves and fishes. People were astounded and followed him up and down the coast. He turns to the crowd, telling them they weren’t looking for him because of “signs” but “you ate the loaves and were filled.”

As Jesus often does, he takes something tangible and teaches a spiritual lesson. Bread isn’t really bread as he begins his unusual speech in answer to their inquiries. The crowd knew that God had given the wandering Hebrews manna in the desert and asked Jesus, “So, what sign are you going to perform?”

He first sets them straight. “Moses didn’t give you the bread from heaven, and, my Father gives the true bread from heaven. The bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

“Well give us some of that bread, Jesus, then we’ll never have to eat again!” Was there snickering among the crowd? Maybe.

But Jesus tells them, “I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry, and no one who believes in me will ever be thirsty again.” This is an absolute statement. Jesus doesn’t say “will rarely be hungry”, or “will usually never thirst.” He is positing himself as the full and complete answer to life and human need. It is sad that we have reduced it to one or two propositions.

First, it’s about salvation. “Give your heart to Jesus, you’ll go to heaven, and you’ll never hunger again.” And there is truth behind that. But Jesus is talking about food, something we do every single day of our lives. He is talking about water without which we cannot exist for more than a few days. He is talking about life here and now.

Second, we make it about satisfaction. “Make Jesus your everything. Turn away from the ‘world’s’ bread (fill in anything your church thinks is scary) and fully commit your entire being to Jesus.” The only problem here is that Jesus is offering an invitation to a meal, not a marshal order.

What he is saying is so much richer, so much fuller than either the “heaven when you die” or the “perfect discipleship” picture. Food is life. Water is life. What he is saying is what most of us realize; much of our life can feel very inadequate. Jesus opens up an abundance of life to us through being the very sustenance we need. We do not need to prepare the meal; he is the meal.

I’ve been struggling with this ever since I retired early from ministry this January. I am closing in on 11 years of a never-ending 24/7 headache. It is torture at times. We moved in with my sister in Texas, Patti found a job at a university, and I fill my days with very little of any significance. Without a car at the house during the day and no hangouts or restaurants within walking distance, loneliness and isolation easily take me by the throat.

Add the constant pain, the average of 6 out of 10 pain, the pain that feels like a spear piercing my temples and an iron helmet pressing in on my head, and trying to keep my outlook positive approaches the impossible. I despair of knowing or experiencing Jesus’ presence. Indeed, I have called to him for help over and over, weeping; and here I am. The things I loved to do the best are, for now, out of my reach.

And today I read this passage and I fell into a pit of gloom. “Jesus, if you really are my bread, my sustenance, my satisfaction, then, even in this pain, I should at least be able to rise in spirit and be comforted.” But I am not. I lay quietly, listening to music, stilling my heart, hoping to feel him near. And I do not. I pour out tears on my pillow hoping he will place his hands on me and dry them, but he does not.

And so, I decided to be honest. But, the risk of being honest is that people respond with, “I know what you should do!” Before you write me, let me assure you, I’ve been in evangelical Christianity for 47 years and a Pentecostal for almost that long. I’ve tried and experienced almost everything you could suggest. Recently someone even told me that they “know” what my problem is, and if I just tried crystals, I’d be free! Others suggest I have unforgiveness in my life. Others, sin. Some seem almost more stressed that God hasn’t answered their prayer for my healing instead of simply caring about my well-being. So, with this paragraph done, let me go on.

Imagine an illness where one could not taste or smell food. We’ve already described the delights of both senses. The person would still eat, of course, out of necessity, but the joy of the tasting would be gone. I think, in a way, that is what both the pain and the extremity of my circumstances have done. Jesus is still my bread; but, for now at least, I cannot taste it.

This should help us when dealing with people who are in desperate need. Be present to them. Listen to them. Don’t give them answers. And please don’t tell them about your experience of 20 years ago when God felt “so real to me.” If anything, share a time when God seemed distant to you as well.

The final thought after pondering this all day in the middle of an extremely painful and lonesome day is this: In Jesus’ day, meals were communal. You simply did not drive through the Capernaum McDonald’s on your way to the Sermon on the Mount. If you know someone who is isolated, in chronic pain, economic poverty, deeply depressed or ill, don’t just take them food; have a meal with them. I promise you, that meal, and the blessing that accompanies it, will probably help that person sense the savor of the Bread of Life at least in that moment.

Shortcut

Shortcut

(“Therefore, when Jesus perceived that they would come and take Him to make him a king, He departed again into a mountain by Himself.” John 6:15)

How well have your shortcuts worked
to bring the king down from the mountain to
slay the mongrels that have slobbered all over your
beloved memories, the golden age, the gilded cage
where you hid pretending that you held the key to
bring back the foursquare families only baby

Boomers

Remember.

Your cage is jaded, the statues you’ve erected to
cannons, generals and frightful confederates
stand next to your churches waving the flag
as if god wanted you to sing (OF thee i SING),
off the stinging sun blocked by the stars and stripe forever.

You’ve got to take the long way round,
ride a donkey, ride an ass,
smell the crowd, the peasant class,
watch the sandals worn through the desert’s dust
and the sun bake the faces of those you
thought you could outrun in your glittering limousines.

Who do you want him to overthrow?
What do you want him to enforce?
Your plans? Your course of events?
Did you plan to be left behind?
Did you take the scepter and declare, in the name of

God and

Country

The king was surely on your side?

You want a ruler to enforce your borders while

Christ weeps over the masonry hearts
beautifully mortared just inches outside his hearing.

What No One Else Sees

What No One Else Sees

(“So Hagar named the Lord who spoke to her, ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘Here I have seen one who sees me!’” Genesis 16:13)

It’s another grey dawn and she wonders who
sees her uneventful life.
She’s only a slave, a pawn, someone put upon
by hidden bruises on her arms and brain.

It’s another piercing sunrise and he ponders the
numb outrage that has stunned his best intentions.
He’s only an ant in a hole, undistinguished, anguished
and sometimes wears disguises just to elicit a smile.

It’s another silent morning; though the music swirls
throughout the house,
words from church and worship, how can they feel empty;
but they bring so little to fill this soul; this agony
that so few ever see, hidden even from her sometimes
in the constant tinnitus that is too common.

It’s another isolated morning; though the music meets
him face to ear;
wordless, he’d rather not sing, and still feels empty;
waiting for something so large to heal the composure he
lost along the way. He hides from humans these days,
afraid they will find, see and touch the source of his
daily tears; duly confessed but still a torrent.

It’s another hollow afternoon and she waits for her
children to come home.
Her life, her joy and her frame of reference;
they fill her heart and she fears the day they will leave.
Who sees the tears held back; the words never spoken,
the doubts that make her feel she is worth less than the
perfect people who never speak their pain and never see
the boredom; the weeping fruit of hurts unspoken.

It’s another afternoon of pain and he waits for a simple
word or friend, or anyone who can see how brittle he’s become.
Don’t call him strong just because he writes a few lines when
the daggers are dividing his mind.
Who sees the tears every afternoon? The next-door neighbor,
the friend known forever, anyone who has seen him cringe.
Shouldn’t they know better? Would someone please see better?

Would someone please see what no one else sees and not run away
at the sight of people so out of place, out of time, so out of tears to shed that
by all appearances they are as normal as anyone else who never cries
when the world has left them stranded.

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

(“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never thirst again; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.” John 4:14)

They say water seeks its own level.

The sun swung above us hugging the ragged horizon
as we ascended the narrow trail. It warmed our shoulders
like a shirt just ironed on an autumn day.

We were three as we trod the hardpan and wound our way
between stands of lodgepole pine. The sun followed us,
still kind as midmorning turned to noon.

We ate homemade trail mix, dried fruit and rinds,
enjoyed the pace, the breeze, the river below us
and the climb.

Our music was acoustic, our laughs the lyrics,
the birds our musicians, and our lungs worked full time
to sing and to climb.

What are friends? Travelling trios on an isolated footpath,
sharing the moment the sun takes its toll.

Parched, dry as aged wood fences,
our throats stung for refreshment as we tilted our canteens.

Warm, but clear, the water soothed us for a moment,
seconds of the hour; we were young, we were fine.

But once we stumbled; no, discovered. Once we happed upon
a rivulet meandering across our path and the spring above
which was its source, our tepid drink was forgotten

As we, each in turn, tilted our faces below the icy stream
that sprang from the rocks and wrapped our mouths, our
arms, our torsos, our minds completely around the unexpected offering.

We emptied our canteens there, puddling across the path,
and filled them from the slow trickle that broke through the granite.
We waited without time, the sun aligning with the river below
creating silver dancers where water and air barely kiss. We knew
what all hikers know;

The water is free, abundant, and pure. The spring would continue,
though snow filled the trails, and next year, or the year after that

We could return to find the pristine refreshment, the sacrament, the
grace.

They say water seeks its own level. Older now than young once was,
three hikers scattered across the continent and time
may think, in the same late moment of the day
of water that bore the mixture of earth and divine.

Long After

Long After

(“Most of all, have a true love for each other. Love covers many sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Mostly I hear the printed word in tones full of objections;
a growl, a frown, a scowl, an upside-down offer to set me straight.
Lay aside your weapons and I’ll lay aside my wounds;

It’s fascinating the way the mind
inserts moods into the minuscule scribbles on
the back of a napkin or
the screen of a phone.

Happen upon our long history, friend,
not the two or three minutes that have fueled our silence.

What I would really like, you ask?

I would like to still smell the roses
long after you’ve left the room.

New Life, New Eyes

Jesus replied to him, “Truly, I tell you emphatically, unless a person is born from above he cannot see the kingdom of God.” John 3:3

Nicodemus was a Pharisee. If you are acquainted with Christianity or the New Testament, the term Pharisee may conjure images of hypocritical, demanding and arrogant religious men. And, for many of them, that would be appropriate. But there were some of these religious scholars who went deeper than the veneer of religious practice. Indeed, most of them obeyed so many rules because they wanted to be close to God. But, setting up rules to measure one’s divine acceptance causes two problems.

First, it creates an elitist mentality. If you are able to follow more rules than someone else, you are therefore closer to God. Live by these rules long enough and you will begin to emphasize the ones that are easiest for you to follow, and conveniently forget those you have ignored. You become a judge of all who do not follow your rules so well. You divide people into those who truly want to follow God, and those who are simply lukewarm; all based on your judgment of their response to the rules you emphasize.

Second, if you are a more self-aware Pharisee, it can create self-condemnation and loathing. You also are able to follow quite a number of the rules, but you discover your inner life to be dead. You are unable to follow all the rules well, but since they are the measure of your worth, you judge yourself as weak, uncommitted and lacking in religious zeal. You don’t judge others, you judge yourself, to your detriment. You may seek out someone who can help you solve the aching in your soul.

I think Nicodemus falls into this category. He approaches Jesus one night and starts with a bit of flattery: “Teacher, we know that you have come from God. No one could perform the miracles you do unless God was with him.” (John 3:2) Maybe it is not entirely flattery; I think Nicodemus is voicing what he has mused in his heart. “This Jesus intrigues me. The miracles are real. He speaks with authority. But he is so unlike what I imagine a religious leader to be.”

Much is made of Nicodemus approaching Jesus at night. Sure, maybe he didn’t want his fellow righteous dudes to know he was there. But let’s give Nic a break; he’s the only one who actually asked Jesus for a hearing. And, unlike the later attempts of others to trap Jesus with their questions, Nicodemus appears to sincerely desire answers.

Even though Jesus deflects the flattery, it seems he observes at least some sincerity in Nicodemus’ approach. Jesus says, “Truly, I tell you emphatically, unless a person is born from above he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

Nicodemus is taken aback, hearing Jesus quite literally. He wonders, “How can a person be born when he is old? He can’t go back into his mother’s womb a second time and be born, can he?” (Side note, his mother would be “older” than he was.)

Though it sounds mysterious, and it certainly took Nicodemus aback, I think Jesus’ answer is fairly simple. The Kingdom of God is spiritual in nature. Not “spiritual” as opposed to “natural” because all of creation is God’s world. But spiritual as above natural. The Kingdom of God exists invisibly above (in the sense of ruling over) the natural realm or the regimes of this earth. Just as we “see” the earthly regimes with physical eyes, we must have spiritual perception to see the Kingdom of God.

Just as we are born by physical parents and experience physical reality, we need a new and different kind of birth to recognize God’s kingdom. This verse has little to do with "going to heaven after I die." It is so much more than that. Unfortunately, the phrase "born-again Christian" has reduced it to an elitist saying which divides one kind of Christian from another.

Jesus was expressing a simple truth about how we experience the Rule of God in this world. We do indeed need a "rebirth" to experience this. But Jesus makes clear that He came in love so that whoever believes in Him should have "eternal life". (Just 13 verse later.) God's kingdom is full of reborn folks who have believed and trusted in Jesus. Don't narrow that down to a certain kind of "sinner's prayer" or "coming to an altar". Indeed, Jesus doesn’t even offer to pray with Nicodemus to be “born again.”

I have seen this beautiful transition from an earthly view to heavenly transform and enlighten many people’s lives. But I have also seen it turn into another set of rules. We may begin joyfully, expecting to walk in love and compassion (the hallmarks of God’s kingdom), but eventually we start adding our rules. You must be against all abortions, and you must call every abortion “murder”. If you are a baker, you must not make wedding cakes for gay marriages. You must never work on Sundays. You must vote Republican and must hate Democrats. (I’ve heard lifelong “born again” Christians say out loud, “I hate Nancy Pelosi”, the current Speaker of the House. I’ve heard “born again” preachers declare Obama was the Anti-Christ.)

I used to be among those who thought my “born again” status meant I had to identify with the “far right”. No longer. Having read the Bible independently now for over 40 years, I see Jesus emphasizing “the least of these” as he names the marginalized people among His time. I hear God calling over and over again for His people to love mercy, to practice compassion, to demand justice for the poor, the widow, the immigrant and foreigner.

In other words, I have begun to see God’s Kingdom as far more inclusive than I once thought and was taught. It is simply trusting Jesus that enables me to be “born from above”. And the way I keep growing in the life is to keep trusting Him, knowing Him. Sometimes knowing Him aligns me with my old tribe, but quite often as I see His kingdom, much of very conservative Christianity looks more like Nicodemus’ peers than Jesus.

I have a lot of growing to do, so I pray the Spirit will continue to enliven within me that which is truly spirit, that which is truly the Kingdom of God.

There is transformation, enlightenment, change of view when we experience a new birth. It changes everything. And, please remember, Jesus wasn't talking to a lowdown sinner when he said this; he was talking to a big-time religious leader!

Pay to Enter

Pay to Enter

(“And he ordered those who sold the pigeons, ‘Take them out of here! Stop making my Father's house a marketplace!’” John 2:16)

Pay to enter; the school, the church.
Pay to play; the immigrant, the poor.
How much money can you make,
What are your assets to insure your entrance?

Who retouched the photos of God with their own portraits?
Who erected the fence around the altar?
Who sold access to the highest bidder?
Who bartered the sun and the rain?

When did you ever receive a bill for your breath,
a charge for the breeze? When deposit did you pay
to see the dawn, what fee to enjoy the grass between your toes?

And now you auction the Painter’s works that you enjoy for free?
You save your glitter for the best of these and
ration your mud to the least.
You do as you please while the Artist opens the studio windows wide,
the cross-breeze brushing each cheek extravagantly.

Play upon the good earth; the rose, the dandelion.
Enter without pay; the festival, the fire.
How much money would it take
to buy the love that covers the world with
its own resemblance.

Paint on my eyeballs Your perfect image;
deeper than the canvas, higher than the circle of this earth,
broader than borders. Script upon my ears
the song that banishes walls, that is purer
and more fearsome than repeated phrases
shouted at rallies to keep the rabble away.

I will not raffle the Handiwork of the Beloved.

To Go Home

To Go Home

(“This is he of whom I said, after me comes a man who went before me, because he was before me.” John 1:30)

So you saw him eye-to-eye
and jumped in the womb when his
mother came calling.

You saw the spirit land
like a dove on his shoulder
and heard a voice announce his call.

You baptized him,
and wondered,
wishing it was his hand upon your head
that lay beneath the waters.

So you touched him skin-to-skin
and did resist his righteous request.
You leveled the earth before the lamb,
the world’s sin-eraser,
and got yourself in trouble with
politicians and kings.

Me, I feel stranded here,
moored upon earth in a square-foot perimeter.
Me, I’ve landed here without seeing,
without touching,
without knowing a heartbeat within my own,
an uncancelled thought, a ghost of a holy touch
on my wrinkled brow.

I write from emptiness, a well dry as crust,
a heart of tears so salty they are dust upon my cheeks.

I cry out, I appease to empty space above and within.

You saw him eye-to-eye,

Me, I’m just waiting to go home.

A Single Honest Sentence

A Single Honest Sentence

(“And he said to me: ‘This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel, saying: Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit, says the Lord of Hosts.” Zechariah 4:6)

The rooms were dusty July, places where camp-meetings echoed past the hills.
The children came, like summers do, sent for a week to seek
for God and friends and girls and boys. Children,
with minds so plastic even the heat could change their opinions.

Preteens with whirling energy that turned the forest into a cross-country race,
and the basketball court into dodge ball. Debates flared on the putt-putt course
over water hazards left there by the rain. The oldest got to hit their balls again.

Mornings were slow. Lunch was just the fuel stop for an afternoon of
crab races, water balloon bazookas with multi-colored projectiles threatening
from every direction. The lucky ones were drenched early and sent back to their
cabins to change. The grass grew best where weeks of water bombs watered the field.

Preteen boys who insisted they did not sweat were handed deodorant sticks for free.
Puberty stinks and adults cannot forget old sweat and new bacteria.

But nighttime was the purpose, the focus, the target. After supper, near 6:30,
300 children crowded into the wooden tabernacle without air conditioning,
without insulation. An ancient shell with rafters swooping to the sky the color
of dried fences on the farm.

Rock music was piped in, the children shuffled from one row to the next.
Counselors sought vainly for the one camper missing from their group.
Each night was planned for maximum effect, to bring decisions.

Decision.

And some decided; to be nicer at home, to not talk back, to do their homework
more often: all summed up in giving their life to Christ. And sincere as children
are, they bought the line (which is just fine) and many trace the joy, the grace,
to one of these times.

The final night was full of expectation. It was Holy Ghost night. If you are
pentecostal, you say it all as one word: “holyghost”.

It is true the Spirit of the Living God will dwell in us, will speak to us, will entreat us
too. But the Spirit rarely bowls us over or transforms a boy who has 15 people
shouting in his ear.

I was there and loved the sweet aroma of children discovering God’s Spirit
like butterflies finding nectar. But the perfume was mixed with the latest
spirit-will-make-you-do-it fads.

And 30 years later I have to explain to some who felt defrauded, deceived and
prodded, that I’m sorry. I was a product of the times. Today I know the Spirit
so differently. And so today I quietly listen to a child speak, and know

There is more power in a single honest sentence from a twelve-year-old
than all the shouting in temples and tabernacles around the world.

Crumbs Become

Crumbs Become

(“The two then explained to them what had happened on the road, and how they had recognized the Lord when he broke the bread.” Luke 24:35)

The crust shines amber, simple, steaming, sensual;
the bread once grains, once wheat, once seeds, once wheat again,
awaits the gathered few who have talked the whole road trip long.

The conversations are doubt and wonder,
and long pauses where only the breeze spoke and
opened their hearts.

Sometimes traveling is holy, sometimes it is pilgrimage,
sometimes it is communion, and sometimes it starts as
grief and ends with astonishment. And other times it is
merely the morning commute.

But, recognize it or not, the spaces between us are occupied
by the God who suffers and lives among us. Walking beside
us, stopping between us, days after we thought he was gone
for good.

For our good he suffers, for our hope he slays the monster of death
by his own forbidden way; dying to win. Within the tectonic plates
below our feet and the pulsars exploding above us, outside our perceptions
but closer than the pores on our faces, earth is tied to heaven
in the breaking of the bread.

The day ends slowly, dusk is golden, acquaintances become friends
and extend the invitation to share a meal before separating.
Then the stranger takes the bread like the host of the house,
the weight of dough kneaded by daily labor rests in his hands.
The sun, the earth, the seed, the grain, the ox, the millstone,
the fire and the baker have all conspired to meet at this small table;
an altar in the world.

Breaking it; the aroma fills the room. All is bread once the bread is broken;
salivating, the mouth prepares for ordinary provision.
Blessing it; the necessary response of earth-dwellers who
depend upon heaven.

And in the breaking, the blessing, benediction; in the simple meal
on the earth so full of soil and mud,
we see Christ, our eyes are opened, and crumbs become a
cathedral for those who have seen.

Words to Melody

Words to Melody

(“The Lord your God is in your midst—a warrior bringing victory. He will create calm with his love; he will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17)

Sing me the lyrics I cannot remember. Sing me the song in the trees.
I need a lullaby, wind and violins to open the heavy coal mine that
occupies my soul.

The weight of the atmosphere keeps the leaves from whistling,
my heart from joining words to melody,
The weight of the atmosphere only reminds me of
what I cannot recall, what refuses to be resolved.

Sing me to life with wordless breath. The soundtrack of pain
is set so high the butterflies rise upon its updraft and escape across
the backyard fence. All I want is calm and rest,

And yet the silence infests me with neurons that buzz like
high voltage lines. My mind is crushed, the cranium shrunk by
abbreviated muscles and nerves. On the verge of leaving every
question behind, the pressure surges; a sound dull and slower than
my heartbeat; louder than the noonday sun.

Sing me to hope with your hands and face. Sing me to hope,
sit beside me in grace. Sing me to hope, cry with me. Sing me
to hope and remember our childhood joy and wonder.

All I remember are images, pixels scattered like jigsaw puzzles.
Sing me the words that patch the cracks, that take me into
magical forests, blue jay fun, dolphin joy and a sun that
revives-not-scorches.

Sing me the words on covered front porches where friends from
forever, renewed and amended, will remind me of the lyrics
that abandoned me here.