Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

August 20, 2006

Sermon by Pastor Joy Bussert

The Holy Gospel according to St. John. (John 6:51-68)

“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.”

The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. 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. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.”

The Gospel of the Lord.

Travels of summer give us wonderful opportunities to reflect on where we belong, whether we belong, and to whom we belong.

Last Monday, I had the annual experience of driving my daughter Kate up to Bemidji for German Language Camp once again. This is Kate’s fourth year, yet every year feels sort of like the first day of kindergarten all over again—for mom, that is. I can only imagine what it must be like to be driving grown children off to college for the very first time.

First, there is the planning and the lists, the packing, and then unpacking half of what was packed. There is the worry of “what if we forget to pack the toothbrush,” and then wondering if they will remember to brush their teeth, even if you do. Even before you’ve left, you have already sent three cards, just to make sure that they at least get something at mail time that first day at camp.

And then you obsess. No matter how old, you still wonder, “Will they eat enough?” “Will they find complete pairs of socks in the morning?” “What if it snows?” Then there is the long goodbye to the puppy, and one more last goodbye to the cat, and then goodbye to the puppy, and then the cat, then the puppy, then the cat.

And then you are off and on the road, and all of the questions begin. “Do you think I will like my counselors this year?” “Who do you think will be in my cabin?” I wonder who will be in [Merchen volst] this year.” And somehow, somewhere between the home you have left behind and the camp you are going to is always the question of where you belong, and how you belong, and what belonging is all about after all.

Then you get all the way up there to Waldsee and pull up in front of a true-to-life Bahnhof train station, with a clock in the tower, just like in Germany. And these radiant and tan-faced counselors—looking like half of a German soccer team—come bounding out, “[Be heist you, ich heis a coctrin],” and the game is already on. You get to go through real customs and to exchange dollars for real euros. And you find yourself right in the middle of a German marktplatz overrun with kids, with a fountain in the center, with little [foster hoiser] houses with flower boxes in the windows all around. Over here is the [Grunavold], over here the [Markenvold] theater group; there is a giant chessboard and games going here and there. It is a kids’ village, in the best sense of the word. And in no time, each and every one of them knows that they belong.

The only thing missing, of course, is a cathedral, which you always see in the center of a real German village in Germany. I would admit I was the only one observing that, because in addition to everything else that I had on my mind that day was our text from John 6—the fourth in a series over the last weeks on the metaphor of Jesus, the Bread of Life, Jesus, the Bread of Heaven, that comes down to give life to the world. And a cathedral because, eventually in John, Chapter 6, Jesus’ words about bread become eucharistic. That is, here at the end of the chapter we have the words that are the basis for the early Christian community, and the church today, to gather around the table, break the bread, remember the love of Jesus, and not only commune in the presence of God, but nowhere and to whom we belong.

So after finally leaving the German Language Camp, reaching the highway, pulling off under the big sign that says, “Concordia Language Village,” and having the one last annual good cry, I started on my way home from Bemidji.

What about this scene about belonging? As I drove, I began humming the lullaby my mother sang when I was a child. “[Good to naugen, good to naught, may ………”]

And I found myself musing back to the family reunion earlier this summer, thinking about this whole thing of belonging. You know the mixed bag about family reunions—not all lovely lullabies.

Well, how many of you look forward to seeing every person at your family reunions? You know there is always one in-law you just sort of hope couldn’t make it this year. But if they do, in a large extended crowd of Busserts, [Klocks], and [Dankers] and [Vundervalts], you can only hope someone else will take care of them. And then there is always some in-law who always thought you were a little weird, too, and maybe they are hoping someone else will take care of you.

But then there is always something interesting. This year it was a cousin who had compiled a DVD of pictures and music, telling the story of how our immigrant ancestors had come down the St. Lawrence River, through Milwaukee, and settled in what is now Chicago, in 1860. Then there is the annual softball game, and everyone pulls out the instruments, and the music begins. And you know, once again, where and to whom you belong.

On the way home, my younger sister and I always talk about what we liked best about the family reunion. She always says what she likes best is singing Peter C. Lufkin’s arrangement of “The Lord Bless You and Keep You,” and the four-part harmony at the end, because as a child, whenever we sang that piece at reunions, no matter what else was happening, she always felt that everything was okay, even if some years it was not. No matter what, there was the assurance that somehow there was a place that you belonged.

And, speaking of traveling and belonging, traveling to Africa earlier this summer reminded me of my good friend from Oslo, who I first met at an international church meeting in Canberra, Australia some years ago. His position, as the ecumenical officer with the Church of Norway, over the years has involved him in a good deal of traveling and serving as an official visitor on behalf of the Norwegian church to the church around the world.

And one evening at this particular meeting in Australia, a group of us there were talking about faith and hope, the struggles of the church ecumenically, the struggles of the church in our context, faith, the source of faith, what it is, what it means. As always, the conversation got a bit philosophical and theological, but basically the question was this: “To be faith, is faith something you have to have, or something you have to know, or something you have to feel?” “In order to have it, does it have to be in your soul, or your head, or your heart?”

And this one friend from the Church of Norway said something that I have never forgotten, and something I return to again and again. He said that, for him, “faith is not primarily in the head, the soul, or the heart, but in the feet—in the feet—because he knew that no matter where he went on Sunday, in Norway, or Denmark, or Brazil, or worshiping with some remote church in a remote village in southern African, and no matter the condition of his faith in his head or his soul or his heart, even during periods in his life where he didn’t feel or believe anything at all, he knew that wherever he was he could find a little church; he could walk forward with his feet, receive the bread and wine, indeed, the bread of life, and know that somehow, somewhere in this vast universe, there was a place that he belonged.

Jesus, the bread of life, the bread of heaven that comes down to give life to the world, is here for us, too. Whether we are at camp, on vacation, or in a faraway village in Africa, or at Immanuel, whether we have a lot or a little faith, whether we feel anything or sometimes feel nothing at all, if we can walk forward with our feet, Jesus, the bread of life, is there to offer life to us and to the whole world. And that is all that we need to know; that everything will be okay. Even when it isn’t okay, it is all that we need to know; that somehow, somewhere, we belong.

Amen.