The past few days have really been challenging. I will not go into all of it, because there is a lot, but one could sum it up with one picture. It is the picture of one person, standing alone in a basement of muddy water just staring, not knowing even where to begin. It is hard to feel alone.
Of course, I am not alone, and I will get to that…do not worry, but there were times this week that I felt I was. How do you even begin to start the process of cleaning out a flooded home? There is so much to do. There is so much lost. There is just so much. And, no one else is around.
The wife and kids are still away, and the grandkids are at their dad’s for their own safety as the clean-up of muck starts. It is all for the best, of course, the kids do not need to be in the middle of this loss right now, and there are very real issues of health and safety after a flood fills your living space with two feet of water, but it still makes one feel…well… unconnected.
It has been said that ancient Galileans felt a similar way when they came to the temple to make sacrifices. The thing that would make you feel connected with God in the ancient Jerusalem temple would be the ability to bring a goat that you have raised from birth to the temple and handing it directly to the priest who would look you directly in the eye, then offer it to God on your behalf in front of your presence. That sort of image, ancient as it may be, is one with connection. It is one that has a connection with the animal, with the priest, with the temple, with the sacrifice, and with God. It would be a ritual full of holy community.
But, some scholars have pointed out that such connection ceased happening in the ancient temple as it became more and more of an institution. The more typical temple experience was not being allowed to bring your own animal, but rather being required to bring Roman money, which you exchanged for temple money for a fee, and to finally buy your animal at the temple. But, the animal did not really seem like your animal. You see, you would hand your money over to the seller who would then turn around and tell one of his fellow workers to dispatch an animal to the priests. The person offering the sacrifice did not get to touch the animal or bring it forward to the priest. I am not sure if they even really got to see the sacrifice or to know which animal being sacrificed was theirs. They just walked away, alone, trusting that what needed to be done had been done, but feeling alone and unconnected to the sacrifice and alone and unconnected to God.
What if you learned that God was not so distant and unconnected? What if someone came and stood with you, looking at all the muck and mud in the basement of your flooded home and said, “This is bad, this is really bad, but we got this.”?
What if the author of all life peered into your “aloneness,” peered into your pain and said something like, “I am the bread that gives life. Just eat and you will be filled with me. Just eat and I will be with you forever. There is no need to feel alone. The loving sacrifice that I make does not happen far away behind some wall. My love and my sacrifice is within you. I am right there. My love is right there.”
Jesus said, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”
If we move beyond the disturbingly cannibalistic sounding tones of those words and simply think about eating, then we start to see a word of hope. You see, plants and animals are sacrificed at every one of your meals so that you might have life. We cannot live without eating, that is a plain fact. When we do eat…when the sacrifice of a plant or animal is made…we can continue on for another day. Eating life in order to have live is the way that the world works.
So, I ask, what if you could feast on love? What if you could chew on God’s presence and have God be a part of you? What if God could be as close as the food that fills your every cell with nutrients? What if you could put in your precious body, not junk food that sits in your belly and around your hips and waits for use in some distant day (if that day ever comes), but rather feast on the active, living presence of God? What if you were not alone? What if Jesus was right there?
“Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”
This week, I experienced what it is to be surrounded by people who have feasted on the love of Jesus Christ. When I looked up from the lonely vision of our muddy house, I saw someone standing there with me. The friend looked at me and said, “This is bad, this is really bad, but we got this.” And, he bent down and started sorting the items into a small pile of trash and another pile of items that could be saved. That man had feasted on love, and it made all the difference for me.
Soon, the house was filled with those people who had feasted on the love of Jesus. Some offered me their hands, some offered me some food, some offered me an ear, and all offered me their heart. As we cleaned together, the energy that can only come from a diet of love was very real, and Christ was there.
I needed that. I needed someone to be there, and they were. I needed Christ to be present, and he was. And, I highly suspect that you need that too.
This eternal life that you feast on is not just a hope for an eternal future in heaven, though it is part that (Jesus says, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day;”), but this eternal life is the very real, living presence of the one who is eternal, right here, right now. “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me (right now), and I in them (right now).”
May the presence of the living Christ fill you up. May your "aloneness" be transformed into a living presence. May the God of love fill your every cell. May you be filled with Christ’s love and Christ’s peace, especially when the mud and muck of life threatens to overtake. May the love of Christ be the last word in your life, because it is.
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