Lectionary Commentaries for August 18, 2024
Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

In this section of the Bread of Life discourse, Jesus introduces a profound concept: “flesh” (sarx). This term will dominate the conversation, representing Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice. Jesus identifies himself as the bread of life “that came down from heaven”(6: 51), offering life to those who partake of his “flesh.” Once more, Jesus’ audience is shocked, given that the Torah forbids the eating of blood or of flesh with any blood left in it (Deuteronomy 12:23; Leviticus 17:14; 19:26). Besides, eating human flesh is practically impossible, so they ask, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” (6:52).

Jesus does not respond to “how” he gives his flesh to eat, but reasserts that the bread he shall give is his flesh, adding that he is even offering more: “his blood” (6:53). Flesh and blood constitute human life, so Jesus claims that he is giving his flesh and blood through death so that people might have life. This act of sacrifice, this offering of his very self, is a testament to his love and devotion to us, and it should fill our hearts with gratitude and reverence.

This heavenly bread, akin to the manna their ancestors consumed in the desert, differs in one crucial aspect: it grants eternal life. The manna was temporary, as their ancestors gathered, ate, and died. In contrast, Jesus’ bread is his flesh, his very self that he has given up in death. “Flesh refers to humankind in its mortality (1:13; 3:6; 8:15; 17:2), and so it is appropriately used to express Jesus’ flesh given in death. The verb [para]didonai] means to hand over, to give, or to give up ‘on behalf of’ or ‘for the sake of’ (hyper) another person.”¹

Flesh alone or death alone does not give life. Jesus’ flesh gives life because he is “the Word [that] became flesh” (1:14). It is through his “coming down from heaven” and becoming flesh, through his words and deeds, and through his death that Jesus makes God known and gives life. “Through his word, Jesus imparts wisdom; in his dying, he imparts life.”²

The switch of discourse from eating and drinking, understood as believing in and coming to Jesus, to the more graphic and specific imagery of eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking Jesus’ blood not only causes grumbling, as in the previous section, but causes a dispute. The language meets immediate resistance as it sounds like cannibalism. “How can he give us his flesh to eat?”As is typical of John’s Gospel, the absurdity of a statement should lead us to think beyond the ordinary, to interpret symbolically or metaphorically. Jesus is the “sacred food”³ that gives life and sustains it.

Jesus, as the sustainer of life, echoes John’s prologue, which presents Jesus as the Word (Logos) through which God created. Therefore, we can rightly infer that the same Word is the bread that sustains the life God created. Thus, Jesus’ teachings and actions become the metaphorical bread that gives us life and sustains us. The one who partakes of Jesus’ flesh and drinks Jesus’ blood remains in Jesus and Jesus in them.

Eating and drinking are outstanding metaphors for how we receive what Jesus offers his followers. To experience Jesus’ saving power, believers must feed on him: “must absorb his teaching, his character, his mind, and ways; must appropriate the virtue in him till his mind becomes our mind and his ways our ways; till we think somewhat as he would do if he were in our place, and can be and do what without him we could not be or do; and this because his power has passed into us and become our power.”⁴ What an excellent metaphor for a relationship so intimate and vital that Jesus compares it to that between Jesus and God!

This relationship between Jesus and the believer is not fleeting but enduring, as the Gospel draws a parallel to the relationship of Jesus and God (verse 57). What Jesus brings to this relationship is not something temporary but something that lasts and deepens into eternity. John is clear that the mission of Jesus is from Jesus’ Father and of the reciprocal indwelling of Christ and the believer. Jesus does not merely create and distribute food that humans need; he is clearly food and gives himself, flesh and blood, for the world’s life. The idea that Jesus gives life in his death is a central theme here.

Whoever eats Jesus’ flesh and drinks Jesus’ blood remains in Jesus and Jesus in him. In the Fourth Gospel, the verb “to remain” (menõ) designates the mutual indwelling between Jesus and God, an eternal relationship that Jesus invites his listeners to share (see 1:39; 14:10, 15:4–10). By giving his body and blood in his death, he invites his followers to a relationship that reflects Jesus’ relationship with God. This enduring relationship with Jesus should fill us with security and comfort, knowing we are always in his presence and care.

How do you respond to this great invitation to enter a deeper relationship with Jesus? How do you remain in Jesus to enjoy the fruits of this relationship with Jesus and, through Jesus, with a loving God?

Notes

1. Marianne Meye Thompson, John: A Commentary, The New Testament Library (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2015), 154–155.
2. Thompson, John: A Commentary, 155.
3. George Arthur Buttrick, The Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary, vol. 8 (Nashville: Abingdon, 1991), 573.
4. Buttrick, The Interpreter’s Bible, 573–574.

Food is a metaphor for life in many biblical stories. For a few weeks now, we have been reading Jesus’ sermon in John 6 in which he proclaims, “I am the bread of life,” and then describes what that means. And the corresponding Old Testament readings have spoken of various miraculous meals: Elisha’s feeding of 100 men with just 20 loaves of barley bread (2 Kings 4), the giving of manna—bread from heaven—to the Israelites in the wilderness (Exodus 16), and the angelic food—a loaf baked on hot stones—provided for Elijah as he runs away from the vengeful Jezebel (1 Kings 19).

The culinary theme continues this week as Woman Wisdom invites all who will listen to come to a banquet. She has built her house and prepared the feast—meat, spiced wine, and bread. She has sent out her servants to gather folks in, and she invites them with these words:

“You that are simple, turn in here! …
Come, eat of my bread
    and drink of the wine I have mixed.
Lay aside immaturity, and live,
    and walk in the way of insight.” (Proverbs 9:4–6)

Wisdom invites the young and the foolish to eat and drink at her table so they might gain understanding and live. Such is the aim of the biblical Wisdom literature, of which Proverbs is the quintessential example: to teach young people how to live with wisdom and integrity, how to live the good life, in the best sense of that term.

The phrase “the good life,” of course, means something entirely different to most people today. Rather than having to do with integrity and wisdom, “the good life” refers to material prosperity and fame. It’s like an advertisement I saw several years ago, a full-page spread with a photo of a gleaming black sports car and, across the top, the words “THE KEY TO AN EXTRAORDINARY LIFE IS QUITE LITERALLY A KEY.” And at the bottom of the ad, a photo of a key fob from the Italian car maker Maserati.

With a base price equivalent to twice the median annual income of an American worker, that Maserati car is out of reach for most people. In addition, it is patently false and even ridiculous to say that “the key to an extraordinary life” is literally a key to a luxury sports car. Nevertheless, the advertising professionals who made the ad homed in on a strong human desire—the desire to lead a life that is, as the ad says, “the absolute opposite of ordinary.”

The sages who wrote Proverbs understood the human desire to live a good life. The “good life” of the Wisdom sages, however, did not consist of a life devoted to the pursuit of wealth. Though the Israelite Wisdom teachers appreciated material prosperity, they did not hold it as life’s ultimate goal. Instead, they urged their followers above all to live lives of virtue, integrity, honesty, hard work, and faithfulness—lives rooted in “the fear of the LORD” (Proverbs 1:7; 9:10; 14:27; 15:16, et cetera).

Such a life may not seem “extraordinary” in the sense that the Maserati ad uses that term. Nevertheless, a life of integrity, honesty, self-control, faithfulness—such a life is extraordinary in the best sense of the word. The person who puts into practice the teachings of the sages may become an example of a way of being in the world that is neither flashy nor attention-seeking, but is in fact noteworthy and (in its own way) remarkable. Such wise people possess a certain gravitas that draws others to them.

The invitation of Woman Wisdom to her feast is an invitation to such a life, a life marked by insight, honesty, integrity, and the fear of the Lord. Wisdom’s feast is the metaphorical and ethical equivalent of a hearty meal made of whole food—beautiful, nutritious, and delicious.

By contrast, later in the chapter, Folly issues an invitation to her own feast. She uses the same words as Wisdom: “You who are simple, turn in here!” (9:16). Folly’s invitation may be tempting to the young and naïve, but Folly’s water is stolen and her bread is the bread of secrecy. Indeed, “they [Folly’s guests] do not know that the dead are there [at the feast], that her guests are in the depths of Sheol” (9:18). Cue the spooky music.

Folly’s feast may be tempting, in other words, but it is the road to death. It is the moral and ethical equivalent of ultra-processed sweets and chemically enhanced fast food: It may be tempting at first sight, but indulging in such a “feast” leaves one feeling bloated and slightly nauseated.

As you consider preaching this text this week, you might ask yourself and your congregation the question: What is the equivalent to Wisdom’s feast or Folly’s feast today? 

The answer will depend at least in part on your particular context, of course. Folly’s feast certainly might include a single-minded pursuit of wealth and status symbols, as in the Maserati ad. But it also undoubtedly includes a more recent development, the modern media landscape which has done genuine harm to our social fabric. The small screens we carry around in our pockets intrude on our time with real, beloved, in-the-flesh family and friends. We’ve all seen people out to eat at restaurants, sitting across the table from each other but ignoring one another because each is engrossed in looking at his or her phone. 

And what is it that so captures our attention? Inane games, fatuous gossip about celebrities, and silly social media updates. Or worse yet, news feeds that offer us a steady diet of outrage, hate, and fear, our own biases reinforced by whatever echo chamber we choose to inhabit. 

We all understand that this isn’t good for us, much like a diet of too many sweets or overprocessed foods. We even talk about it in terms of eating: we “consume” too much media; we check news “feeds”; we have to “fast” from Facebook. But Folly’s feast is alive and well in our pockets, and it is hard to refuse her invitation.

So here is the good news: Through God’s grace, Wisdom’s feast is also always available, and Wisdom continues to call out: “You that are simple, turn in here! … Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight.”

And what does Wisdom’s feast look like today? Perhaps it is real conversations over home-cooked meals with those we love. Perhaps it is reading an actual book and talking about it with a friend. Perhaps it is taking a walk in silence, without listening to music or a podcast, paying attention to the wild and wonderful creation that God has made through Wisdom (Proverbs 8). Perhaps it is having a conversation with an older friend, one who has learned wisdom through many years of faithful living. It certainly looks like reading and meditating on Scripture, taking time for prayer, and joining other believers in weekly worship and Christian fellowship.

Whatever shape Wisdom’s feast takes in your life and in the lives of those you serve, may it be satisfying in the way that only real food, real bread can be. May it nourish your soul and bear fruit in your life so that others might be sustained by that fruit. And may it teach you wisdom as you seek to walk in the way of Christian discipleship.

If you have had any experience with a congregation over time, you know that one of the greatest challenges can be the matter of pastoral succession. If you are part of a tradition that practices itinerancy, you understand what it means for pastors to be reassigned with some frequency, perhaps even as little as a year’s time. In other traditions, pastors might serve for many years or even decades before someone else occupies the role. On occasion, some have had the privilege to designate their successor. On a sadder note, some congregations have had drawn-out fights and contentious votes over who the next leader will be. The road to succession is often a complicated one.

The road to Solomon’s succession is no exception. Solomon, a son of David, has ascended to the throne after 40 years of his father’s rule. The preceding books of the Hebrew Bible inform us of the long and winding road to this point. 

In 1 and 2 Samuel, we can read how David’s own reign over Israel was a consequence of both his faithfulness to God and his predecessor Saul’s failings. Even so, David’s tenure as king was marked by betrayal, bloodshed, infidelity, and more. In the midst of these less-than-perfect circumstances, God ensured the legacy of David and the continuation of the kingdom. God promised that when David died and joined his ancestors, one of his sons would succeed him and God would establish his kingdom (2 Samuel 7:12). First Kings 2:10–12 is a fulfillment of this promise and sets the tone for the early days of Solomon’s rule.

In the shift to chapter 3, we find Solomon fulfilling the traditions of worship. It bears mentioning that Solomon is offering his burnt offerings in the city of Gibeon. The Israelites’ relationship to this location is deeply significant. During the era of Joshua’s leadership, Gibeon was the one Canaanite city that attempted to make peace with the Israelites, albeit deceptively. As a consequence, the Gibeonites were constrained to serve as woodcutters and water bearers in service to Israel and the house of God (Joshua 9). Furthermore, Gibeon was the site of the battle in which God miraculously held the sun at a standstill while Joshua and the Israelites fought against the Amorites (Joshua 10). 

All of this underscores how Solomon is deeply connected to a sacred lineage and history grounded in this geographical location. He is a participant in activities and rituals that have been established and reinforced in this place for generations. Gibeon is a location where God’s presence and power have been shown, and it is where God shows up to engage Solomon in a new way.

Solomon faces the challenge that most successors will also face: how to faithfully honor your roots while setting a course for the future. This is a delicate balance to strike. Verses 3–4 establish that Solomon is attentive to the first part of this balance. In the midst of the habits of faithful practice, God shows up in a way that profoundly impacts the trajectory of Solomon’s future. We could very well hold this intervention in tandem with the prophet Samuel’s intervention in the life of Solomon’s father, David. It was David who faithfully tended to his father’s flocks and found himself unexpectedly being anointed by Samuel as Israel’s next king. In both instances, fidelity and consistency lay the foundation for a tremendous future.

God’s statement to Solomon—“Ask what I should give you” (1 Kings 3:5)—presents both a challenge and an opportunity. How does one respond to such an open-ended possibility? We could think of the usual trappings of this world that people seek—money, power, status, acclaim, longevity. There is no indication that God has placed stipulations on what Solomon can request. Of course, the conversation between them reveals that Solomon is measured and balanced in his response. He is not thinking of mere personal gain, but of the weight that rests on his shoulders as a successor to the throne. He is concerned with how he might best serve his foundational roots and his future responsibilities. 

Solomon’s response to God is four verses long, but it is only in the final verse that he makes his request. Verses 6–8 are a testimony to God’s faithfulness to him, his father, and his people. He is making it very clear that he understands his relationship to a spiritual and familial heritage. Furthermore, he has a humble recognition of his limits and an acceptance of his need for guidance. He is the king, but power is not his alone. And for these reasons, he asks for wisdom and moral discernment to lead the people as best he can. 

Why did it please God that Solomon made this request? Perhaps it is a subtle acknowledgment that Solomon understands that the purpose of succession is not self-promotion but collective continuance. God’s ultimate intent, it seems, was not for kings over Israel but for the flourishing of the people in relationship with God (1 Samuel 8). In essence, Solomon’s request demonstrates that he does not hold a self-important view of kingship. Rather, he seeks the well-being of the people he stands not merely over but also amidst. 

From Solomon’s request, we learn something valuable about what makes succession possible. The transfer of power and authority can be rocky if there is not a thoughtful respect for one’s place in a larger history. We rest on the shoulders of those whose labor and effort have made our presence possible, and we do well to humbly acknowledge our inheritance while courageously taking on our present responsibilities. Though the reign of Solomon was not without its own troubled missteps, it suggests that power and authority are not meant for permanent possession but for temporal stewardship. In the end, the throne does not belong to him; he simply plays his role in keeping the traditions alive and well. Such is the work of any good successor.

How many times a day do you use the phrase “It’s all good”?¹

It’s an expression that’s thrown around a lot in everyday life suggesting that everything is fine, acceptable, perhaps even great. We use it to keep peace in relationships with our family, our friends, and even strangers we don’t know.

Someone hurts you; you brush it off: “It’s all good.” You make a mistake and feel embarrassed. A friend assures you: “It’s all good.” You disagree with a spouse: “It’s all good.” We all believe that these three words will actually repair the damage of an argument or anything gone wrong. We say “It’s all good,” and we imply, “I’m OK and you’re OK … don’t mess with me, and I won’t mess with you.”

The problem is that “It’s all good” actually says very little. The only real meaning it holds is that we’re trying to rise above whatever problem exists in our world. We use it because we don’t have the time, energy, or capacity to deal with the reality that things might not be good. In fact, they might be bad. How do we deal with that?

Psalm 34: Overview

Though it might be a stretch, Psalm 34:9–14 makes the statement “It’s all good.” It’s all good because YHWH is good, and YHWH has a clear interest in our lives. Even when we are at our worst and left wondering, “What are we to do now, when things aren’t good?” This psalm reminds us that we are to remember the testimony given in the first half of the psalm, verses 4–6, and we are to take comfort in a good God who is happy when people take refuge in that goodness.

Although this week’s lectionary reading excludes verses 7 and 8, it might be helpful to begin the reading of this psalm at verse 7. These two verses, along with verses 9–14, underscore a message the psalmist has emphasized and will continue to emphasize through verse 14, as well as in the remainder of the psalm (verses 15–22). God is good to us, and our well-being, in addition to our doing good, is a matter of following the ways of the Lord.

Psalm 34:9–14

Verses 7–8 begin a list of commands to taste, see, fear, come, keep, depart, and do. In this section, verses 7, 9, and 11 emphasize the reverence of YHWH among all other gods that an individual or community could choose to worship. Verses 8, 10, 12, and 14 lace the reverence of YHWH only with the good and pleasant things that may come in this life. YHWH is the source of good (verse 8), and we also should do good (verse 14). Thus, the fear of the Lord really might be the beginning of wisdom, as Proverbs and now this psalm tell us.

A word of caution may be appropriate here. One must not view the relationship of YHWH’s goodness to our goodness as a moralistic imperative only. It is helpful to understand the relationship between these two “collocations,” as described by John Goldingay:

The collocation suggests a link between the theological and the experiential; YHWH’s goodness lies in a generosity that gives good things. It suggests a link between the theological and the behavioral; doing the good thing is a matter of taking the right attitude to YHWH. It also suggests a link between the behavioral and the experiential; doing good leads to enjoying good.²

There are multiple theological, behavioral, experiential, and even ethical lessons in verses 7–14 for our understanding of the relationship between a God who is good, God’s people who want to enjoy and do good, and a world where all is sometimes good and sometimes not good.

Preaching Psalm 34

In contrast to the surrounding culture that wants to assume “It’s all good,” Psalm 34 presupposes that even those who revere and call on the name of YHWH are going to have fears, worries, and troubles. There will be times in each of our lives when, in fact, it’s not all good. In those moments, we are to follow the example of David in Psalm 34, who did not pretend that “It’s all good.” Rather, he cried to YHWH, he was heard by YHWH, and he was saved by YHWH.

In those moments of our deepest fear, worry, and trouble, we are to lean into the one and holy God, the source of all goodness. We are to approach God, knowing that we are God’s creation, God’s goodness, God’s beautiful piece of art—like a poem, a sculpture, or a musical score. And, like theologian N. T. Wright says, “The music, which we now have to play, is the genuine way of being human, laid out before us in God’s gracious design so we can follow it.” Now that’s all good.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website August 16, 2015.
2. John Goldingay, “Psalm 34,” in Psalms, Volume 1–41, ed. Tremper Longman, III, Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006), 480.

20240818_SBrown_2ndR_Eph5:15-20

At first glance, this text may seem to hold little homiletical promise. Most of us typically don’t use “wise” or “foolish” to describe politicians or relatives; our vernacular is more colorful. One might hear “the days are evil”—but on stage in a Shakespearean drama. Where can a preacher find traction here? Fortunately, clues in the lection itself and its larger context reframe these verses, revealing plenty of preaching territory to explore.

As I suggested last week in connection with Ephesians 4:25–5:2, commentators surmise that the paraenetic (ethically formational) material in this letter may be modeled on the pre-baptismal homilies candidates for baptism in the early church would hear in the weeks leading up to baptism itself. In that setting, speaking about the “wise” versus the “foolish” would be a clever use of street-friendly speech. Tales of the wise versus the foolish were woven through the oral fables of ancient Mediterranean cultures, as they are to this day. 

Remarking that “the days are evil” appropriates the language of apocalyptic literature, popular in this time. “The days are evil” is the sort of phrase one might have emblazoned on the front of a first- or second-century T-shirt, had there been such a thing; the back could read: “Redeem the time!” (Today we might say “Seize the day!”) 

Such language would connect with listeners either just baptized or soon to be, shaped by pagan popular culture but now ready to learn the practices of Christian community. Again, common vernacular leads into the language of faith in verse 18: “[In light of this critical point in time, which we could spend wisely or foolishly], do not be drunk with wine, but be filled with the Spirit.” Today we might say, “In these critically decisive times when action matters, don’t let yourself stumble around in a directionless haze, self-medicated with alcohol, but give yourself over to the Spirit of God.” 

The phrase “be filled with the Spirit” evokes the context of Christian worship. Verse 19, essentially an echo of Colossians 3:16c, is a striking passage, in that it is one of a few New Testament texts that focus on the spiritually formative practice of singing. 

Studies indicate that we best remember words that we do not merely read or recite, but sing. Maybe you’ve had one of those days when a tune lodged itself in your brain; for hours, you couldn’t escape either the tune or the lyrics.

As a teacher of Christian worship, I advised seminarians and working pastors to pay attention to the lyrics they encouraged their congregations to sing. The theology we have sung over a lifetime is the theology that will accompany us when the rest of memory blurs; it is the theology that will carry us as we face life’s end. On a sudden impulse, I went to see a fellow pastor fighting a chronic blood infection. He was exceptionally alert that afternoon. He asked me to help him remember all the stanzas of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” We sang it together, in parts, then talked of other things. Hours later, he died peacefully. The Ephesians writer recognized the spiritual durability of our songs and hymns.

The simple phrase “among yourselves” (verse 19) is worthy of attention in a sermon. We sing our worship songs and hymns with, and for, one another, even as we sing them as praise to God. During my years in parish ministry, I found myself walking the path of bereavement with many widowed men and women. Sometimes a bereaved spouse would come to church, but choose a seat at the back of the sanctuary. It struck me that they stood silently during hymns. I asked one widow, also a friend, about this. She said, “I need others to sing the hymns to me, and for me, until I can sing them again myself.” 

Another dimension of congregational song we can address is a grammatical one: how the pronouns we sing can either broaden or narrow the horizon of our faith. There is a place for songs and hymn texts featuring “I,” “me,” and “mine.” But if we sing exclusively of our individual relationship with Jesus, or of God’s specific attention to our personal troubles, we risk fostering a self-absorbed version of Christian faith. Like all the epistles, Ephesians stresses the plural “you”—the “we” and “us” and “ours” of our faith. We also need hymns that turn us outward to the “they,” “them,” and “those” outside our sanctuary walls who are the object of unceasing divine concern. Because that’s true, their sufferings and hopes matter to us, too. 

The meaning of “giving thanks” (verse 20) is a matter of debate. Does this refer to the Lord’s Supper (often called Eucharist, literally “giving thanks” in Greek)? Or does it simply suggest grateful prayers? A preacher might choose one or the other, or even explore both in a sermon. The eucharistic reading would connect readily with today’s gospel text, John 6:51–58.

Alternatively, we might wrestle in a sermon with what it means to “give thanks at all times and for everything.” To tell bereaved parents, a midlife dad who has lost his job, or a newly diagnosed cancer patient that they must “give thanks for everything” is pastorally untenable. To assure a congregation of God’s unfailing commitment to them in the throes of suffering is a lifeline. 

When a friend of mine was diagnosed in her 30s with multiple sclerosis, she plunged into a crisis of faith. Years later she told me, “I had to lose the God I thought I should believe in, but couldn’t, so I could find the One I could believe in—the One who bears the effects of MS with me.” 

Gratitude to the God who has become one of us—accompanying us even amid oppression, pain, isolation, and grief—is an act of holy defiance against all the forces, seen and unseen, that conspire to crush our faith and our hope.