A God Who Dreams

Who knows what was going through the minds of the disciples as they overheard this strange conversation about bread and living bread, and this even stranger talk about eating flesh and drinking blood. A day earlier Jesus had thousands rising to their feet, yelling and screaming his name and proclaiming him as their king, but a ministry which yesterday soared has come back to earth with a resounding thud. I'm guessing the disciples were repeating to themselves the same words the crowd earlier said out loud, "This is too difficult, who can accept it?" The disciples are confused, more to the point they're scared stiff, and Jesus doesn't make it any easier when he turns towards them offering no excuses, only a blunt challenge. "Do you want to stay or do you want to go?" In the good news, our singular call to life, there are no fence sitters. No one can stand on the sidelines. There's no such thing as a partial communion. Jesus asks them and asks all of us a question we have to answer, and there are only two possible responses. Either we hold fast or we go with the crowd. Never once in the Gospels does Jesus allow someone to respond by saying, "I'll give it some thought or give me some time to think about it." He calls them to God and such calling by nature is always immediate, always decisive and final. What is there to consider, what alternatives do we think we have? Can we obtain this life we seek outside of God? Can we weigh any other possibilities? This is the delusion of the crowd, the fantasy which allows us to believe there are other places to go.

   An uncomfortable silence now hangs over the disciples. Jesus has just asked them a question. Whether they want to leave or whether they're committed, totally committed. He waits for an answer, as several of them look off in the distance, watching as the last few people in the crowd disappear over the horizon. A few look down, nervously shuffling their feet, casting glances everywhere except in Jesus' direction. The Gospel forces the issue. It presses our backs against the wall, leading us to life's one crossroad, where we have no choice other than to choose. This is always our encounter with Christ, a place of crisis and decison, where our response can be couched only in terms of yes or no, stay or go.

   Speaking for the rest of the disciples, an impulsive Peter responds with perhaps the truest words he ever spoke, "Lord to whom can we go? Only you have the words of eternal life." I doubt if Peter stuck out his chest and confidently raised his voice when he uttered those words. Along with the rest of them he's fighting back a heavy measure of fear. There's no crowd to cheer Peter on, and right now along with the rest of them, he's very unsure where this ministry is headed. What they thought was a mass movement is now walking in the other direction, reduced to a handful of deflated followers. They've invested their entire future in Jesus, and now it appears that yesterday's big show can't sell tickets today. As he so often does Peter speaks more from his heart than his head, replying mostly from his gut. He's not sure where his bold words came from, but I believe he sensed their trueness even if they didnt' feel so true at the time. The disciples stand there before Jesus alone, but that's how the Gospel works. It doesn't need the crowd to make it true. It doesn't need the world to affirm it, nor does it need the consent of the multitudes for its validation. It stands on its own because it's the only truth there is. For Peter on this side of the cross, it was an intuitive and spontaneous reply, something heartfelt and deep yet something he couldn't quite grasp. They will stay.

   In our own faith journey we've stood where the disciples now stand. In our own moments of crisis or disillusionment, the only thing we can point to is our very tangible collapse of hope. Along the way of faith sometimes all we can say is that Christ has called us. We're not sure where he's taking us, nor do we know how we'll get there, but we say "we'll stick." Like Peter I think we follow because we sense something great in our calling. We know in our heart of hearts it's our only hope and the only life worth living. We also know one other thing, our old life offers so little, the same old bread, and we've been hungry long enough. I think we also carry with us some small inkling of what God is offering us at this table. We can't get our arms around it, and rightly so, yet we sense something of its enormity. A God who created us and our universe, now comes to us saying, "I am yours, completely yours. Come to me." We sense in this offer the only true love and the only true life we'll ever know. If the rest of it seems hard, at times even strange, that's a miracle we can hang onto for dear life.