Be Opened

Then looking up to heaven, Jesus sighed and said to him, “Ephphatha,” that is, “Be opened.” And immediately his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly. (Mark 7.34-35)

Fragmented

One of the worst sicknesses I’ve ever endured occurred a few years ago, when I contracted a sinus infection that spread to my left inner ear. Pressure built up behind my eardrum, creating unbearable pain that left me in yowling in agony. I was stranded in a Dallas hotel, in the care of a local physician who called on me once a day for nearly a week and room service staff who brought me juice to wash down an arsenal of high-power antibiotics and painkillers. Before the doctor would release me to fly back to Chicago, he wanted to be certain the infection hadn’t spread to my right ear and hinted it might also affect brain tissue. Although my partner, Walt, called constantly, I was totally alone, in a strange place, facing the possibility of being hospitalized far from home. Inability to hear in my left ear compounded my sense of isolation. I lay there, in insufferable pain, helpless, contemplating terrible outcomes. Deafness. Brain damage. Very possibly waiting for Walt to get to me while strangers herded me through the ER and hospital admissions.

My condition’s most awful aspect, however, was how I sounded to myself when I spoke. The voice that came out of my mouth no longer matched the one in my head. It seemed to belong to someone else and, after a while I became unsure I could trust it. (This was partly due to the haze of medication, I’m sure.) But as my condition dragged on, I began to feel less and less in control of my situation. There was the Tim in dire pain and the Tim trying to put words around his pain, and they weren’t the same Tim. I was fragmented.

Astounded Beyond Measure

The deaf man in Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 7.24-37) is in a similar situation. Inability to hear has impeded his ability to speak clearly. The voice behind his clogged ears bears little resemblance to the one he utters. My brief experience with his type of affliction drives home how fragmented his daily existence must be. Obviously his neighbors feel for him. When Jesus passes through their region, they bring their deaf friend to Him, begging Him to touch the man. What happens next is most irregular. Rather than curing the deaf man on the spot, Jesus pulls him to the side, out of the crowd’s sight. As though diagnosing his illness, Jesus puts His fingers in the man’s ears, spits—an odd gesture Mark doesn’t explain—and touches the man’s tongue. He looks up to heaven, lets go a deep sigh (we’re not sure what to make of that, either), and, in the man’s native Aramaic, Jesus says, “Ephphatha,” or, “Be opened.” Immediately, the obstructions in the man’s ears dissolve, his tongue is released, and he’s able to speak plainly. All of the disjointed pieces inside his head come together. Suddenly being able to hear again is a miracle all its own. But being able to hear himself—having his speech reunited with his inner voice—is what makes him whole.

Even more than that, the deaf man’s restored speech brings healing to his entire community. Family, friends, and neighbors who couldn’t understand him now hear him clearly. They no longer have to compensate for his disability. They’re free from the guesswork and stress of parsing his inarticulate self-expression. Freeing the man’s ability to hear and speak is how Jesus makes the community whole. One whom they’d lost has been returned. And that miracle loosens their tongues. Jesus orders them not to tell anyone about the miracle, but they can’t keep quiet. Verses 36 and 37 read, “The more He ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it. They were astounded beyond measure, saying, ‘He has done everything well; He even makes the deaf to hear and the mute to speak.'” Astounded beyond measure—I so love that! It is exactly what happens when we approach Christ on others’ behalf. What Jesus does for them somehow spills over into us. We can’t possibly contain ourselves, because the wholeness Christ imparts to others inevitably makes us whole as well. We can’t help ourselves from proclaiming, “He has done everything well!”

Voluntary Deaf-Mutes

In the wake of the US political conventions, I’ve also been astounded beyond measure—though not in the good way witnessed in Mark. I’ve been thoroughly astonished, in some cases disgusted, by the prevalence of clogged ears and twisted tongues in our community. From the highest podiums of power to running commentaries flooding social networks, we are encompassed with people whose hearing and speech are severely hampered. Their ears are clogged with inflammatory rhetoric that impedes their ability to express themselves clearly and effectively. Hearing and reading what they say, I think, “Surely that’s not what they believe.” Surely their inner voices cry out for an end to poverty, violence, and injustice. Surely they hear a booming call for righteousness in the depths of their being—a resounding declaration that callous indifference for the least among us must cease. Surely something within them wants to convey concern for others beyond themselves. But the deafening roar of tyrants and charlatans has robbed their freedom to express their faith and humanity in understandable ways. And, all contrary evidence aside, I must believe this is true, lest my ears also become infected and clogged, lest my own speech also becomes harsh and nonsensical, lest I too become a burden to my community, a liability that makes those I live with less than whole.

At the same time, I’m convinced the political deafness and jabber polluting current discourse are merely magnified symptoms—an outbreak, if you will—of a more invidious contagion. We no longer care to listen to one another, let alone the voice of God that calls to us from deep within. We’re no longer concerned about what we say, let alone how we say it. We have become a culture of voluntary deaf-mutes, purposefully closing our ears to anything we don’t want to hear and disregarding the confusion and harm our words create.

We’re becoming increasingly fragmented as people, with the holy person inside us bearing little resemblance to the vain, self-serving one portrayed in our words. We need to find Jesus and beg Him to touch us. We need Him to diagnose our sickness, penetrating the garbage cluttering our ears with His pristine fingers, loosening our twisted tongues with His mighty hand. We need Him to speak to us in language we understand, commanding us to be opened. When our ability to hear and speak clearly is restored, we will be made whole. Our communities will be made whole. Peace, justice, and compassion will be restored. We will be astounded beyond measure and say, “He has done everything well!”

Lord Jesus, if ever we needed healing it’s now. We beg You, come to us, pull us aside, lay Your hand on us, and command us to be opened. Amen.

We have become a culture plagued by clogged ears and slurred speech. We need Christ's healing to be made whole.

Watching the Detectives

So the Pharisees and the scribes asked Him, “Why do Your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7.5)

Clinging to the Past

Now and then someone who knows me casually will say something like, “You’ll love this, since you were raised in the South,” or, “Can you explain such-and-such to me? I didn’t grow up down South.” They’re always surprised when I say I grew up in Chicago, raised by Alabamians who viewed their Southern heritage as a sort of ethnicity. When my brother and I were very young, our parents pointed to our neighbors—the Hogans and Leonardis and Borkowskis—and told us that, just as they followed certain customs passed down from their elders, we too behaved certain ways and believed certain things because of where we came from. We talked differently than our neighbors, not only in accent, but also in terms of what was and wasn’t said. Our family dynamic was different. Our sense of hospitality and social obligation was different. And, most obvious, our religious life was different. Nobody went to church more often than the Wolfes—twice on Sunday, twice during the week, with nearly every Saturday consumed by some sort of outreach or fellowship event. So I am a Southerner through and through with remarkably little experience of what living “down South” is actually like.

Although my parents were grateful to serve Chicago congregations and adapted very well to their urban surroundings, they mourned the slower, more genteel life they left behind. And they kept their Southern identity alive by transmitting its values and practices to us. Common courtesies—saying “please” and “thank you,” “ma’am” and “sir”—were drilled into us, along with very specific shows of gallantry and refined table manners. (To this day, I walk nearest the curb when accompanying a lady down the street.) This is not to say our neighbors didn’t raise their children do likewise. The difference was we weren’t taught to be mannerly because it was polite. Our manners grew out of who we were—or perhaps more accurately, out of the past my parents were clinging to.

In Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 7.1-8,14-15,21-23), we see a very similar situation, as a few Pharisees and scribes, desperately clinging to the past, confront Jesus about His followers’ poor table manners. The disciples don’t wash up before dinner. That deeply offends the Pharisees. To understand why they’re offended and why Jesus responds to their complaint as He does, we need to understand what they’re trying keep alive by perpetuating ancient traditions.

Ferreting Out Scofflaws

Palestine is unique among Roman conquests in that the Jews are permitted to practice their faith and customs without interference. While other conquered nations must swear allegiance to Caesar and adopt imperial beliefs, the Jews’ willingness to die for their faith tradition has resulted in a somewhat schizoid way of life. First-century Jews live under two governments and legal codes: their own religious law and Roman occupation. On the surface, life is not much changed under Caesar: temples and synagogues stay open, social customs remain intact, and civil justice is administered in Jewish courts. At the same time, however, Roman presence in Palestine is undeniable and the Jews recognize that any bold move outside the status quo could bring down Caesar’s fist. In next to no time, Israel and Judea—the Jewish twin kingdoms—could become like their neighbors: impoverished replicas of Rome. The largest Jewish sect, the Pharisees, are obsessed with preventing such a fate by safeguarding traditions of their past. Jewish identity is everything to them, and they make it their lives’ work to preserve it. In many ways, they operate like detectives, ferreting out scofflaws and confronting their non-compliance to Jewish law in public.

Word of a new, radical Rabbi’s success in the provinces compels a group of Pharisees and scribes—i.e., Temple academics—to leave Jerusalem and investigate. As a rule, people clean up their acts when they see the Pharisees coming. Jesus and His followers don’t do that. The Pharisees arrive and are appalled that this rough-and-tumble bunch ignores one of their most basic traditions: they don’t wash their hands before they eat. They challenge Jesus: “Why do Your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7.5) Ordinarily, that would be enough for any leader to apologize and promise to do better. Not Jesus. He disregards their complaint, and challenges their obsession: “Isaiah prophesied rightly about you hypocrites, as it is written, ‘This people honors Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me; in vain do they worship Me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’” (v6-7)

Accommodating the Pharisees' tendency to feign obtuseness when it’s convenient, He breaks it down further. “You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition,” He says. (v8) He does a bit of legal gymnastics to prove He’s as fit as they in manipulating the law to find fault with others. Then He addresses the crowd collecting around this brouhaha. “Listen to Me, all of you, and understand,” He says. “There is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” (v14-15) And what might those “things that come out” be? In this context, they’re self-righteousness, slavish observance of archaic customs, and myopic judgment of others’ behavior.

Reach for the Future

Throughout His ministry, Jesus’s problem with the Pharisees springs from disgust with the political motives behind their holiness. They’ve transformed spiritual law and religious custom into a nationalist agenda and appointed themselves the keepers of all things Jewish. Their unforgiving scrutiny of others is basic to their intentions to homogenize Jewish identity in such a way that past traditions are preserved. On one level, this is a noble effort. But on a deeper one, it results in the diminution of those who don’t abide by every letter of the law and excludes anyone who doesn’t fit the Pharisees’ idealized profile. I like to think that even as Jesus challenges His Pharisee accusers, He glances around at His followers. Their hands are dirty. Their lives don’t stack up. But their hearts are close to God. They are the first fruits of God’s kingdom, a new ideal that will survive centuries of political tumult and regime change. While the Pharisees cling to their past, Jesus and His disciples reach for their future. That’s why Jesus keeps such a close eye on the Pharisees, even as they watch Him closely. His Shepherd’s heart will not permit the rude comingling of faith with a political agenda to endanger His flock. Yes, in the current circumstance, Jewish identity is important—but not to the extent that its traditions sacrifice justice and acceptance for the sake of preserving it.

In the current political climate, we can expect challenges from self-appointed keepers of Christianity. They function like a band of detectives, scrutinizing everything we do and say, eagerly hoping to catch us diverging from traditional norms. This text is particularly illuminating for faithful Americans striving to build God’s kingdom amid cries of “taking back” the nation—restoring old values and traditions that no longer promote justice and inclusion, protecting a “Christian” identity that is no longer relevant in a rapidly changing world. We cannot live in the past. We must reach for the future, looking to God to lead us to peace and compassion and equity for all. 

Watching the detectives is vital. When we see them coming, the last thing we should do is tidy up and be polite. We must own our identity as Christ's followers and demonstrate discipleship by removing all rancor and hostility from our lips, even when our non-conformity to the mythic Christian past triggers rancor and hostility. “For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come,” Jesus says in verse 21. Live from your heart. Speak peace and justice. Know that you’re being watched and use that as an opportunity to embody God’s kingdom in a culture overrun with self-appointed detectives. Leave their past behind. Reach for your future.

When we see self-appointed “faith detectives” coming our way, the last thing we should do is tidy up and be polite.

Use Protection

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. (Ephesians 6.10-11)

Different Dynamics

Early in the rollerblading craze, Walt and I rushed out to our local Sport Mart and spent a small fortune on gear: skates, helmets, elbow and kneepads. We got home and suited up, laughing at how we looked like gladiators. Then we stored our fancy equipment on a closet shelf, where it sat for several months, waiting for us to get the nerve to take to the streets. One spring afternoon, I came home to find Walt in a terrible state. His arms and legs were bruised and scraped up and covered in Band-Aids. I spotted his rollerblades and said, “You didn’t wear protection, did you?” “Only the helmet,” he replied. “I didn’t like how that other stuff looked on me.” My response: “And just look at you now!”

In Walt’s defense, he’s an amazing four-wheeled skater—a real hotshot on a rink floor. It seemed logical that he’d adapt to inline skating with such ease that the likelihood of falling would be practically nil. But, as he learned, that wasn’t the case. The dynamics of rollerblading aren’t the same as those of old-fashioned skates. In many ways, they’re the opposite, as they require a different sense of balance to maneuver stops and turns. What’s more, the uneven surfaces of city streets require a heightened awareness of the ground one travels. Dodging and darting through traffic and other bikers and skaters complicates things. Until you develop a proper sense of equilibrium to react quickly, rollerblading can be a treacherous endeavor. And—as Walt learned on his maiden voyage—once you figure out you’re improperly equipped, you still have to make your way back. The worst of his spills happened during his retreat, he told me. Finally, he gave up, removed his skates, and walked home in sock feet. “I felt like a fool,” he said. It took some time for him to give rollerblading another try and eventually he got the hang of it. But after that first debacle, I’ve never seen him head out for a leisurely cruise along the lakefront without his full armor. When I read Ephesians’ admonition to use all the protection available to us, I think of Walt.

Danger in the Air

“Be strong in the Lord and the strength of His power,” the Ephesians writer says, urging us to “put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” (Ephesians 6.10-11) It’s an inside-outside strategy. Our strength and power come from within, in our confidence that God is at work in us, daily renewing our faith in new mercies and understanding. Meanwhile, we live in a world of uncertainty, where ground we travel is uneven and navigating our way through life requires a great deal of agility. This hard for us to learn, particularly when we leave ready-made Christianity—where faith is expressed in the polished confines of church sanctuaries—for the mean streets of real life. Following Christ in true discipleship is to calling oneself a “Christian” what inline skating in urban environments is to easily gliding in circles on a roller rink. The dynamics and demands are totally different. The risks are not the same. And if we’re to pursue the freedoms and joys that accompany discipleship, we must use protection—no matter how silly we may look when we’re geared up in the whole armor of God. Trying to skate along without it ultimately results in injuries that cause real pain and make us look worse than we would if we’d taken proper precautions. Undertaking this endeavor without protection is why so many of us falter and end up walking home in sock feet, feeling foolish and smarting wounds we could have avoided.

We need protection not because of any deficiency within ourselves, but because of the atmosphere we live in. The writer reminds us, “Our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” Danger is in the air. And one must wonder at the prophetic import of this observation for our day and time, when poisonous hatred and lies literally fill the air, borne on the wings of digital hysteria and fear. More than ever, we must protect ourselves against free-flying evil, taking Ephesians’ prescriptive armor to heart. If we’re to stand—if we’re to maintain our balance and make progress against the onslaught of deceit and negativity whirling about us—we must be properly equipped. In verses 14-17 we read, “Fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

As genuine disciples, we never travel without first doing an equipment check: truth to defend against lies, righteousness against injustice, peace against violence and confusion, faith against cynicism, salvation against surrender, and the Spirit revealed in God’s promises against human reasoning and hopelessness. Danger is in the air. We must guard against its treachery. And as we travel, we’re vividly aware that God’s armor is meant for our protection. It is not weaponry designed to wound or intimidate those around us. When we misuse spiritual protection to inflict pain we join ranks with powers that pollute the atmosphere. We make ourselves vulnerable to the very evils Ephesians teaches us to guard against.

Stand

In Galatians 5.7-8, Paul chides believers actively engaged in conflicts with combative forces attempting to denigrate their faith. “You were running well,” he writes. “Who prevented you from obeying the truth? Such persuasion does not come from the One Who calls you.” Discipleship is an arduous quest to bring truth to light—or light to truth. The strength within us is evidenced in our ability to withstand the dangers and evil in the air, to keep our balance at all times, and journey ahead, undaunted by uneven ground and conflicts we encounter. When those around us succumb to airborne forces attempting to defeat our faith, we remember the Gospel needs no defense. It is we who must be protected. We are equipped with truth, righteousness, peace, faith, salvation, and the Spirit made alive and known to us in God’s Word. Be strong in the Lord and the strength of God’s power. Stand. We’ve been given all the protection we need. Use it.

We travel in an atmosphere of airborne dangers; Ephesians teaches us how to protect ourselves against lies, insults, and injuries.

Drowning Our Sorrows

Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. (Ephesians 5.15-17)

Harder to Breathe

A neighbor called the other day, wondering if she could drop by. She was stressed out and needed to talk. After she sat down and I asked what was bothering her, her tears took her by surprise. “It’s not anything specific,” she told me. “I’m just so…“ she said, searching for emotions she couldn’t find. It was my third conversation of its kind this week, including a long one with myself earlier that morning. I’d picked up the paper, glanced at the sorrows splayed across its front page and set it aside. I turned on the TV. It was tuned to a “Project Runway” rerun and contestants were snapping at one another over hemlines. My email was chock-full of political fundraisers spewing hatred for their opponents. On the Web, people were at each other’s throats.

I considered a long walk along the lake, with my iPod shuffling through a “Nature Hymns” playlist I keep handy for times when the human world seems to have jumped its tracks. But that wasn’t going to work; rehearsals for Chicago’s upcoming Air and Water Show were underway. As fighter jets roared past our windows, I couldn’t escape realizing that this weekend thousands would flock to the lakefront for “family fun,” while the very same “show” would send Syrian and Afghani families scrambling for cover. For some reason, my mind strayed to Erin Brockovich, Gasland, and other films about people trapped in environments where a few sips of tap water served up a toxic cocktail. It felt as if something inside me—everything that longed to walk uprightly, optimistically—was folding in two. I was frightened and when I’m afraid, I cry. As I told our neighbor what I’d been through not long before she called, she nodded.  “That’s it,” she said. “This meanness in the air is making it harder and harder to breathe. You can’t say anything without somebody jumping down your throat.”

Evil Days

Sunday’s New Testament reading, Ephesians 5.15-20, speaks powerfully to those of us finding it harder and harder to breathe. If you’ve followed the weekly excerpts from the epistle, you know the writer is addressing a predominately Gentile congregation striving to overcome uncertainties about its role and function in the expanding Christian world. Paul (or a disciple writing in his name) first wants his readers to know that God is alive and present in their community. Of special concern is fragmentation within the local body, as it appears that Jewish converts are distancing themselves from their Gentile sisters and brothers, and Paul summons them to quell the divisiveness so that they may be united in Christ. “Grow up,” he writes (Ephesians 4.15)—not merely in the sense of acting maturely, but also in terms of nurturing godliness to withstand the vicissitudes of differing beliefs and opinions. Last weekend, we heard a set of guidelines to eradicate behaviors that undermine unity, culminating in one of Scripture’s finest admonishments for Christian living: “Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” (5.1-2)

In this weekend’s text we read: “Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.” (v15-17) The days are evil. Now, as then, the writer urges us to be savvy about sociopolitical dynamics that make it harder to breathe. Power lust, greed, and excesses attendant to them have created a climate of hostility, violence, and hatred that can all too easily creep into the believer’s life. If we don’t take care—if we are not wise—evils that gain acceptance as social norms can choke the life-affirming traits of discipleship. Gradually we absorb a mentality that reflects a world without Christ, one that thrives on vitriol and selfishness and idolatry of status and wealth. We are no longer making the most of the time, steadfastly bearing the fruit of God’s kingdom on earth. We are participating in a culture hell-bent on smothering itself in impenetrable darkness. We are right, I believe, to weep because we live in evil days. But when we allow their toxicity to cloud our minds, we risk failure to make the most of the abundant life Christ imparts to us.

Time to Sing

It’s not easy to live in a society where rampantly apparent evils are either ignored or invisible to the majority—including many who boast of Christian faith but refuse to bow to its demands. For faithful and faithless alike, escape becomes the immediate impulse. We’re seeing this at every turn: in impoverished cities where street drugs offer retreat, in plush suburbs where mood-altering pharmaceuticals create a false blur of inner peace and happiness, in overcrowded bars and restaurants where alcohol flows freely with the seductive promise of good times. And beyond chemicals we ingest to get away from it all, we look to other forms of drunkenness and excess to put distance between our troubles and us. We overspend on mindless distractions, engage in meaningless pleasures, and invest needless overtime on careers and projects. We are a culture on the run, too wounded and self-absorbed to realize that our neglect of righteousness only fuels our discontent and descent into ruin.

“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery,” Paul writes, “but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Creator at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” (v18-20) Frankly, I don’t foresee things getting better any time soon. The corrosive issues and enormous problems we refuse to discuss in a mature, meaningful fashion won’t disappear in the hateful haze surrounding them. Yet Ephesians is adamant in telling us how to respond when we feel suffocated by evil. More than ever, we must be filled with the Spirit. It’s time to sing, drowning our sorrows with thanksgiving to God for all that Christ has given us: new life—resurrected life—that triumphs over evil and wins the day. Even when warplanes roar overhead and anger rears up at every corner, we must find the strength to reach for psalms and hymns and spiritual songs that revive the very breath of God present within us. It sounds foolish, but it is wise. “Understand what the will of the Lord is.”

When we feel suffocated by the evils around us, it’s time to sing.

Postscript: “This Is My Song”

I would be hard-pressed not to leave you with a hymn. This happens to be my all-time favorite—a song that consistently brings new life to me when I find it hard to breathe.

Wonder Bread

I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. (John 6.48-50)

More than “Bigger, Stronger”

It’s funny what sticks with us as we age. I grew up during the golden age of advertising, when copywriters worked overtime to condense a product’s appeal into an indelible tagline. If memory were a canister, I could unscrew its lid and dozens of product slogans would pour out. The tagline for Wonder Bread—“Helps build strong bodies 12 ways”—ranks among the most memorable. Yet I didn’t fully appreciate how ingenious it was until researching its origins.

With sly cunning, Wonder Bread deployed a two-pronged strategy. It spent most of its ad dollars on children’s TV, securing brand loyalty among young consumers who never bought a loaf of bread in their lives, yet nonetheless influenced their parents’ buying decisions. As kids, we were constantly told to eat our vegetables, take our vitamins, and get plenty of sleep and exercise so we would “grow up to be big and strong.” The ad’s claim made Wonder Bread an easy purchase for us. But the campaign's real genius rested in its resonance with adults. What made this bread so wonderful to them was its being unlike any bread they’d ever known. It was packed with nutrients—12 in all—that staved off a raft of vitamin-deficiency diseases prevalent in their youth. What’s more, Wonder Bread was more durable than old-fashioned bread. Its preservatives allowed it to be pre-sliced without going stale. So while we heard, “Wonder Bread makes you big and strong,” our parents heard, “Wonder Bread keeps your family healthy and saves you needless expense on bread that doesn’t last.”

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus tells us in Sunday’s Gospel (John 6.35,41-51) Though everything within me resists comparing that glorious declaration to an advertising slogan, I can’t escape its parallels with Wonder Bread’s claims. Jesus is speaking to traditional Jews who’ve taken umbrage at His claim that He’s “bread that came down from heaven.” (v41) He’s calling Himself living manna—a bold move any way one slices it—and appealing to His listeners’ inherent desire to grow bigger and stronger. Remember, this is a crushed people subsisting on deficient hopes and stale ideas. They’re longing for a decisive deliverer to end their spiritual famine, not something so ordinary as heaven-sent bread to fortify their souls. They’re looking for a messiah to champion their cause, not a Prophet Who echoes Psalm 34.8’s challenge: “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are those who take refuge in God.” Yet the more astute of Jesus’s listeners—and we, if we’re equally astute—hear much more than “bigger, stronger” in His message. We hear, “I, the Bread of Life, will keep you healthy and save you needless expense on bread that doesn’t last.”

A Supernatural Phenomenon

While Wonder Bread quietly hinted at the inferiority of older brands, Jesus’s comparison is baldly overt: “Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died.” (v49) It turns out the manna miracle recorded in Exodus 16 probably wasn’t the supernatural manifestation many envision. It’s more probable the foodstuff from heaven was a honey-like secretion of plant lice common to the Sinai. (To this day, it’s gathered and sold as a Middle Eastern delicacy.) The arid conditions caused it to dry into resinous flakes that could be baked into sweet cakes rich in carbohydrates, with protein provided by quails flocking to snatch up what was left at day's end. But there were also drawbacks. First, manna alone didn’t make for a healthy diet. The saturated carbs boosted the Israelites’ energy; without protein, however, their stamina would fail. Second, it decayed rapidly and attracted flies that laid eggs in its resin. This made stockpiling manna impossible and discouraged the Israelites from settling for a high-carb diet that put them at high risk of diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease—the worst imaginable health crisis to befall a nomadic nation. Consequently, manna was the natural phenomenon by which God sustained Israel during its wilderness journey. That is a miracle of provision all by itself.

Manna kept Israel healthy because it didn’t last. In its place, Jesus offers something infinitely superior, a supernatural phenomenon that transcends physical hunger and survival. He answers those who deride His self-proclamation as living bread with an even more outrageous claim: He has come “down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die.” (v50) This bread is unlike any the world has ever known. It goes beyond sustaining life; it gives birth to new life that defeats death and the myriad fears associated with it. As long as we feast on Christ’s living bread, we will continue to grow bigger and stronger, because this bread is life-giving, life-changing, and life-affirming bread. By its supernatural power over death and fear, it endows us with unparalleled health that outlasts life as we know it.

Made to Last

This bread is wonder bread. It is eternal life lived in a realm impervious to time and space. It is life that can only come from God and only be experienced as God’s expressed presence moving and shaping our lives. It builds our strength more ways than we can count. It helps us grow into bigger, sturdier people than we could possibly become on any other diet, no matter how phenomenal it may look or sound. It keeps us healthy and alive, even when physical health fails and mortality calls. And it’s replete with sound promises that replace hollow hopes, vibrant principles that replace stale ideas. It is bread made to last. In verse 51, Jesus stresses what differentiates Him from soft-focused spirituality and faddish philosophies and other flaky, sweet-tasting—yet ultimately perishable—treats that appear to fall from the sky. “I am the living bread that came down from heaven,” He says. “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” Unlike manna, the Bread of Life falls from heaven to be twice-raised, first on a criminal's cross, then from the bowels of a borrowed tomb. And out of its brokenness flows the nectar of triumphant life.

We are right to wonder at this living bread capable of supplying everything we need to experience healthy, eternal life. If you’ve not yet discovered it—or if you’ve yet to make it the mainstay of your soul’s diet—I invite you to join billions who, for nearly two millennia, have attested to its life-giving, life-changing, and life-affirming power.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

The Bread of Life supplies everything we need to experience healthy, eternal life.