It is easy to follow Jesus when we like what he offers us. Much harder when he challenges us to commit to a group project.
Following the crowds when the going gets tough
Proper 16B | John 6:56-69
Virtually everyone has abandoned him.
This stunning turn of events is all the more shocking given where we just were a few weeks ago—riding the high of a miracle. Thousands upon thousands fed on a dinner suited to a family of four. A blessing of incredible consequence, spurring the crowds of onlookers and hangers-on to continue following Jesus on his improbable journey.
That this miracle led straight into Jesus trying to get space—time—room for quiet—Sabbath should have been a clue to what would come next.
The crowds find him again and this time, Jesus addresses them with something far less like sympathy.
He confronts their motivation. And they bristle.
He teaches them what is behind the feeding. And they get confused.
He tells them what he has come to do. And they take it overly literally.
And then, as Jesus is teaching, we the readers are being transported from the wilderness of the seaside to a location much like this one. There’s no travel in the narrative, it just sort of…happens. One minute he’s talking to the crowds who followed him across the sea and the next, he’s in a synagogue, confronted by religious leaders. This is just the way John likes to tell a story.
And yet, the contrast is telling. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, when they’re hungry and desperate, a miracle compels thousands to follow the rabbi. But in here, when that rabbi is trying to teach them, they desert him.
The chapter begins with thousands of followers.
Now there are a dozen.
This isn’t the part of the story we like to tell. We want to think of Jesus as popular. His teachings: obvious. And his reach: infinite. In other words, we want Jesus to look successful. Now he looks like a common failure.
The rise and fall of Jesus’s fame as described in chapter 6 of John is a tantalizing story. And one that should sound incredibly familiar.
A preacher starts preaching a message people want to hear. He develops a following. Soon, great crowds follow his every move, hoping to learn from him or get a moment with him.
And then… he says something most didn’t want to hear. Often something that falls in one of two buckets: that God expects something more from them or that God is inviting other people to join us at the table. Always one of those two. And suddenly…well…people are a bit less enthusiastic. They think there might be something wrong with the ol’ pastor.
They confront him. Clearly he didn’t mean to say that God has different plans for us. Or that surely God doesn’t mean we include those people. That was obviously a mistake. We’re sure he didn’t mean it.
Those, of course, are the polite comments. Often the less polite ones call the teacher a heretic, demonic, and leading the children straight to the devil. Or, if its a good mainline denomination, we’ll claim the preacher got a little too political.
But, the preacher assures us that he did, in fact, mean to say what he said. And furthermore, these accusations quite literally demonstrate the very point. That God is up to something here. And it is God who wants us to change our tune a little bit. Like this piano is getting a little off. We need to get that fixed so we can sing the song God is putting out there.
And soon, the celebrity preacher, with a church packed with thousands every Sunday is preaching to a handful: the faithful remnant.
The crowds are gone. Only the disciples remain.
And their question is ours. Because we say a version of it to each other all the time:
“This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”
Who can accept it? We call it impossible. Or utopian. We compare following this stuff to doing magic.
And then, often, we quit. Just not in so many words.
I think we’re given this story to see just what discipleship is.
Being a disciple is not the same as being a part of the crowd. Disciples are different. Not in quality of character, but in the way they’ve come to see their relationship with Jesus. They are “in”.
Each of the gospels differentiates the crowds from the disciples. Precisely because the crowds don’t last. And even here, there are a good number of disciples who don’t last.
So being a follower of Jesus actually isn’t enough. We’re called to be disciples: students. Our first job is to learn.
And what Jesus does for his students is also makes them apostles: those who do his work without him.
THIS is the tradition we’ve inherited.
We are students learning from the master and practitioners of his way of love.
This story reveals the challenge of sticking with it. Not just listening to the stuff we like, but the stuff that challenges us, too.
We’re supposed to take Jesus seriously.
Perhaps that’s the biggest challenge of sticking with it. Focusing on the stuff that he shows us; what he claims is important. And not just flippantly dismiss it.
There is a classic moral question: Would you jump into a pond to save a drowning child? Of course, you’d say. Then what about your suit? Well, we’d gladly pay to have it dry-cleaned. So why then do we not use that dry-cleaning money now to prevent a child on the other side of the world from dying?
Great question. The simple answer is I don’t see them. Out of sight, out of mind. The morally evasive answer is But I can’t save everyone.
What strikes me is the size of the chasm between forking over forty bucks to buy some chickens through Episcopal Relief and Development or twelve bucks for a mosquito net through Nets For Life and giving eighty percent of your income so that you can try to save everybody.
And the bridge that already spans that mighty chasm is the work of millions and millions of apostles over many centuries.
I suspect that what separated the twelve from those multitudes that deserted Jesus was pretty simple.
They got that it’s about us.
The crowds swarmed Jesus for personal reasons. They wanted to be healed. Their loved one needed an exorcism. They desired more bread for themselves.
But the Twelve, on the other hand, saw that Jesus was fostering a communal project. Something that expected from them and built for everyone. Something as much about them as about the community.
This is the brilliance of the paired great commandments: to love God and love your neighbor as yourself. Which is actually a leveling mechanism masquerading as a comparison. As well as you care for yourself, care for your neighbor: only communally! So that we are all cared for. So that we all may have enough bread every day.
Our own challenge in carrying out this project is exactly the same. To hear Jesus’s challenging Good News for the world in an increasingly individualistic culture.
We are called to see our challenges of public wealth and health as common, shared, and connected. To join with others who seek to meet the needs of our neighborhoods. And yes, to engage in organizing systems that seek to eliminate poverty, feed the hungry, house the homeless, and protect the vulnerable.
We are experiencing a great global phenomenon right now. One that should make it that much easier to see this.
Perhaps this is an opportunity. To keep looking at Jesus; at what he does. The one who mourns over death and loss; who challenges unjust systems; and makes this journey about God’s great common project. With a part for every one of us to play.
An opportunity to sign onto something bigger than ourselves for a life that’s a whole lot better than anything any one of us will make for themselves. Something like a community, a kinship, a place of true freedom.
This Week’s Reflection