Lectionary Commentaries for August 11, 2024
Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

This is a pivotal part of the later section of John 6, often called the “bread of life” discourse. The question of Jesus’ identity is not merely a matter of curiosity; it carries profound implications for Jesus’ audience and for Christianity today. In John 6:35, Jesus boldly proclaims himself as the bread of life, assuring that those who come to him will never hunger.

This self-identification, “I AM the bread of life,” resonates with God’s revelation to Moses in Exodus (3:14), affirming that Jesus is God. Comprehending Jesus as bread necessitates a transcendent interpretation, acknowledging the symbol “bread.” Symbolism is a vital component of the Gospel of John; therefore, grasping these symbols is crucial for a deeper understanding of the text.

In our everyday language, a symbol represents something else. It could be an action, person, or image standing for something else and, in our context, something transcendent. Symbols serve as a bridge, making it easier to comprehend an idea or a reality that is often challenging to grasp. They “convey something of transcendent significance through something accessible to the senses¹ Jesus associates himself with “bread”; the apparent contradiction that he is bread prompts us to reconsider this simple imagery. Readers should ponder how Jesus is analogous to bread, with the overarching concept that Jesus is bread because he sustains life.

Jesus’ listeners react to his statement with doubt, irritation, and “murmuring.” He cannot claim to be “bread which came down from heaven” (verse 41). The audience is familiar with his parents, Joseph and Mary, who are ordinary community members (verse 42). The people think at an ordinary level and look at the physical bread and the physical origin of Jesus. They must transcend the day-to-day experiences of physical food and origin. In John’s Gospel, whenever Jesus performs a sign, it is followed by belief and unbelief. Ironically, the crowd that wanted to make Jesus a king (verse 15) when he multiplied bread, now doubts that he has come from heaven.

What things look so ordinary that they might make us miss something valuable, something transcendent? What things look so ordinary to be considered extraordinary? What particular thing might we miss seeing or understanding in the ordinary? The question of Jesus’ identity and what it means for Christian ministry and discipleship is at stake.

The manna the Israelites ate in the desert was perishable (Exodus 16:20–21), and their fathers who ate it perished (John 6:47). Jesus is instead that bread that does not perish, that which humans eat and do not die. Jesus is the bread from heaven that sustains life eternally. Jesus is bread and is redefining bread in his new context. He invites his audience to shift their thoughts from what Moses did in the past to what God is doing in the present.

When Jesus says, “I AM the bread from heaven,” the discussion should move from what Moses did in the past to what God is doing in the present. His words effectively break the parallel between himself and Moses. The crowd associated him with Moses, but Jesus invites them to understand him in other terms. “Jesus is not a baked product in his physical makeup. He is like bread in that he sustains life.”² We are invited to think about how we can redefine bread in our context and how it can help our listeners grasp Jesus’ identity.

Bread is explicitly connected with life that is not merely physical. In its theological understanding, “life” indicates a relationship with God, so “life” means eternal life (verses 40, 47). Death is no longer a threat to the listeners because Jesus has promised that he will raise them on the last day. Jesus’ eternal life is a relationship with God that begins in faith and continues beyond the grave to eternity.

“Eternal life belongs to those who have passed beyond reliance on the physical senses into the spiritual experience, in other words, believing. Life in that higher sphere is sustained by nonperishable spiritual food.”³ This spiritual food is none other than Jesus, who is the Word of God (the Logos in John’s Gospel), God’s wisdom (Wisdom 16:20–29), and who offers his life (flesh) in death so that death no longer has victory, but the resurrection does.

By comparing himself to bread, Jesus makes himself as necessary to us as the food we eat. He is our food, enabling us to live our life’s call, to be alive, our source of spiritual energy when exhausted, our consolation when we are troubled, our strength when we are weak, et cetera. Jesus, the bread of life, sustains us and restores our vigor and exhausted energies. Our search for material bread continues—the desire for more increases even as we have a lot of bread. The present bread does not fulfill our hunger or quench our thirst, but that which Jesus gives does.

Notes

1. Craig R. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 4.
2. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel, 8.
3. George Arthur Buttrick, ed., The Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary, vol. 8 (Nashville: Abingdon, 1991), 572.

In my youth, when I would watch movies and television or read novels, I was always drawn to fantastic spectacles. As I matured in my consumption of film and literature, I found myself appreciating the small scenes that brought more definition to a character. I find that as I read biblical literature, I am tending to pay more attention to character development as well. 

Probably the most iconic of Elijah’s scenes, save perhaps his ascension, is the spectacle of the competition with the prophets of Ba‘al on Mount Carmel. Many will recall sermons glorifying the display of God’s might in the face of the powers of this world. We are also familiar with what happens afterward when Elijah encounters God in a cave: Elijah witnesses a rock-splitting wind, an earthquake, and a fire—the powerful spectacles of nature—but God’s voice is not in any of them. Instead, God communicates in a low whisper (1 Kings 19:11–12). The contrast between God’s display of power on Mount Carmel and God’s silent voice in the cave is stark.

Tucked in the middle of this contrast, today’s first reading turns to a brief character moment. Verses 4–8 ask us to shift our consideration from how we experience God, to attend to the inner turmoil of God’s human servant. In these few verses, we catch a rare glimpse into the thoughts of a major biblical figure. At the end of YHWH’s victory over the prophets of Ba‘al—which culminated in Elijah slaughtering them all (18:40)—the queen, Jezebel, sent a death threat to the prophet (19:2). Immediately following, we see Elijah’s impulse for self-preservation. He is afraid and flees to a wilderness area near Beer-sheba in southern Judah (19:3).

The sojourn into the wilderness (19:4) would have piqued the interest of the Hebrew audience of this narrative, and it should draw our attention as well. It recalls the people’s history of wandering in the desert, as well as other figures, such as Hagar and Moses, who have encountered God in this liminal space during desperate times. I prefer to translate the Hebrew word for “wilderness” here as “desert,” lest those of us who live in more verdant regions of the world confuse the setting. Elijah is going somewhere where he is unlikely to be discovered, but also where food and water will be sparse and his life will continue to be in peril without God’s providence.

When Elijah reaches a resting place in the desert, he exclaims: “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors” (19:4). Elijah’s morbid thoughts parallel those of another Hebrew prophet who sits under a bush, wishing he might die: Jonah (Jonah 4:8). Moses, too, asks God to end his life after a conflict with the people of Israel (Numbers 11:15). We could also compare Elijah’s words here to those of Job, who after suffering great loss, wished that he had simply died when he was born (Job 3:11). 

Two things might baffle us in reading Elijah’s cry within its canonical context. First, we might ask ourselves why a prophet who had proven so successful to this point would utter such a death wish. Second, why would Elijah see himself as “no better than [his] ancestors” (1 Kings 19:4)? 

Unfortunately, the text does not give us a clue as to why he felt this weight of despair and guilt. Was it because he had committed a mass execution of the prophets of Ba‘al? Was he feeling the weight of spilling that much blood, even if at the time it seemed divinely appointed and in accordance with the command to kill those who actively lead the people astray (Deuteronomy 7:1–5)? Was he feeling the pressure of Jezebel’s death threat, even though God had delivered him from the prophets of Ba’al? Was he feeling the fatigue not only of his journey, but also of his calling as a prophet?

The rationale for Elijah’s feelings here never becomes clear. Instead, the text presents us with an intervention as the messenger of God comes to Elijah and offers him practical pastoral care. The messenger awakens Elijah and gives him bread and water before allowing the prophet to rest again. The messenger rouses Elijah a second time, and gives him food and water again.

The rest and the two meals provide Elijah the strength to continue ahead on a journey of 40 days and nights, a number that once again recalls the Hebrew sojourn in the desert for 40 years. Adding to this significant inner-biblical allusion, Elijah makes his way to Mount Horeb, the location where Moses and the Israelites received God’s revelation of Torah.

Those not currently struggling with self-worth or fatalistic thoughts might too easily write off Elijah’s complaint in this passage as overly dramatic and attention-seeking. If he wants to die, Jezebel blatantly offers that fate to him. Does he just not want to die by the hands of this foreign queen? The lack of clarity for Elijah’s expression here might tempt us to chide Elijah for his apparent lack of faith not only in himself, but also in God.

The text, however, presents us with a different response to Elijah’s honest lament. The messenger comes to Elijah and neither condemns nor coddles him. Instead, God’s agent recognizes Elijah’s fatigue and offers him respite and recovery.

Reading this brief character moment from the perspectives of both Elijah and the messenger offers us a couple of entry points as we consider the needs of our parishioners. 

First, there may be several in our pews, and not too few in our pulpits, who feel the weight of Elijah’s despair, even to the point of such suicidal thoughts, however rational or irrational they may seem from an external perspective. Bearers of the word must handle their judgment of Elijah carefully, lest the hearers of the word further internalize a critique of Elijah’s lament as an invalidation of their own struggles.

Second, those of us who may be in relationship with someone at Elijah’s level of depression might find ourselves needing to imitate the actions of the messenger here, offering consistent and kind care that will enable them to continue on their journey toward healing.

David’s care for his son Absalom, despite his rebellion, is telling.¹ David still seeks to protect his rebellious son in an ongoing civil war against his own army. Yet, protecting a rebellious son proves to be impossible, and David’s own commander Joab kills the insurrectionist heir. Absalom is the next in line to the throne and presents a natural threat for the Judean king, but at the same time, David loves Absalom and hopes that, in due time, he would be king over Judah.

Like in a democracy, the peaceful transition of power, here the royal rule from one to the next generation, can expose the system to chaos. David’s love for Absalom corrupts his capability to wisely decide as a ruler.

Absalom’s death: Part of a chain of killings and counter-killings, loss of a son and heir

Absalom is not the first victim of Joab, nor has he been innocent. Absalom’s death vindicates in some ways his prior killing of his brother Amnon in revenge for his sister Tamar’s rape (2 Samuel 13–14). He also attempted to kill his father in his revolt. Even though Absalom’s killing comes on the heels of his own efforts to annihilate other family members, David’s pain over Absalom’s death is meant to demonstrate how this form of justice, for a murderer in the context of a family feud, will leave many grieving.

Thus, when 2 Samuel 18 presents Absalom’s death by Joab’s hand as a typical incidence of feuding in a family context, it does not applaud feuding structures as a conflict-settlement practice. Because this is the royal family, Absalom’s death is also part of a political power play in which Joab kills an insurrectionist. A deeply hurting father, David must realize that he has killed his heir to the throne. With David’s grief over the loss of his son and heir, the Bible unequivocally hints at the ethical limits of feuding.

Over the past decade, US political discourse has become increasingly hateful and personalized. Populistic politicians have incited violence and even death threats against public officers of all three government branches. By doing so, they have revived structures of personal enmity in the public arena in ways that are typical for feuding societies. Consider, for instance, the killing of the rebellious Absalom.

The preacher may point out that modern democracies require mechanisms of dispute settlement that are different from those of feuding societies, including monarchies. Political opponents in a democracy must foremost subscribe to the mutual respect of opponents and must abide by the legal limits of political enmity. This excludes threats of physical violence against an opponent.

Point of view: The race of the messengers

Many of the David stories are dramatic narratives giving center stage to the individual figures and their point of view. The narrator barely comments, and anonymous opinions—such as, in our passage, the messenger’s announcements—occupy a prominent place. This messenger functions on two levels. As an anonymous character, he may seem to be the narrator’s neutral voice. But he is only seemingly neutral; rather, the scribe uses messengers as his vehicles to comment on the proceedings.

Here, the messenger is the voice of a rational analysis. It seeks to guide David slowly toward the recognition that what has happened is the default battle outcome in a revolt. Consequently, the narrative frames Absalom’s death as an event to celebrate because it demonstrates royal strength. Absalom’s death, from the messenger’s point of view, would warn any insurrectionists that “all who rise up against you for evil be like that young man” (2 Samuel 18:32).

The messenger’s views are biased, reminding the king of the obvious need to annihilate usurpers and to establish peace. Absalom was a rebel who almost managed to permanently overthrow David’s rule. The king must celebrate his death as a demonstration that he had the power of eliminating the danger and to ensure stability of his rule.

A Black messenger: The Cushites, an ethnicity from southern Egypt

The Cushites from southern Egypt are the southernmost known ethnicity in the Bible. Among other things, their military strength (2 Chronicles 12:3) and the Cushite dynasty’s legendary rise to power (Amos 9:7) stand out. There is no general negative bias vis-à-vis the Cushites in the Bible; indeed, Jews of Egyptian origin, like Moses, could marry Cushites (Numbers 12:1; see also Jeremiah 36:14), and their complexion is acknowledged in references like Jeremiah 13:23.

The messenger scene of 2 Samuel 18 characterizes the anonymous Cushite as a fast runner. He serves as the second messenger that, after the somber warnings of a first messenger, brings the precise news that more plainly details Absalom’s death. Constructs of race in modern US society differ from perceptions of ethnicities in biblical times. The Bible associates the dark-skinned Cushites neither with slavery nor with a subaltern social or ethnic status. It might be worth pointing out differences of US racial constructs compared with biblical associations about the Cushites as members of a certain ethnicity.

The Cushites and the neglect of their presence in traditional exegesis have often been a point of reference of contemporary African American Bible studies to demonstrate the selective perception of Black people in the Bible. The Bible uses a dark-skinned messenger to inform David about his son’s death. This demonstrates the presence of people of African descent in a critical military situation. It also illustrates that they ranked among the trustworthy servants of the king’s military.

How can the presence of honorable dark-skinned persons (see also Acts 8:26–40) be important in the current public discourse? And how might the larger context of the David tradition be helpful when critically considering typical racial constructs in this day and age?

Notes

1. The author thanks the Rev. Dr. Kim Beckmann for commenting on earlier versions of this commentary.

Psalm 34 is classified as an Individual Hymn of Thanksgiving.¹

Fifteen individual Hymns of Thanksgiving occur in the book of Psalms. In them, psalm singers give thanks to God for deliverance from various life-threatening situations: illness, enemies, and dangers. Two aspects of Psalm 34 intrigue this reader.

First, the superscription of the psalm places it within a particular life situation of King David: “when he feigned madness before Abimelech, so that he drove him out, and he went away.” The only story in the biblical text that might be associated with Psalm 34’s superscription is found in 1 Samuel 21:10-15. There, David fled from Saul and went to King Achish—not Abimelech—at Gath. But Achish recognized him and David was afraid for his life, so he feigned madness to disguise his true identity.

Ascertaining a specific historical event in the life of David in which to place Psalm 34 is not as important as using the setting to gain insight into the meaning and intent of the psalm. In Psalm 34, David praises God for deliverance from a life-threatening situation—perhaps his encounter with King Achish of Gath, later remembered as Abimelech.

Second, Psalm 34 is an alphabetic acrostic. Each verse begins with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Acrostic poems were the works of highly skilled literary artists and functioned in ancient Israelite literature in a number of ways. Acrostics were most likely memory devices to aid in private and public—that is, individual and corporate—recitation; in addition, literarily, they summarized all that could be said or that needed to be said about a particular subject, summing it up from alif to tav, from A to Z.

Adele Berlin suggests further that in an acrostic, the entire alphabet—the source of all words—is marshaled in praise of God. One cannot actually use all of the words in a language, but by using the alphabet one uses all potential words.

Thus, Psalm 34 is an individual hymn of thanksgiving of David, sung on the occasion of the deliverance of his very life by God, perhaps as the ultimate word about God’s help to those who are in need (a summary of all that could be said about God’s help in the face of oppression and hurt). Readers and hearers, then, should heed the words of Psalm 34, a song of thanksgiving for deliverance, and find in them hope for deliverance from various oppressive situations.

In the focus text, Psalm 34:1–8, the psalmist first offers praise to God:

I will bless the LORD at all times;
his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
My soul makes its boast in the LORD. (verses 1-2)

Blessing and praising God are common themes in the Psalter. The word “bless” comes from the same root as the Hebrew word “knee.” Thus, to bless is literally “to bend the knee”—to kneel before a sovereign. The words “praise” and “boast” come from the same Hebrew root word, the word that occurs in the phrase “hallelujah.” Thus, praise will be in the mouth of psalmist; while the psalmist’s inmost being (here translated as “soul”) finds its praise (“boasts”) in the Lord.

The psalm singer then states the reasons for offering praise to God:

I sought the LORD and he answered me,
and delivered me from all my fears. (verse 4)
This poor soul cried, and was heard by the LORD,
and was saved from every trouble. (verse 6)

Two more common themes of the Psalter occur in these verses. God delivers (natsal) and God saves (yashah) the psalm singer when the singer cries out to God. The two verbs are similar in meaning, but carry slightly different nuances of meaning. Natsal suggests a “snatching away” or “pulling away.” Thus, we may picture God plucking the psalmist out of the midst of fears and moving the psalmist to a safer place. Yashah means “to take full care of” or “to help,” suggesting that God enters the troubled situation of the psalmist and cares for the psalmist in the midst of the trouble.

Note that the word “soul” occurs in verse 6, just as it does in verse 2. The inmost being (soul) of the psalmist cried out to God and was cared for (verse 6) and thus finds its praise (boasts) in the Lord (verse 2).

Finally, the singer exhorts hearers/readers to join in praise of God’s deliverance with words of admonition:

O magnify the LORD with me,
and let us exalt his name together. (verse 3)
Look to him, and be radiant;
so your faces shall never be ashamed. (verse 5)
The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him,
and delivers them.
O taste and see that the LORD is good;
happy are those who take refuge in him. (verses 7–8)

The words of verse 8 are familiar words, but what does it mean to “taste and see” the goodness of the Lord? The word translated as “taste” means “to try something by experiencing it.” The psalm singer admonishes readers/hearers to try God’s goodness for themselves and experience it as one would taste a new food. The word is used in the same metaphoric way in Job 11:12 and Proverbs 31:18.

Tasting is one of our five senses. Seeing is another. We see the goodness of God powerfully displayed in the created world. Recall that in Genesis 1, after each creative act, God “saw” that it was good. And at the end of the creation story, God saw that creation was not just good, but that it was “very good.” Psalm 34 encourages us to experience God for ourselves and to open our eyes and see the goodness of God that is all around us.

Verse 8 ends with the words “Happy are those who take refuge in him.” The word translated here as “take refuge” means “to hide oneself.” This writer pictures a small child wrapped up in its parent’s arms—protected, warm, loved. The result? Happiness. The word “happy” occurs some 25 times in the Psalter (see 1:1; 2:12; 41:1; 65:4; 112:1, et cetera).

Some translations render the word as “blessed,” others as “happy.” Another option for translation is “content.” Taking refuge in God—being protected, warm, and loved—can result in a deep, inner sense of contentment, a feeling in the very depth of your being that all is well. Content, indeed, are those who allow themselves to be wrapped up in the arms of God.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website August 9, 2009.

The straightforward “don’ts” and “dos” of today’s text tempt a preacher to take a low-stress stroll to the pulpit this week. Cherry-pick a couple of choice bits of moral advice, throw in an amusing anecdote or two, and the sermon practically preaches itself. But that approach would not do justice either to the lection or to the christologically anchored, revolutionary reconstruction of human community Ephesians announces.

The paraenetic (ethically formational) material in Ephesians 4–6 is not the common-sense, kindly advice of a benign uncle. What we have here are radical blueprints for an utterly transformed pattern of human relations that the author¹ calls “one new humanity” (2:15). This unprecedented social reality, brought into being through Christ’s death and resurrection, has shattered the wall that has long divided Jew from Gentile (2:14), and defies taken-for-granted social norms. At 4:25, the writer begins addressing a pressing question: What are the habits we must abandon and the practices we need to embrace to experience this “new humanity”?

There is nothing specifically Christian about most of the vices, virtues, and practices described in today’s text. Similar lists abound in ancient literature. What makes this material distinctively Christian isn’t the specific behaviors cited, but the theologically framed motivations that accompany them, along with the world-shifting theological vision they presuppose. In fact, a mindful rereading of Ephesians 1:1–4:24 will be essential sermon preparation this week.

There is no need to preach the entire sweep of today’s text. Both preacher and congregation will benefit from focusing on just one, or at most two, of its six major themes:

1) laying aside false, or misleading, communication one with another, and instead, speaking truth (4:25);

2) acknowledging that anger can be justified, yet refusing to let it fester (4:26–27);

3) embracing honest work, not for our own benefit and security, but for the sake of meeting human need (4:28);

4) cutting off the impulse to indulge in “evil talk” (think here of corrosive criticism, denigrating sarcasm, and talking behind others’ backs), and choosing instead speech that “builds up” community members (4:29–30);

5) resisting the temptation to nurse grudges, justify our resentments, pick fights, and denigrate those with whom we disagree (4:31), and instead cultivate kindness, tenderheartedness, and forgiveness such as God has extended to us in Christ (4:32); and

6) becoming “imitators of God” by living out of love, and—moved by love—giving ourselves away for others, as Christ has (5:1–2).

Given the cultural and political tensions that shape our present moment, a preacher might explore with the congregation what “speaking truth with one another” means for us when what counts as “truth” is itself a subject of rancorous debate.

Many of us these days seek our reality-establishing information on the internet. We need to keep alert to the fact that the information that pops up on our screen is curated and filtered by built-in software. As data collects about what sorts of information attract and keep our attention, algorithms feed us content that keeps us following related threads. (Interestingly, grievance-evoking content works best!)² Our human tendency to seek support for our opinions (especially our aggravations), coupled with algorithmic responses to our clicks, tends to isolate us in seamlessly plausible information universes. Contrary “facts,” if they appear at all, are packaged as silly, misleading, or malicious.

What might it look like for a Christian community to “put away falsehood” and “speak” (or share!) “truth” with one another if we live in non-overlapping universes of “truth”? Could we begin by owning the fact that our filtered informational world is only part of the story? How can we cultivate forbearance and humility, as we struggle with competing narratives (theme #5)?

Different homiletical possibilities emerge if we attend to evidence in Ephesians that the author works with an underlying baptismal framework. Immediately before our text begins, the writer seems to allude to early Christian baptismal practice: “stripping off” one’s ordinary garments (“the old self,” 4:22) and, after rising from the baptismal water, being “clothed” with one’s white baptismal garment (“clothed with the new self,” 4:24). These rites, which included renouncing the ways of the evil one (4:27), are fully described only in later church writings, but the underlying practices probably developed decades earlier.

When read through the lens of baptismal practice, Ephesians 4:25–6:18 seems very much like a series of templates for pre- or post-baptismal homilies. Weeks of preparatory instruction for baptismal candidates led to baptism on Easter eve. From Easter to Pentecost, the newly baptized assembled for daily homilies coaching them in the core practices of their new life and new community.

A preacher could sketch this baptismal backdrop, pick up on the metaphor in 4:22–24, and present one or two themes in today’s reading in light of the question “What does it mean to ‘live into’ our baptism?”

Christian communities are meant to be living demonstrations before the world of the revolutionary “new humanity” forged in Jesus’ death and resurrection. Yet worldwide, Christian communities face off, sponsoring dramatically opposed visions of what it means to live Christianly in our time. What would happen if we deliberately embraced the Spirit-inspired practices, steeped in humility, that our text commends? It may be a good place to start.

Notes 

1. I will refer at times to “the writer,” and other times to “Paul,” to acknowledge that the text, while “Pauline” in character, may not have been written by Paul the apostle himself.
2. I’m indebted to former students with hands-on experience in the social media industry for these insights.