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Sunday August 20, 2006 - Proper 15, Year B

This week
I read the latest mystery story
by Lindsey Davis.
Her novels are set in first century Rome, with forays out into Britain, Europe, the Middle East and North Africa; the hero, if you can call him that, is Marcus Didius Falco, an informer, or, as we would describe him today, a private investigator in the pay of the emperor.

This latest book
is set mostly in Greece, as Falco heads off to find out
why two young women
on tourist trips to the great athletic sites
have been murdered.

And along the way, we hear
the about the various religious rituals
at the time,
the sacrifices and offerings and ordeals.
And we hear
a number of the myths
of Ancient Greece.
And a theme that keeps recurring
is that of cannibalism.
Time and time again in the myths,
a key means of revenge
is to kill the children of your enemies,
then invite the enemies to dinner
and serve them up a stew
made of their children.

It's disgusting. Not exactly what you expect to think about
at church.

But back in the first and second centuries
when people had grown up on these sort of myths,
it's no wonder
that when they first heard about this new religion called Christianity
and the habit of these Christians
of gathering together each week
to participate in a feast , a feast where they ate and drank while they recited their founder's words, "This is my body, this is my blood,"
no wonder
that when they heard this
their minds immediately made a connection with their own myths and religious practices
and assumed
that the Christians
were cannibals.

Of course, it was fairly easy to prove
that this wasn't true.
The second century writer, Athenagoras, pointed out
that you can't eat human flesh
until you have killed someone.
And no one had accused the Christians of murder.

But when you read things like today's gospel
you understand how people might have been confused.
You remember what happened. Jesus fed the five thousand
with five bread rolls and two fish;
then he escaped for some peace and quiet with his disciples.
But the crowds followed them,
hoping, no doubt, for another free meal;
instead what they got
was Jesus
talking about bread from heaven.
It sounded great, bread from heaven
like the manna
that appeared almost magically each day for the people of Israel
to eat
as they wandered in the desert during their escape from Egypt.
But then what Jesus said
began to get a little strange.
He started talking about it
as if the bread from heaven
was somehow
he himself,
and that if people would only eat his flesh and drink his blood
then they would have
eternal life.

I think that if I'd been there that day
I would have turned around
and got as far away from him as I could.
Because it looks a whole lot
like cannibalism.

But of course
we live 2000 years later,
and we're used to reading these words
as if Jesus is talking about the Eucharist.
We all know the story
about the night before Jesus died, the night he was betrayed,
when he took bread, blessed it,
broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying,
"Take, eat:
This is my body,
which is given for you.
Do this
for the remembrance of me."
And he took wine, gave thanks, and passed it among them, saying,
"Drink this,
all of you:
This is my blood of the new Covenant,
which is shed for you and for many
for the forgiveness of sins.
Whenever you drink it,
do this
for the remembrance of me."
To us
the words sound perfectly normal:
we don't imagine
that Jesus is telling his followers
to take up being cannibals.
When we eat the bread
and drink the wine
we understand that somehow Christ is present in them,
but exactly how
is something that is beyond our understanding. For centuries, Christians have debated
how it is
that the bread and wine are Christ's body and blood.
Some have based their arguments on Platonic philosophy, and suggested that while the bread and wine retain their outward form,
when they are consecrated, they get a new inward form, of the body and blood of Christ. We call that
transubstantiation.
Some people say
that the bread and wine
stay bread and wine
but in and through them
we receive the body and blood of Christ.
We call that consubstantiation.
Other people think
that the bread and wine are just bread and wine
but when we eat and drink them
as Christ told us to,
Christ is uniquely present.

Don't worry, there isn't an exam on this.

What matters
is not whether we agree with transubstantiation, consubstantion, or anything else,
what matters
is that when we eat and drink
the bread and wine,
we receive Christ.
Christ is present. Christ is here, and in the language of our gospel reading today,
we abide in Christ, and he in us.

Sometimes people ask me
why it is
that we invite all baptized people
to receive the Eucharist
even those who are babies
and too young
to really understand
what it's all about.

There are two reasons.
One
is that once you're baptized,
you're a full member
of the church.
And it makes no sense to say
we recognize that you're a member
but you can't participate in this special meal that we share together.

But the other, probably more important,
is based on Jesus' words in our reading today.
Because what he says
is that if you eat his flesh and drink his blood,
in other words, as we understand it,
if you receive the bread and wine
you will have
eternal life.
In other words,
God's grace comes
with no prerequisites.
We don't have to pass an exam
or prove we are worthy;
all we have to do
is to put out our hands
and receive Jesus Christ.

And baptism works the same way.
We baptize children
because we believe
that God's grace comes
with no prerequisites.
They don't have to pass an exam
or prove they are worthy;
they just come to the water
and receive the blessing
of God
and the welcome
of the people of God.

Of course, though, there's the other side of it.
Because faith does matter.
Bread and wine, a sprinkle of water
and a few special words by the priest.
It isn't magic.
The way the church understands it
is that God offers us grace,
but God expects us to respond.
Being Christian
costs nothing up front.
But because being a Christian
means abiding in Christ
and having Christ abide in us — or to put it more plainly,
living with Christ
and Christ living with us —
then we almost can't help
but be changed.
We almost can't help
but live differently.
But you'll note that I said
"almost."
God could, Christ could
force himself on us.
But Christ doesn't, God doesn't.
God offers us grace
and leaves it up to us
if we want to respond.
It's our choice.

So it's both/and.
Eternal life comes free, a gift. All we have to do
is reach for water, reach for bread and wine.
And
eternal life
comes through faith. Through that sometimes certain
and oftentimes doubting,
sometimes strong
and oftentimes tentative
believing
that Jesus Christ
is our savior.

Reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
And welcome Christ
to live in you.

Sermon ©Raewynne J. Whiteley 2006