Full of It

John 6:30-51

February 28, 2021 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Ever have one of those late-night cravings that you just can’t satisfy? Not even with a Snickers? For me, “late night” is about 9:00 p.m. Many nights, I’ll wander into the kitchen, wanting something to eat but not sure what. I’ll open the refrigerator, then close it. Open the cabinet, close it. Open the pantry, and then close it. I’m not even sure what I want…just something. There are also a lot of evenings when I want to cook something for dinner, but I have no idea what. So I’ll ask the family, “What do you want to eat?” The most popular response is…you guessed it: “I don’t know.” And so it goes. Satisfaction eludes us, and not only when it comes to food. We often will have these cravings for something to make life better, and most of the time we have no idea what that “something” would be.

We think more money will satisfy us, yet when the richest man in American history, John D. Rockefeller (whose fortune in 2021 dollars would be worth $340 billion), was asked how much money he thought he would need to be satisfied, he said, “Just a little bit more” (Fuquay, The God We Can Know, pg. 26). We’ve all felt that way sometimes, haven’t we, especially in those times when there is too much month at the end of our money? But if wealth could truly satisfy, people like Rockefeller (or in today’s world, Jeff Bezos or Bill Gates) would surely be satisfied with what they have. But having money does not equal satisfaction.

So what about power? If I could just be powerful…and yet, history says otherwise. Alexander the Great conquered the known world in his day, and once he had done so, he wept in his tent because, he said, “There are no more worlds to conquer.” Napoleon died a lonely, horrible death on the island where he had been exiled. Power is never a form of satisfaction because, like money, there’s never enough and it never lasts.

Well, maybe entertainment is the thing we’re seeking. And if that’s it, we ought to be the most satisfied generation in history. We live in a world that, when I was a kid, was unimaginable. I grew up with three television stations, and you had to watch whatever they decided to broadcast. Kids, this was in the dark ages, before VCRs, DVRs or any sort of video choice. Now, we can watch virtually any show anywhere anytime—as long as you’re signed up for the latest streaming service. You can get any song, any movie, any television program, and unlike the old days, when you had to wait a week for the next episode of your favorite show, now we can “binge watch” a whole season in one sitting. We can have what we want when we want. And still we’re not satisfied. As soon as one thing is over, I see the Facebook posts: “Can someone tell me what to watch next”? We have it all and still we’re not satisfied.

Well, what about stuff? The advertisers tell us we need more stuff; stuff will make us happy. The advertiser’s job is to constantly make us feel discontent. The MacBook I wrote this sermon on is almost six years old, and I’m constantly getting emails telling me I should upgrade, that I need a new M1 MacBook. I can even make monthly payments with no interest, they tell me! The message is pretty clear and ever-present: you need more stuff, up-to-date stuff, better stuff. Every time we have moved, I have realized again how much stuff we already have. Too much, and I don’t think we live a lavish lifestyle. It’s just so easy to accumulate stuff. We took time when we moved here to really sort through the things we have, and we gave a lot away, but we still have too much. The first time I really remember realizing how easy it is to accumulate stuff is when my Aunt Helen died, and since she had no children, it fell to my family to handle the disposition of her possessions. My brother and I helped sort all of Aunt Helen’s lifetime of stuff and after that, we told our parents that when they are gone, we’re selling the house as is, stuff and all. They’ve lived there over fifty years; they have a lot of stuff. We’ve only lived here almost six years, and we have a lot of stuff, stuff that breaks and fails and does not—can not—bring satisfaction.

And yet—with all these things and more that promise meaning and satisfaction in life, we are more dissatisfied than ever. The pandemic not only ignited a national discussion about who and what jobs are essential, it also began to cause us to think about what we really need. And the pandemic also brought to the forefront our deep loneliness. We’ve seen an increase in what have been called “deaths from despair”—people taking their own lives because not only do their things not bring satisfaction, they feel alone. There’s no one who can help. In the most recent data available, suicide is the tenth leading cause of death in the United States but—get this—the second leading cause of death for people ages 10-14. And that data comes from before the pandemic; we know in the last year, the need for mental health services has increased exponentially, and most states report that mental health hotlines are seeing numbers they have never experienced. We are people who have so much and yet have so little. Something has gone wrong; we’ve looked for satisfaction in all the wrong places and we’ve come up empty. Is there any hope? Can we find contentment?

During Lent this year, we are taking a look at the “I am” statements of Jesus as recorded in the Gospel of John. Last week, we remembered why God chose to reveal himself as “I Am,” and how his name tells us he is constantly with us. And we also talked about how Jesus claimed that name for himself, telling the religious leaders, “Before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58). But a couple of chapters before that, as John tells Jesus’ story, Jesus was making claims about his identity through his actions. At the beginning of the chapter we read this morning, Jesus had crossed the Sea of Galilee, trying to escape the crowds that were gathering around. But people wanted to hear him teach so they follow him. He’s on a boat, crossing the sea, and they’re running along the shore, watching for where the boat is going to land. Jesus does get there first, and since he went there to spend some time with his disciples, I would expect him to send the crowd away. But he doesn’t do that. (Just one more way Jesus is better than me.) Rather than sending them away, he teaches them and feeds them. The Gospels all tell us there were 5,000 men present (6:10), which means if you factor in women and children, we may be talking more like 15,000 or even 20,000 people. And Jesus feeds them. All of them. He takes a little boy’s lunch—two small fish and five small barley loaves (food of the poor)—and he multiples it so that everyone has enough. There’s even twelve lunch pails full of leftovers—one for the each of the disciples to take home (Card, John: The Gospel of Wisdom, pg. 86).

So, night comes, the people fall asleep there, and Jesus ditches them under cover of dark. This is when he walks on the water, and the next morning, the crowd notices he’s gone back to the other side of the lake, so back around the lake they go. I love the scene where Jesus calls them out: “You’re just following me because you want more food. You like the show, the miracles. That’s the only reason you’re literally chasing me around the lake” (cf. 6:26-27). It’s not Jesus they want; it’s the signs. In fact, in verse 30, they even ask him for some sort of sign to help them believe in him. Have they already forgotten what happened just the day before? He filled their stomachs with fish and bread, as much as they needed until they were satisfied. Less then twenty-four hours ago, they were full of bread that came from a little boy’s lunch pail, and now they’re asking for another sign to help them believe (cf. Tenney, “The Gospel of John,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 9, pg. 74). We shake our heads at them—and yet we do the same thing. God works in a mighty way or an unusual way in our lives, and we celebrate that, and then not too long after, we’re asking God to do something else, prove himself in another way. It’s especially easy, at least for me, to do that when something bad happens. I know you’ve worked before, God, but this time things didn’t go my way. So, obviously, God, you must have stumbled. You must have failed. Give me more bread, God. Prove yourself to me again.

“What will you do?” they ask Jesus (6:30). And in response there’s this strange conversation about bread. Jesus has told them they ought to work for bread that does not spoil and he describes it as bread that came down from heaven. So they ask him to give them this bread always. Isn’t it interesting—Jesus encourages them to “work” for the bread—and by “work” he means believing in God (6:29)—and they ask him to give it to them? They want to have it without any effort—without any change—on their part, but Jesus wants them to do something: believe. Then the conversation takes an even stranger turn. It’s no longer about bread, physical bread. It’s suddenly about Jesus when he says, “I am the bread of life” (6:35). In fact, he says that three different times in this chapter. First in verse 35, then in verse 41, he says, “I am the bread that came down from heaven.” And then, finally, in verse 51, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven.” “I am the bread of life.” What a strange statement—not just for us to hear, but even for those who were there in the crowd on that day.

For most of the people in the crowd, all this talk about bread would make them think about Moses and manna, that ancient story from Exodus 16. The people had barely left Egypt, where it’s dry and hot and…well, that’s about it. Dry and hot. I can tell you from personal experience that there is very little in the Sinai desert. When we went from Sinai to Cairo, we had long stretches of time between places where we could get food or stop and stretch. In Moses’ day, there would have been less than nothing. No convenience stores, no oases. Just sand, as far as you could see. So we might understand why the people get a little cranky, and begin to remember Egypt. You know, slavery wasn’t so bad; at least there was food. “There,” they say, “we had pots of meat and all the food we wanted. Sure we were slaves, but at least our bellies were full!” (cf. Exodus 16:3). Pretty soon, a “Back to Egypt” committee was formed, demanding food. So Moses goes to God asking for help, and God says, “All right, I’ll send down bread from heaven” (Exodus 16:4). And every day after that, there was bread on the ground for the people to gather and eat. That continued until the day they entered the promised land (cf. Joshua 5:12). Manna was God’s provision, God’s banquet table. God gave them what they needed to survive the desert.

The word “manna” is very interesting. Some commentators say it can be translated as “What is it?” But, really, in Hebrew the little “ma” is a question mark, and the “na” is an exclamation point. So the literal translation is question mark, exclamation point. It’s not even a word. It couldn’t be explained, and ultimately it could not sustain the people. I mean, it did, for forty years, but as Jesus said, “Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, yet they died” (6:49). Manna was only for the short term.

Jesus is offering himself as bread that would last. Except he’s not talking about literal bread, of course. He says it this way: “This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world” (6:51). He goes on to say that “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” (6:53). That sounds pretty gross. It sounds like cannibalism, and there were those around the early church who accused them of that. Caecilius the Pagan put it this way in the late second century: “You Christians are the worst breed ever to affect the world. You deserve every punishment you can get! Nobody likes you. It would be better if you and your Jesus had never been born. We hear that you are all cannibals—you eat the flesh of your children in your sacred meetings” (http://goo.gl/8F7qPe). And not just the pagans would have been repulsed by Jesus’ language. For the Jews, drinking blood was absolutely forbidden (Wright, John for Everyone, Part One, pg. 85). The whole kosher system made sure that no blood remained in the animal before it was eaten. Talking about eating flesh and drinking blood would have been repulsive to most everyone listening that day—as it would be today. Bread, cannibalism—just about everyone in the synagogue that day would be scratching their heads and hoping he means something else. In fact, in verse 60, his own disciples say, “This is a hard teaching.” That’s an understatement! “Who can accept it?” they ask (6:60).

So what is Jesus talking about? Well, first of all, think about what bread means. Bread is universal; it’s called “the staff of life” because it’s so central to most of our eating experiences. I’ve been in several countries around the world, and in every place, there is bread. It may look different—sometimes it’s flat like a tortilla or a pita and sometimes it’s round or oblong or braided. It may taste different—like pumpernickel or rye or french or matzoh. But it’s bread, and it’s a very basic part of life today just as much as it was in Jesus’ day. I think that’s one reason he used this imagery for himself. He is basic to life, and his presence sustains us, sustains life. When he calls himself “the bread of life,” he’s calling us to fill up on him, to be full of him. While the people are wanting more handouts, more bread, he offers them something that will last much longer. When the people want signs or stuff, Jesus offers them his presence. Jesus offers us himself.

Then there’s all that talk about eating his body and drinking his blood. If we’ve been in the church for any length of time, we’re somewhat used to that sort of language. It makes us think of the eucharist, or communion. John doesn’t tell us the story of the Last Supper specifically but there is communion imagery all throughout his book and it’s very prominent in this chapter. Jesus says, literally, unless you “munch” on his flesh and drink his blood, you have no life in you (cf. Wright 86). Real life only comes as we fill up with Jesus, for he is the only one who can satisfy us, who can meet our deepest needs. The great dissatisfaction we see all around comes from the sense inside us that there is more to this life than what we see. C. S. Lewis talked about how, even as an atheist, he knew there had to be something more. He put it this way: “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

And so in communion, we take the bread and we take the cup and we ingest them. That’s not meant to be just a ritual; it’s a symbol of receiving Jesus into our lives, of becoming one with him. There’s nothing magical about it, but it is a reminder that when we receive him as the bread of life we are embracing what Paul called “the life that is truly life” (cf. 1 Timothy 6:19). Any other “life” is not life at all. It’s only a sham. Jesus came that we might have life abundant (cf. John 10:10); he is the only way to true satisfaction.

So how do we get there? How do we allow Jesus to be our source of satisfaction? Well, in a faith in which the least are the greatest (cf. Matthew 5:19) and death leads to life (cf. John 12:25), it shouldn’t surprise us that the path to fullness and satisfaction is to become empty. Lent has traditionally been a time when Christians practiced self-denial, often through fasting. Fasting has fallen on hard times in a culture where we believe we’re entitled to anything at any time. Why should I deny myself anything? I deserve everything! Could that be at least part of why we have so many physical, emotional and spiritual health problems? I’m not a doctor; I’m just guessing. But I’ve got a friend who has engaged in intermittent fasting and has found increased health and energy. What might learning to do without do to our health and our spirits? Besides, Jesus assumed we would be people who fast. In his Sermon on the Mount, he talks about “when you fast,” not “if you fast” (cf. Matthew 6:16-18). Now, typically, fasting has been understood as going without food. The early Methodists lived this practice. It was John Wesley’s habit to fast after dinner on Thursday until high tea on Friday afternoon (because if you’re British, you don’t skip tea). This followed an earlier tradition of fasting on the day Jesus died as a way of identifying with his suffering.

But I don’t believe fasting has to be only food, partly because today there are so many things that distract us, so many things that can have “unhealthy control” over our lives (cf. Fuquay 32). I’ll give you an example from my own life. Early morning is my time to read my Bible and do my devotions and over the last several years I’ve taken to reading the Bible on my iPad. It’s quick and easy to navigate between books, and I am often reading in different parts of the Scriptures. But if I’m not careful, it’s easy to get distracted. That little ping means I just got an email, so I’ll exit from the Bible app to read the email. That email has a link in it I need to click, and that makes me think of something else I need to check on, and before I know it, I’m scrolling social media when I should be reading my Bible. So I go back to the Bible app and the process starts over. And that’s just a small example. Distractions are everywhere. There are all these things that fill up our time, that take over our lives. Fasting is saying “no” to those things, even good and useful things, so that we can say yes to God. Pastor Rob Fuquay puts it this way: “If you wonder what would be your most beneficial fast, just ask yourself what is hardest to go without” (32). When we fast from that which controls us, we make room for Jesus to fill us up.

The other practice, if you can call it that, is contentment. A couple of generations ago, it was predicted that all of the so-called timesaving and labor-saving devices that were being invented would lead to less work, less stress and more contentment. Instead, we have become more driven, more stressed and less content than ever before. Have we forgotten that contentment is actually commanded in the Bible? Hebrews 13:5 says, “Be content with what you have.” And Paul reminds us, “Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that” (1 Timothy 6:6-8). Elsewhere, Paul wrote, “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” And then comes the famous verse we usually yank out of context: “I can do all this through him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:12-13). Paul is convinced that, if he is full of Jesus, he has everything he needs and he will have the strength to get through whatever comes. Contentment gives us strength, spiritual strength.

Contentment is not denying our feelings of unhappiness; rather, it is refusing to be controlled by those feelings. It isn’t pretending things are all right when they aren’t; it’s recognizing that God is bigger than any challenge we face. It isn’t a feeling that comes when we get everything we think we want; it’s knowing that whatever we have is, as Pastor Rick often says, “rust and dust,” and our only treasure, the only one we need forever, is Jesus himself (cf. Swenson, Margin).

There is no one formula or set of steps we can go through to find contentment. The path to contentment comes through obedience to Jesus. God didn’t say, “You’ll be content if you have this or that.” He said, “Be content.” Part of achieving that is to get rid of the “if only” mindset. How many marriages end because a spouse says, “If only he or she were this or that”? “If only we made more money.” “If only…” Dr. Richard Swenson says the grass is only greener elsewhere because the Devil has spray painted it that way. Stop buying the lie that feelings are what matter; stop looking for contentment elsewhere. Develop counter-habits. “Instead of getting, try giving. Instead of replacing, try preserving. Instead of feeling covetous, try feeling grateful.” “There are two ways to get enough,” wrote G. K. Chesterton. “One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.” God has told us he will supply all our needs—not all our wants, but all our needs (cf. Philippians 4:19). Can we trust that he will be faithful to his word (Swenson, Margin, chapter 11, “Health Through Contentment”)?

There are lots of voices trying to make us discontent. They tell us we’re not good enough and we’ll never be good enough. But when we listen to the still small voice, the one who is the bread of life, he will sustain us. Sometimes, Jesus even speaks through the most unlikely folks…like this.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.” He is the only one who can, ultimately, satisfy us. Our hopes, our fears, our longings, our joys, our sorrows—all of them find their satisfaction in him. What do you need to do to find your satisfaction in Jesus rather than in stuff or things or money or pleasure? What practice do you need to begin in order to fill yourself up with Jesus? Let’s take a few moments in silence this morning as we go to prayer and ask Jesus to make us discontent with the world and more content in him. Let’s pray.