Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

Beloved Ones, the Body of Christ,

I heard it first at a Presbyterian worship conference. For seven days, every celebration of Holy Communion ended with the presiding minister looking out from the altar, “Have all been fed?” And, and then she waited for a response, her eyes scanning the hall for a raised hand or an usher pointing to someone in need. Only after that space of authentic attention, did she move to the final blessing.

Have all been fed? I’ve loved that phrase ever since. It’s a heart question; hospitality woven into the Eucharistic practice; a witness to the mission of the church, not waiting for people to come, but seeking, actively attending to the hungry ones, also the ones who would never have come, or think they can’t, yet desperately need the bread that can sustain.

I found that question on my lips yesterday. Here in this sanctuary, we commended Tim Odegard into God’s care, a beloved witness to the humility, compassion, patience, and attention to unity that Paul names in the Ephesians reading today. At 60 years old, he was far too young to make that final journey. More than 550 people gathered in love, even overflowing into the fellowship hall to watch the livestream.

A fellowship hall, by the way, set with room for 250 people for the funeral lunch. Being generous and filled with confidence, we had ordered food for 270. So, while we sang and prayed upstairs, our team downstairs was living into last week’s gospel text, feeding of the 5000 with a few things. They didn’t send a message upstairs to the chancel saying, “We don’t have enough, send some of them away,” yet I wondered if I should invite people to the lunch at the end of the service, our regular practice. Even as I made the announcement, I was praying that enough would leave so that we would have enough.

I rushed downstairs when we were finished, walked into the kitchen, and that liturgical phrase surged up, “Have all been fed? yet not said with the kind of confident joy with which I had heard it. And Brenda, our funeral coordinator, whose ability to stay calm is as wide as her smile, said, “Of course.” They had already been about the work of replicating the miracle, making enough with what we are given.

But then this: “They didn’t come for the turkey, anyway, they came because they need each other right now.” Boom. From surface to depth, she understands the bread of life and its mission. It’s not that the needs of the body aren’t important. We always have to start there if we want to have any hope of speaking to our deeper needs. Those sandwiches, now divided into less and would have looked meager on another table, yet they became the sign of a deeper sustenance, a more filling presence, that is met by the body of Christ.

Picture of twelve plates of sandwiches in the refrigerator on screen.

At the end of the afternoon, she opened the fridge to show me the leftovers, literally twelve plates of sandwiches, plated and ready to join our bread reception this morning.

(aside about infrastructure)

Today’s gospel text picks up one day after the miracle. The crowd is desperate for more, which is likely an experience we can relate to. We have what we need, but we find ourselves striving, running, stressing, anxious to get more. Jesus always meets the crowd where they are. Yesterday it was rumbling stomach. Today it’s a world that teaches there isn’t enough so you better grab all you can while you can.

How quickly we all forget that we have enough, and we’re caught in the great anxiety that fuels so much of our economic, political, personal, and emotional lives. We run and run and run and run.  We grab when we can. To which Jesus says, “Wait. Stop. I’m here. I’ll always be here. The bread of heaven, which God has been setting out since the days of manna and quail in the wilderness has come to dwell permanently, eternally, in bodies.  In the body of Jesus, in the body of those who receive his Spirit, the body of Christ, the church.  Don’t be afraid. In the presence of this bread, the deepest emptiness you have can be filled with a love that you don’t have to chase, but which is chasing you. In the presence of the rising one, we will never be hungry or thirsty, or without hope, ever again.  Have all been fed? Yes.

I traveled to Duluth with middle school kids on a mission trip this week.

Picture of kids on screen.

I read this text and asked them what they think when they hear it. Once we got past “The pizza of God” and “the pizza of life” discussion, they expressed an emerging depth that needed more than what all the surface things, all the solutions that are handed to them by culture and social media, by an educational system that’s pushing them really hard to succeed in particular ways, a culture that puts their identities in the crosshairs of politics. They wanted an affirmation that has authority beyond what family and friends provide. They could tell already that they will need a place to stand in adult life that is within themselves, that comes from a love that’s stronger than what people can give to one another. They were becoming aware that with the freedom they so desperately wanted might be a bigger responsibility. “If you get your drivers’ license,” one said, “then you have start getting yourself where you need to go.” They expressed a need for quiet that was shocking given their ability to make a trip to the restroom one of the most raucous, chaotic, and silly experiences possible. They didn’t name fear, but you could hear that being who they are comes with such tender risk. When asked about communion, they talked beautifully, albeit with many interruptions and sudden outbursts, about how receiving the bread of communion was really important. Church, they see what’s going on when a piece of bread is placed in an upstretched hand. They notice how we give and receive. They know deep within in them what the welcome of Jesus looks like, and what it doesn’t look. They understand authenticity and they are seeking it’s healing presence.

All this, by the way, in about ten minutes, before I, with not a little exasperation said, “Alright, you’ve had enough I can tell. Go do your thing.” In the quiet of the next morning, while they were still quiet, I wrote a journal entry, the words emerging as food. I began to believe that this Jesus of John, Chapter Six, this living one that is somehow mysteriously part of each baptized one, is already a conversation partner with them as they grow into adulthood. I hadn’t yet remembered that Presbyterian question, but I realized that these kids are being fed with a source beyond what we can even name.

My journal abruptly ends with these words “O God, they’re awake already.” I stopped writing and decided I better follow where they were going, which was, ironically, a search for food.

I was exasperated, giddy with perhaps not enough sleep, oddly fully satisfied. In that moment, at least, the question was answered.  Have all been fed?

Yes, and yes, and forever, yes.