I hate it when preachers begin sermons by saying ‘I take as my text today….’ It just seems so lazy and lacking in creativity.
So anyway, I take as my text today John chapter 6 verse 42:
They were saying, "Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, 'I have come down from heaven'?"
I find this line intensely comical. It reminds me of something from Monty Python. Like when King Arthur greets the peasants in the field:
Arthur: I am your king!
Woman: Well I didn't vote for you!
Arthur: You don't vote for kings!
Woman: Well 'ow'd you become king then?
Arthur: The Lady of the Lake-- her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am your king!
Man: Listen, strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some... farcical aquatic ceremony!
In the case of John chapter 6 verse 42, the sketch comedy writes itself:
Jesus: I am bread from heaven
Woman: I don’t even like bread
Jesus: You don’t have to like it, you just have to believe
Woman: How’d you get here from heaven then?
Jesus: I am speaking in metaphors
Woman: I’ve met your Mum and Dad. Do they know you came down from heaven?
Jesus: You don’t understand. This is about living bread.
Man: Living bread? Living bread? Listen mate, the last thing any of us wants is our bread coming to life to slit our throats in our sleep. The only good bread is dead bread, ask anyone you like.
And so on.
One of the hazards of living in a community for a long time, particularly from childhood, is that people know who you are. This is all very well if you’re the Mayor’s daughter or the Doctor’s son, but less helpful if your old man is a drunk thief or your Mum steals petunias. Since time immemorial, young people have left their villages to go to the big smoke or join a band of travelling troubadours to escape the tight net of expectations placed upon them by their family.
These days, wealth, communication and ease of travel have made it more normal to go travelling or move away from home. But for much of human history it has been difficult to have a fresh start. Monasteries provided a way out for some, and artists have often established anarcho-syndicalist communes. But by and large, mostpeople for most of history have been stuck in the place that their family came from. There’s a tendency to refer to places like Darlington as a ‘village’, which is cute, but the regular turnover in properties means that, in historical terms, these localities in the hills bear little resemblance to the villages of yesteryear.
It is tempting to overlay the first century narratives of Jesus with our own cultural assumptions. These days, if an unmarried bloke in his late twenties embarks on a program of travel, making new friends, and getting involved in his community, we don’t bat an eye. To be fair, there were a fair number of wandering rabbis in the time of Jesus – but it wasn’t so common as to be unremarkable. The voice of John’s crowd seems to carry a tone of derision and judgement – ‘Bread from heaven? Maybe if he worked a bit harder instead of thinking he’s God’s Gift, Joseph could afford to take a day off occasionally?’
John’s account of Jesus’ interaction with his home community is not the transcript of a video. John constructed the story. But for John to put in that bit about people who knew Jesus’ family, means that it was a well-known part of the story. We can realistically extrapolate that Jesus regularly copped flack from locals, and this is backed up by the other gospel writers too.
It can be really hard to embrace your authentic self around people who knew you in nappies. Developmentally speaking, we are very much the product of our family of origin. Part of the path to maturity is separating out who we truly are from who our families want us to be, perceive us to be, and sometimes demand us to be. Sometimes this is explicit and overt, such as expecting that a child take over the family business or marry someone of the parent’s choosing. But usually it is subtle, as parents and other influential adults pin their hopes and aspirations on us, as well as burdening us with their trauma and dysfunction.
When we break free from the constraints of our family of origin, it can be a beautiful thing. I enjoy watching it. But it can also be highly distressing and dangerous. Sometimes we act out by taking drugs or risks or liberties. Sometimes we condemn our families of origin just for existing, and this can disrupt the healthy support that families might offer.
But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. Reflecting thoughtfully on our family of origin, knowing that we are loved and forgiven, nourished by worship and scripture and sacraments, empowered by prayer – God can make of us more than we were born, more than our families expected, and more of a blessing to the world.
Poor Jesus. He’s trying to spark a compassionate revolution and his neighbours are slagging him off for having ideas above his station. Maybe you can empathise. The good news is, we are not Jesus and we don’t have to save the world because he’s got that sorted out. But if we are ‘in Christ’, and he is in us - like bread of life digested in our stomach and circulated through our bloodstream – then, like him, we will have to understand who we are, especially as children of our family of origin, and then, like Jesus, we can mature into our true vocation.
The Lord Be With You