9 Pentecost

July 26, 2015

2 Kings 4.42-44; John 6.1-21

+ Now, as most of you know, it’s very rare—very, very rare—that I ever preach on sin. I don’t do it very often—and when I do, I usually do it during Lent. Because I have to.

But today, I’m going to preach a little bit on a sin. I know I shouldn’t. It’s a baptism Sunday, after all. But, don’t worry; it’s not going to be one of THOSE sermons about sin.

I’m going to preach about a little known sin—a sin we don’t think about often.  I’m going to preach about gluttony. Gluttony is a good sin to examine occasionally. It’s a nice safe, sin, compared to some of the other sins.  After all we, in our society, don’t think about gluttony as a sin.

Why would we? We, after all, love to eat. We HAVE to eat, after all.  There’s no getting around that fact.

But gluttony is more than just about eating.  It is about eating to excess.  It is about eating—or drinking—to the point in which we are no longer fulfilled.  Gluttony is eating without thinking about eating.  It is about eating to fill the psychological and spiritual voids we feel within us rather than for sustenance.

Sometimes we eat not because we’re hungry. We eat because we feel empty spiritually, psychologically, emotionally. And food does a pretty good job of filling that emptiness—at least for a short period of time.  Most of us eat not when we’re hungry, but simply out of habit. Yes, we find that when have missed our habitual time to eat, our stomachs start to grumble and we find ourselves thinking inordinately about food, but that isn’t hunger necessarily.

In fact, few, if any, of us know what real hunger is.  Few of us have actually ever starved.  And that’s a good thing.  I am happy about that fact.

The point I’m making, however, is that most of us simply eat because we are scheduled to eat at certain times. It’s sort of wired into us. But we very rarely eat just because we’re hungry.  And we often eat more than we really need to.

Eating feels good. Eating makes us feel sustained and comforted.  And in those moments in our lives when we might need to feel sustained and comforted, food is a great replacement.  I’ve learned, that most of us probably could survive very well and very healthily from less food than we actually consume.

The spiritual perspective I’ve gained from this different way of thinking about food has been even more enlightening. To be honest, I had never given much thought to the fact that eating is a spiritual act.  For me, the best way to look at spiritual eating is in the light of that one event that holds us together here at St. Stephen’s, that sustains us and that, in many ways, defines us.  I am, of course, speaking of the Holy Eucharist—Holy Communion.

You have heard me say it many times before and you will hear me say it many times again, no doubt, but I am very firm believer in the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, in the bread and wine.   I truly believe that Jesus is present in a very real and potent way in this Bread we eat and in this Wine we drink.  Like any good Anglican, I am uncomfortable pinpointing exactly how this happens; I simply say that I believe it and that my belief sustains me.

With this view of the Eucharist in mind, it does cast a new light on our view of spiritual eating. Just as I said that we often eat food each day without thinking much about why we are eating, so too I think we often come to this table without much thought of what we are partaking of here at this altar.  I have found, in my own spiritual life, that preparing for this meal we share is very helpful.  It helps to remind me of the beauty and importance of this event we share.

One of the ways I find very helpful in preparing is that I fast before Holy Communion.  Fasting is a good thing to do on occasion, yes, even outside of Lent.  And there is a long tradition in the Church of fasting before receiving Communion.   Sometimes, especially before the Wednesday night Eucharist we celebrate at St. Stephen’s, we can’t fast all day before our 6:00 Mass, but in those instances, it’s usually not too hard to fast at least one hour beforehand.  Even that one hour of fasting—of making sure that I don’t eat anything and don’t drink anything but water, really does help put us in mind of the importance of the Eucharist we share and the food we eat in general.

For me, on Sundays, my fast begins the night before.  I simply don’t eat anything after midnight the night before.  For some of us, this wouldn’t be a wise thing to do, especially if you have health issues. You can’t fast if you have diabetes or some other issue.  But still I think even keeping to a simplified fast of eating just a bit less in the morning before coming to the Eucharist is helpful for most.

If nothing else, these fasts are great, intentional ways of making us more spiritually mindful of what we doing here at the altar ad fo the food we eat in our lives.   And it also gives us a very real way of being aware of those millions of people in the world who, at this moment, truly are starving, who are not able to eat, and for whom, fasting would be an extraordinary luxury.

Our scriptures give us some interesting perspectives on eating as well.  In today’s reading from the Hebrew Scriptures, we find Elisha feeding the people.  We hear this wonderful passage, “He set it before them, they ate and had some left, according to the word of the Lord.” It’s a deceptively simple passage from scripture.

In our Gospel reading, we find almost the same event.  Jesus—in a sense the new Elisha—is feeding miraculously the multitude.  For us, these stories resonate in what we do here at the altar.  

What we partake of here at this altar is essentially the same event.  Here Jesus feeds us as well.  Here there is a miracle.  Here, we find Jesus—the new Elisha—in our midst, feeding us.  And we eat.  And there is some left over.

The miracle, however, isn’t that there is some left over.  The miracle for us is that in this meal we share, we are sustained. We our strengthened. We are upheld.  We are fed in ways regular food does not feed us.

This beautifully basic act—of eating and drinking—is so vital to us as humans and as Christians.  But being sustained spiritually in such a way is beyond beautiful or basic.  It is miraculous.  And as with any miracle, we find ourselves oftentimes either humbled or blind to its impact in our lives.

This simple act is not just a simple act.  It is an act of coming forward, of eating and drinking, and then of turning around and going out into the world to feed others.  To feed others on what we have learned by this Food that sustains us.  Of serving others by example.  Of being that living Bread of Jesus to others.

The Eucharist not simply a private devotion between us and Jesus.  Yes, it is a wonderfully intimate experience.  But it is more than that.  The Eucharist is what we do together.  And the Eucharist is something that doesn’t simply end when we get back to our pews or leave the Church building.  

The Eucharist is what we carry with us throughout our day-to-day lives as Christians.  The Eucharist is being empowered to be agents of the incarnation.  We are empowered by this Eucharist to be the Body of Christ to others.  And that is where this whole act of the Eucharist comes together.  It’s where the rubber meets the road, so to speak.

When we see it from that perspective, we realize that this really is a miracle in our lives—just as miraculous as what Elisa did and certainly as miraculous as what Jesus did in our Gospel reading for today.

So, let us be aware of this beauty that comes so miraculously to us each time we gather together here at this altar.  Let us embody the Christ we encounter here in this Bread and Wine.  Let us, by being fed so miraculously, be the Body of Christ to others.  Let us feed those who need to be fed.  Let us sustain those who need to be sustained.  And let us be mindful of the fact that this food of which we partake has the capabilities to feed more people and to change more lives than we can even begin to imagine.