1 Corinthians 11: 26 says, "This means (taking of bread as the body of Christ) that every time you eat the bread and drink from this cup you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes."
Whew. No pressure there.
This week I've delved every day with the news of the day, and most of it has been a fireball against the side of the ship of Christianity. But today I felt the need, as you might, to get back to sustenance.
There is no sustenance apart from the bread of live, I suspect.
Jesus said: And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to
me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never
thirst.
And he said, " am that bread of life. 49 Your
fathers did eat manna in the wilderness, and are dead. 50 This is the bread which cometh down from
heaven, that a man may eat thereof, and not die. 51 I am the living bread which came down
from heaven: if any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever: and the bread
that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.
The Bread of Life is the spiritual
food needed by man. Without the bread of life man cannot live spiritually. Just
as physically man needs to eat in order to live, the bread of life gives
nourishment for the soul. Unless one eats from the bread of live he faces
eternal death.
Physical bread does two things. First, it satisfies us by taking away hunger.
Second, it gives us life in the sense that we eat and live, rather than starve
and die.
Metaphorically speaking, Jesus is spiritual bread. He takes away our
spiritual hunger by filling us up, giving us eternal life.
When things go so badly we can't see tomorrow, we have bread. When things fall completely apart, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, we have bread.
It is about remembering where we've come from and where we're going with the sustenance that is Jesus, I suspect.
This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me." Luke 22: 19b
The power of memory is remarkable.
Our fondest, deepest, favorite memories are almost movie-like, I suspect. We can "see" our memories, can't we? They live, like plants, like pets, like our favorite movies on tape even. Weddings. Births of children. Vacations.
Tops on my list? My family and I went to a baseball game in 1992. Atlanta Braves and Pittsburgh Pirates. A replay of the playoffs from the year before. Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. It was, as was often with the Braves back then, a pitching duel. We were in the sun in right field when the game began and I whined about the seats.
But in a 1-0 game late, we entered into baseball, or at least Atlanta, lore. Sort of. Well, we were there.
A long ball to right field, seemingly right at us, looked like a tying home run. But at the last second, Atlanta outfielder Otis Nixon planted a right foot into the wall, leaped for all he could, snagged the ball as it travelled over the wall and the next thing any of us knew we were leaping and hugging strangers.
Sure. I was there in the stadium when the Saints beat the Vikings and I was hoisted to my feet by strangers, knowing the Saints were Super Bowl bound. Sure I was in a hotel off Bourbon Street in the French Quarter when the clock ticked down on the Super Bowl, knowing the Saints were going to win that game for the first time.
There have been other minutes, moments, things. Sobriety found and such. I remember riding down a shell-covered road on Dolphin Island, Ala., with a beloved aunt who had had a brain tumor and was told she would never drive again. Laughter shaking my body like some disease. A summer night with that ol' fog machine drifting by. Watermelon and warmth. Days with my wife when time seems to stand still and I love her so much my teeth hurt. Really. Those are times I can't get back, though I ring them up for things like this.
Remember. Remember those times when the kids were kids and your path wasn't clear but you kept running anyway. Remember. Think about all the things that make you smile, about what makes you, well, you. Remember. They're all special. Bread for life indeed.
But the Nixon catch is tops because my family, complete and whole, was there together when it happened. We were young, fairly, and the road ahead seemed so long and filled with promise. When bouncing off the ground and yelling were so much a part of us and drifting apart wasn't even a possibility.
That's what, I suspect, is so special about the best funerals. The loved ones, the friends, even the acquaintances are there to remember those special moments, those times on the boat, those fishing lines dropped into warm water, those days in the winter when Christmas was around the corner and gifts that never quite make it to special were given. Those memories live when the loved one does not any longer.
When Jesus offered bread as an allegory about his body, he offered memories to his crew. Three years of walking the dusty trails of Palestine. Seeing bodies healed. Seeing fish suddenly appearing in nets that were empty. Seeing the dead raised, the prisoners smile. Seeing Jesus. He simply wanted them to remember. When things would get bad, remember. When pain was applied to fearful bodies, remember. When the next step would be so very hard, remember.
With these words, part of our world changed. Jesus gave himself willingly to us. What did he want in return? To be remembered, as He would.
Hank Williams turned that phrase around in a song:
I was alone and drifting on a lonely sea of sin
Nothing but darkness, no sunshine within
I lifted my eyes, to the Lord in the sky
and Jesus remembered me
In the past week I've discovered my first high school football coach passed away a while back. I never heard. I've learned the guy who first hired me in the newspaper business has been fighting cancer for quite a while and just this week got a bone marrow transplant. I've learned that a dear friend has been charged with and plea bargained a guilty plea for sex charges with a minor. I've learned that the world is a dangerous place for Christians to express themselves.
But through it all, I've been sustained by the bread that supplies life.
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