Feeding on the Bread of Life

Anne Lamont, a wonderfully gifted and iconoclastic writer, in her latest installment of her memoirs “Plan B Further Thoughts of Faith” tells a story of her relationship with a woman also named Anne she met in church one day. The woman in the first pew could not be missed: she had only one hand. She was also passionate, intense and an activist who marched against every war she could. When the two met, the woman with only one hand was dealing with another struggle: she had been undergoing treatment for breast cancer.

One day Lamont got up the courage to ask her about her new friend’s stump of a hand. Her story was this: her mother had been a chemist in World War II and on a team that helped develop chemical weapons. As it turned out, several of the women working on the project had children born with birth defects during or right after the war. Her mother could never cope with Anne’s stump of a hand. She was disgusted by the stump and would try to hide it in any photo taken of the family. Whether it was guilt or shame or fear, we do not know. A missing hand, though a hurdle to overcome for the young girl, was not nearly as painful as the distance it caused between mother and daughter.

As the newfound relationship of the two women developed, the cancer returned and Anne’s days became fewer. During the Prayers of the People in church, she would pray aloud through her pain. Her prayers were always the same: she prayed that God loved the world, all evidence to the contrary, and we should not give up on God. One day, Anne had a chance to meet with the children of the church and they invariably asked her about her stump. Children are so open that they cannot hold back from asking the obvious questions adults would want to ask if they could. She showed the children her paw, as she called it; marked at the end with scar tissue from surgeries long ago. She shared with the children how despite how she was born, she had become a good student, played the piano, but she had always been lonely. Her mother found her disgusting and no one wanted to hold her hand.

Out of this profound emptiness, Jesus came into Anne’s life when she was only six years old. Sitting on a rocking chair, alone, she looked down at her scarred stump and somehow noticed a baby’s face. We have all probably looked up into clouds of a stormy sky and found a way to see all kinds of figures and animals and things. Anne took her arm in a scarf and wrapped it up like the doll. And she felt Jesus looking up at her, from inside the baby she had just discovered and now cradled. And he was saying to her, “I’m sorry it turned out this way, but you are whole in my eyes.” She got herself back that day when she was six and found a real mother.

I read Lamont’s book while on vacation and this story has stayed with me, hanging there, not wanting to let go. There are many people in our lives like Anne. They – we -- have scars and stumps and empty places – some in view but many more hidden. We spend mountains of time and energy wrestling with and coming to terms with the many relationships of our lives: parents and family and those close to us. It is vexing how pain, and shame, and addiction, mental illness, and depression can hop scotch their way through generations to impact the lives of those yet unborn. Solitude is said to be a gift from God to be embraced and discovered, yet too many find deep loneliness instead.

The Anne in the story with the shortened arm found Jesus in the flesh, her flesh. Her scarred arm became the source of revelation and caring and concern that would never leave her in this life.

Jesus said: “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.”

It is not hard for Christians to hear these words and think Eucharist. Our central celebration as believers is around a table with bread and wine. It is the time and place when we are closest to God in community. Christ said, do this as a way to remember me. And so we do. Here at the Cathedral we do so each Sunday quite elaborately. We do so on weekdays quite simply with only a few people present. We feed on this holy food that God gives us so that we can have strength for the journey. Yet, the flesh and blood that Jesus speaks of is much more than a sacramental meal he would soon launch to care for his flock through the centuries. There is a truth woven into this promise.

While on vacation, in addition to doing some reading and walking, on a couple of nights my family gathered with a group of friends of all ages and played charades. How long has it been since you have played charades? With no television or computer in sight, charades became a source of entertainment that adults and children could play together. We took our turns acting out movies, television shows and books. But as anyone who plays charades knows, it is essential for the people playing to have a common base of knowledge. What is the point in acting out the movie The Godfather or Titanic if those playing have never gone to the movies? How can anyone guess Harry Potter or War and Peace if they do not read books?

Those to whom Jesus said “I am the bread of life” knew very well the tradition of the Exodus and how the people survived in the wilderness on manna – a flaky residue that stuck to the ground each morning. The manna was not roasted lamb or honey or milk, but it was enough to get through difficult times. Yet even after eating that which God provided, the people still died in time.

During his trial before Pontius Pilate, Jesus said that everyone who belongs to the truth listens to his voice. Pilate’s response was “What is truth?” We may never be able to grasp the depth of that all encompassing philosophical question, but in small ways we ask something akin: What is true? Jesus said, my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Match it up with what the world of today and yesterday can deliver. For those whose lives have thrown them their fair share of twists and turns and heartache, Jesus is saying: I will never abandon you, judge you, shame you, hide you, lose or abuse you, ignore or dismiss you.

You and I spend our lifetimes searching and fumbling around for that which is true. True love, true values, a job or career that fulfills our inner gifts, true friendships that form the deepest bonds, true justice in the face of a world that never seems to learn the lessons of the past. What is the true way to be faithful to the scripture and the tradition of our church? Do we seek to maintain unity above all costs, or are we to try to carry out the mission of the gospel in ways that resemble the core of Jesus’ ministry: no one on the outs, no judgment, no religious score keeping and litmus tests of faith to get in the way of the central crux. Do we, in Jesus Christ, see the face of God, and will we love God and those whom God loves?

Like the little girl in Lamont’s touching story, Jesus comes to all of us and for us alone says: “I am sorry how this turned out.” Your bodies are fragile, the world is not fair, people can do terrible things to each other, and the people we love most will die one day and so will we. Yet we are never allowed to wallow in the pain of the world. We are called to draw closer to the story of Jesus, to his life, his teaching, his example, his priorities, and his lasting hold on each one of us. When we feed on the one who gives life in abundance, we will live forever.