This sermon is from the Rev. Charles G. Dennison sermon archive, part of the “Lord’s Supper” series, and was preached at Grace Orthodox Presbyterian Church in Sewickley, PA, during a worship service on Sunday, November 19, 1995.
We are in John 6, at verse 48. Give your attention to God’s infallible word. Jesus is speaking here. I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down out of heaven so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down out of heaven.
If anyone eats of this bread, he shall live forever. And the bread also which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh.” The Jews therefore began to argue with one another, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” Jesus therefore said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in yourselves.” He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so he who eats me, he also shall live because of me. This is the bread which came down out of heaven. Not as the fathers ate and died, he who eats this bread shall live forever.”
These things he said in the synagogue as he taught in Capernaum. Many, therefore, of his disciples, when they heard this, said, “This is a difficult statement. Who can listen to it?” But Jesus, conscious that his disciples grumbled at this, said to them, “Does this cause you to stumble? What then, if you should behold the Son of Man ascending where he was before?
It is the Spirit who gives life; the flesh profits nothing. The words that I have spoken to you are Spirit and are life. There are some of you who do not believe.” For Jesus knew from the beginning who they were who did not believe, and who it was that would betray him. And he was saying, “For this reason I said to you that no one can come to me unless it has been granted him from the Father.”
As a result of this, many of his disciples turned away, and we are no longer walking with him. Our God, we are aware that there are those who have long ago departed, long ago withdrawn, yet still identify themselves as disciples. Even to this day and hour, they remain in your church, seeking to transform the message of that church into something other than what Jesus proclaimed. Father, in our time, this matter has become desperate, and the faith of some appears to be overthrown. We ask, O God, for strength to persevere, even against this threat. And Father, may it be proved, by way of this trial, that we who gather here are disciples indeed. We pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Perhaps he read our faces before we turned away. Perhaps when we huddled together, some of us with our backs to him, he perceived our thoughts and what we were saying to one another. Anyway, he knew. He knew what we were thinking, and he knew what we were saying.
I suppose we were all somewhat self-conscious about the matter, embarrassed at how to present it in the best possible way, embarrassed for him, if not deeply disappointed, since we had had such hopes. But now those hopes were clearly dashed. Part of our huddle had been to discuss, yes, I openly say it, the ridiculous things we had just heard from his mouth. For the rest, we had to decide how we would leave, how we would disengage, how we would withdraw now.
We had been with him much longer than the vast multitude that had assembled, the multitude that had followed him these past two days. But we must admit that we, along with that vast multitude, now seem to share the same mind. Jesus was not in his right mind. Jesus was out of his mind.
We have been closer to him than most, with, of course, the exception of that small group that was intimate with him, and we have been loyal since those days of his obscurity, when he was the lowly preacher from Nazareth, then through this present period of popularity. Not that we did not have our difficulties along the way. Jesus, after all, was not easy to understand, and I admit it. We did become confused by many of his arguments and explanations regarding his actions.
At the same time, I say it again: we were loyal, and we were deeply impressed. We were impressed by the things he did. We were greatly moved by the people he attracted, the crowds that gathered around him, and we concluded: here is a man of great messianic promise. Our hopes, naturally, had been stirred, but as I said to you, we had our difficulties. Most recently, a number of us have made the journey from Capernaum to the eastern regions of Bethsaida, along the eastern shores of the Sea of Galilee. We, with a vast multitude, witnessed the feeding he provided from the loaves. And we were moved. We were moved by the growing support among the people. And we were moved more than the vast multitude, because we were far more aware of the potential in this man than of the cross. We could say that we knew him better. That we had been closer to him.
But even with that, difficulty arises. Our difficulty in this circumstance, in this setting, was with his sudden withdrawal after the miracle. He disappeared into the mountains. But not only was there difficulty with his sudden withdrawal, but also with his subsequent sudden reappearance.
These actions seem to us more than incomprehensible. Rather, they appear to us to suggest some sort of mental imbalance. Now, some of us did not make the trip to the eastern part of Bethsaida. We waited here in Capernaum. We interpret our actions, our decisions, as no evidence of disinterest in him or of betrayal, but as patient loyalty to him. Those of us who stayed behind and waited were troubled by what appeared to us to be Jesus’ discourteous behavior.
Many of our friends had made that trip, many who would be described by us as disciples of this man. But not only had they been left behind when he mysteriously disappeared, but now he so openly appeared in the synagogue here in Capernaum without them.
Our friends arrived in time, and they arrived with the vast multitude, as if there were now no difference between them and the crowd. Then, from what Jesus said, it was as if he were urging all of us—yes, we who had been disciples—and this vast multitude in the same direction, so that there would be no difference among any of us. He spoke to us all without distinction. He spoke as if there were no difference between us, those who had followed him, those who had been his disciples, and this large group of people.
He charged us all with seeking only to satisfy our hunger, as if we had no interest in what he offered, truly and sincerely. But regardless of the message, we judged, we who have followed him, we who have been described as his disciples, that his method was entirely wrong. This man seemed to have a serious problem with the normal patterns of human relationships. He lacked understanding of personal interactions and public engagement.
What we all needed at this time—certainly anyone could see it, certainly he should have been able to see it—was a new affirmation of his love and his acceptance of us. The crowd, as well as us, greatly needed a positive, personal ministry addressing our needs. But at this point, Jesus deliberately distances himself from the multitude that followed him, that had stayed out all night waiting for him, and then searched him out in the synagogue here at Capernaum. And for all of that, what do they receive? A rebuke. A lecture. A sermon.
Not to mention how we, his disciples, see him. We are the ones who have been pointing him out, speaking to everyone about him. And this is the way he treats us? The only conclusion we can draw, the only judgment we can make, is that he has become irrational. There is clearly something about the dynamics of the entire situation that escapes him. We all can see it. Why cannot he? And now he is full of accusation. He is full of accusation that we do not believe.
He surrounds himself with the claim that all whom his Father gives him will come to him, as if it is part of a divine plan that we, we mind you, understand. In the midst of this setting and this message, which would certainly cause anyone to be upset, distressed, or perplexed, they raised their voices. Yet he seems to be utterly serene and unflappable.
He seems to be so certain about who he is. He calls himself the bread of life. He suggests that he is greater and higher than Moses. He implies that the bread he is able to give is better than the bread our fathers ate in the wilderness. And he is just as serene and unflappable in his certainty about his eternal significance. He says that on the last day, he will be the agent for the resurrection of the elect.
At this point, the grumbling and murmuring of the authorities in the synagogue and the multitude around them began. But we remained silent, mind you. The noise from the assembly and the synagogue seemed to become overwhelming. Yet, as angry as these people already were, Jesus appeared to press them further. He seemed to provoke them deliberately. Yesterday he had withdrawn from these people; today he intentionally provoked them. We could not believe what was happening. Everything had seemed so perfect. It was almost as if we were on the verge of witnessing the realization of the messianic kingdom right there, and now it was all crumbling around us. We could not believe our ears.
We are astonished by his words about being the bread come down from heaven. But now he moves directly into mockery and jeers, making his position even more difficult to accept. He tells the multitudes—those of us standing there, those of us hearing it—that eternal life is found only by eating his flesh and drinking his blood. He is mad.
It was at this point that we who are identified as his disciples huddled together. We were stunned. What investment we had made in him. What a bright light he had been for us and to us. And now we had become witnesses to his madness. Right before everyone, right in front of all these people. Many of whom were our acquaintances, many of whom we had spoken to about him. But now it appeared that we were not to escape his scrutiny. He had offended the majority of those gathered, but now he looked at us.
We must understand. We were content to let the matter rest. We were content to withdraw quietly, without comment, without disturbance. But he looked at us, and as if he were some sort of dangerous person, he came after us. We already knew, we had already concluded, that no one could possibly accept this. I do not mean to be disrespectful here.
No one can accept this foolishness about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. But he continues speaking to us. He continues. He says to us, “What if? What if you must eat my flesh and drink my blood when I am not present? What if I were to ascend to the place from which I came? How will you eat my flesh and drink my blood, which I have commanded?” Oh, great.
First, he appears to have lost his mind over a notion of primitive cannibalism—eating his flesh, drinking his blood—and now he seems to be engaging in occult practices or spiritual mysticism. It would seem almost laughable, if we had not been so thoroughly embarrassed.
His mind had turned to another realm, which he claims mediates its power through the Spirit. But by such teaching, you see, he tears apart the reality and existence that we know, and undermines the integrity of that reality and existence. Yes, we believe in God’s Spirit, but we believe that God’s Spirit confirms and affirms life, its integrity, and its wholeness. We are enemies of the fracturing of life and existence, and we are friends of the integrity and wholeness of life and existence. But he assumes a separation here, suggesting that the Spirit gives life belonging to another order of things.
What then becomes of our tried and true beliefs—those things that we hold most dear? What becomes of our Jewishness and our Jewish faith, of our position by God’s choice? He speaks about life as if it were something he can grant, as if it were something we do not already possess. I tell you, at the foundation of our faith, we live. We live. We are already God’s elect.
He, on the other hand, makes it sound as if true faith, and thus real life and election, belong only to those who share his views. And he charges us, staring at us, with unbelief. Some of you, he says, do not believe. Of course we do not believe! How is it possible to believe this idea? So we withdraw. Certain that he, in his supposed religious superiority, is content with thoughts about divine sovereignty that work infallibly for the sake of those who remain and accept his words without question. Now, you must not misunderstand. I am not narrow-minded about any of this, and neither are my friends.
In fact, it is our openness to different perspectives that led us to Jesus in the first place. For we were already prepared to see Judaism in a new and positive light. We were ready to recognize that Judaism could progress. And I suppose that is why I and my friends continue to speak positively, to a degree, about our experience with Jesus.
Now later, of course, as you know, he is crucified. But even in this pitiful and tragic figure, we continue to see value. There was, after all, a very attractive vitality in his person, a very admirable and resolute disposition, a freedom from human judgment, which attracted us—a sense of moral strength. And in these qualities, all of these qualities, Jesus stands out. He excels, even exceeds the admirable qualities of many others, perhaps all others. And because of this, we are pleased to hold him out as an object of human interest, and in some ways, human aspiration. You see how open-minded we are, how broad and inclusive we are, how generous, how magnanimous in our spirits we are.
The wonders that we beheld, the works he performed—we do not know what to make of them. Perhaps it was, as some suggested, that the little boy with the lunch on the hillside shamed everyone else into bringing their lunch and sharing it. Perhaps that is what truly happened. His claims of preexistence, of eternity in heaven with his Father, his prophecies about his ascension, his statements regarding his vicarious sacrifice, his future role in the day of resurrection and judgment, and his assertion that he is the center of God’s consummate election—these are obviously the fantasies of an overwrought and imbalanced religious imagination. What a man! Aside from his madness, what a man! Truly, a man who can be appreciated only by denying him. Only by denying him—specifically by refusing to accept him as he presented himself. That is suicide. Intellectually, religiously, that is suicide.
But you see, in our hands, we who were his disciples, we who in some sense can still be described as continuing to be his disciples, Jesus becomes a much better figure. We had looked for a new and improved Judaism; now we have a new and improved Jesus. And I tell you, a much more useful figure than he was in real life.
And with that, I am sure you will agree. You can tell, cannot you, that I still have him on my mind? I will be honest with you. All right, I will confess it. I even dream about it. In my dream, I see rivers of blood. I hear the sound of marching legions. My dream becomes very dark. It is a nightmare. A nightmare of horror. And in it I see our holy city and our treasured temple burned. But then the strangest thing happens. It is almost as if there has been an interruption of time.
And I see white-skinned men, strangely dressed, carrying weapons that make loud noises and cause death to those at whom they are pointed. These men are supported by flying vehicles without horses. They are also supported by large metal machines moving across the earth, emitting fire and destruction ahead of them. I see emaciated figures. I perceive in the dream that I am related to these emaciated figures. They stand behind wire fences. I see smoke. I smell burning flesh.
And when it seems that I can no longer bear it, I remember Jesus in my dreams. Despite his madness and despite his teachings, which are contrary to what I now believe, when I remember Jesus, I gain confidence because of what he means to me. Admittedly, this is the opposite of what he taught. But I gain confidence because of what he means to me—namely, the inevitable triumph of humanity and the victory of the indomitable human spirit. In this way, the figure of Jesus is useful to me in facing the nightmares of life. Indeed, because of him, I can ignore them, at least I believe I can.
Let’s pray. Our Father, we pray that from this episode in Christ’s life, we would press on with those who are true disciples. And beyond those who would accuse your Son of madness, we would see in him your wisdom. O God, may we confess that we have nowhere else to turn, because Christ is your Son, the Holy One of God, and he has the words of life. Through him, we are brought into contact with another world, and this through the Spirit that he supplies and the word that he offers. We grieve, O God, for the state of the Jews, even as your servant Paul grieved, and as Christ himself grieved while looking over the city. But we are also grieved by those in whom the spirit of these departed disciples prevails and persists, even to the point of intruding upon the Church of Jesus Christ in our time. We ask, Lord, that we might stand firm in our Savior against modernism, against the disease and malignancy of liberalism, and that we, our God, would fully accept the word of our Savior and his message about himself and the truth concerning his kingdom.
The sermon text provided above is derived from the sermon audio recording making use of generative tools. It has not been manually edited. While transcription tools have a high degree of accuracy, the output may include generative textual, punctuation, and/or formatting errors.