But as for me… Lord, to whom can we go?

A sermon on John 6:56-69 and Joshua 24:1-2a, 14-18.

[for an audio recording of this sermon, click here. Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash.]

I had very visceral reaction when I first reviewed the lectionary readings for this week, but it was not the one described for some of Jesus’ disciples who find his teaching “difficult.”

That’s not to say that I do not understand why people might get a bit squeamish about the teaching that in order to abide with Jesus they needed to “eat his flesh and drink his blood.”

Even with a lifetime of experience with the Communion table, years of theological training about the meaning of the sacrament, and 8 years of weekly proclaiming that the bread is Christ’s body and the cup is his blood, Jesus’s words here still feel uncomfortable in my mouth.

It sounds like cannibalism, and… eww.

But it was actually today’s first reading that had me experiencing an involuntary tensing in my shoulders and a clenching in my gut… because of my memories around one particular phrase:

“But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

That might be surprising because this is a fairly popular verse.

Type the phrase into Etsy and you will find any variety of customizable wall hangings, welcome mats, and even a stained glass art piece.

And it’s easy to understand why. There is a simplicity and security in this expression of faithfulness.

And in the context of the larger story, we can understand where the statement is coming from.

Joshua has been tasked with leading his people through challenging circumstances that require a lot of trust in God, but the people are coping with their stress by picking and choosing from the host of religious systems they have been exposed to.

So, Joshua calls them to make a choice and says, in essence, it’s up to you. I know I can’t control the choices you make, but here they are, and – for what it’s worth – my choice is the God who has been faithful to us.

In some ways this story is #leadershipgoals: Joshua communicates clearly, sets his boundaries, and gives the work back to the people to take responsibility for their decision. That’s all great.

But when the given phrase gets taken out of that context, it can become something else, and I have some personal associations that shift its meaning for me.

Because my dad, sort of, claimed this verse as his own…

and much as I love my dad and have missed him all of the 28 years he has been gone, he wasn’t perfect.

And some of those imperfections are encapsulated in the way he proudly laid claim to this statement.

Like the casual patriarchal assumptions about “the head of the house” making decisions for the whole household for things as powerful and personal as faith.

Don’t get me wrong… I wanted to choose God, desperately. But I didn’t want to be invisible in the process… just a part of the larger “household” who was already spoken for.  

And I needed to be able to ask my own questions and let them lead me into my own relationship with God that was not controlled by what “the men in power” thought faith should look like.

Plus, beyond the aftertaste of disempowerment, there was the way Dad would say the words: As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

It was almost confrontational… like he wanted someone to pick a fight with him over his stance, so that he could demonstrate his faithfulness with his aggression.

He was sending a clear message about who he was: He was righteous. He was in control. He was ready to defend his faith.

But it was all about him… not about God. It was a way to frame self-righteousness as faithfulness… a badge of honor rather than an indicator of skewed priorities.

Of course, I did not understand all of that as a child.

I just felt like there was something off.

It was not until all of those memories were brought back with a jolt as I read the familiar phrase again this week…and then read it in the context of today’s gospel… that I was able to diagnose the problem I had intuitively sensed all those years ago.

The problem is putting oneself at the center.

This may not be obvious in the scene that the gospel presents, but think about it:

Jesus says some legitimately shocking and confusing things…

And, by the way, John offers a little side-note that Jesus is saying these things in the synagogue, which is a way of really pushing the point that Jesus is positioning himself as one greater than Moses.[1]

The people are understandably a bit shook… but it’s what they say that gives them away.

“This teaching is difficult” (that’s just a statement of fact). But then they add, “Who can accept it?”

It’s a rhetorical question, because they are clearly implying the hypothetical person is NOT them.

They are not the kind of people who can accept (even symbolic) cannibalism as a component of faith.

They are not the kind of people who are just going to go along with this upstart standing in the seat of Moses declaring himself a replacement for the inadequate provision of their most revered prophet.

They are what they are focused on.

Because that’s what offence is usually about (unless it is a protective response on behalf of a group without power, which is really about justice, not offence).

Offense is a way of saying “my feelings about this statement, or situation, need to take center stage.”

“I’m uncomfortable and that is more important than getting curious about what I might learn.”

“I already know what is right and wrong, and I have decreed something wrong so that’s the end of it.”

But Jesus’ teaching is directly challenging that kind of self-assured righteousness, which (as much as the distasteful imagery) is what elicits such a strong reaction.

When Jesus talks about people “eating” his flesh, the Greek word is not the usual word for eat, but rather one that can be translated as “gnawing,” the words used for chomping on raw vegetables that take real work to consume.

Translator and commentator D. Mark Davis argues, “It is almost as if John is using the most pressing language possible, in order not to allow the reader to avoid the physical nature of this call.”[2]

Jesus is saying that staying the course with him is going to take uncomfortable work, and by implication, you have to be willing to accept that you haven’t already arrived at perfect faith.

You are going to have to grind away your self-righteousness and work your way through learning that is going to challenge you.

“Does this offend you?” That’s a problem, because we have to be willing to let go of our assurance that we have everything figured out.

We need to gnaw on Jesus’s flesh because our encounter with Jesus needs to actually change us.

And if we are centered on ourselves, and confident in our own righteousness, this will sound like a deal-breaker. It was for many who had been his disciples.

But actually, it’s incredibly good news.

Because it means our hope does not lie in having everything figured out, in burying our stake in the ground and proclaiming “for me and my house we will serve the Lord” as though our own certainty is what will ensure God’s acceptance of us.

It’s not.

In contrast, Peter offers us the opposite of certainty and self-righteousness when Jesus asks the twelve if they are leaving too.

Peter says, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Peter isn’t at the center of that response. Jesus is.

Peter doesn’t need to defend his own righteousness and faithfulness.

He also doesn’t need to find the teaching about gnawing Jesus’s flesh and drinking his blood easy. It’s off-putting. It takes work.

But that’s OK because all that is required is for Peter to confess that the point isn’t who Peter is, it’s who Jesus is. And Jesus is the one whose words are eternal life, a life of hope in the here and now as well as in eternity.

Those words are hope and life for me, even, or maybe especially when I think about my dad, whom I have no doubt now rests with Jesus.

In the end, Dad wasn’t really able to live up to his own righteous image of himself, and he suffered a lot of disillusion in his life.

Which would be scary for me, if God’s welcome depended on Dad’s righteousness.

But I don’t believe it does… not for any of us. It depends on Jesus.

And that understanding is why it is so important to me to make sure everyone who hears me preach knows that God doesn’t require us to stake a claim of righteousness, (or to be super comfortable with the idea of consuming Jesus’s flesh and blood).

We just have to confess that it’s not about us. Our hope is in the one whose words are eternal life.

Thanks be to God

[1] See the translation and commentary on vs. 59 by D. Mark Davis: https://leftbehindandlovingit.blogspot.com/2012/08/scandalizing-words-are-life-giving-words.html

[2] https://leftbehindandlovingit.blogspot.com/2012/08/from-bread-of-heaven-to-gnawing-on-flesh_14.html