“Eucharist” is one of those arcane religious words I wish more people could embrace for their own healing and thriving, and in turn for a better world. The word comes from a Greek verb for “giving thanks,” and it refers to what is more commonly called “The Lord’s Supper” or “Holy Communion.” And I really do believe it can change the world.
I believe the Eucharist is at the very heart of the Gospel and is the very soul of the Christian Church for the sake of the world’s flourishing. The Eucharistic Table offers us God’s love and grace in Christ with tangible tokens of bread and wine—food for the journey into new life.
Given all that, I find it very strange indeed that the Gospel according to John has no Eucharistic narrative in it—or rather, nothing most Christians would immediately recognize as precisely that narrative.
What most Christians take “Eucharist” to mean is due in large measure to Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Those other Gospel writers give us the “last supper” where Jesus talks about bread as his body and wine as his blood. That’s what most of us look for when we’re looking for Eucharist, and John doesn’t have it.
But this does not mean that there is no Eucharist in John.
Intriguingly, some scholars have suggested that the entire gospel according to John is one long, extended Eucharistic narrative. The reason we can’t find the Eucharist in John is because the entire Gospel of John itself is Eucharist. Some have also suggested that John was composed precisely for the purpose of reading it during early Christian celebrations of the Eucharist.
Yesterday’s lectionary gave us John’s version of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000, which is one of John’s key Eucharistic stories (6:1-21). And the lectionary will continue to give us this image for the whole month of August, returning again and again to the image of bread and therefore to the Eucharist.
Rather than betrayal, suffering, and death (what most Christians associate with the “last supper” narratives), John frames the Eucharist with divine abundance and divine inclusion. And this matters far more than we usually imagine for a fragmented world in pain. I would say the stakes could not be higher in that regard when reading from this sixth chapter of John.
I find it helpful to remember that the disciples are never just the disciples in Gospel stories; they serve as types and symbols—sometimes for the realist, or the doubter, or the loyalist, or the betrayer.
First, then, we might note that in this iconic story from John the disciples stand for all those who worry about scarcity. Jesus looks out at the crowds who had been following him all around the Galilean shoreline, and he says, “these people are hungry.”
“Well, yeah,” the disciples say, “but where are we going to buy enough bread for all these people? What we have isn’t even enough for us!”
To be clear, the disciples were not wrong in what they said; they assessed the situation correctly—they did not have enough.
But where we see scarcity, John invites us to see God’s abundance.
Of course that’s a lot easier to say than it is to live. In fact, most economic systems in human history have been built on the fear of scarcity and the anxiety that there won’t be enough of what we need—not enough water, not enough bread, not enough love, not enough respect or dignity.
There will always be certain individuals and organizations who capitalize on that fear and anxiety, usually by dividing communities into groups—those who have supposedly earned what little there is, and others who haven’t. More severely, by demonizing others who threaten to take away what little is left. The fear of scarcity often turns violent.
John’s miraculous feeding of the 5,000 is a Eucharistic story of abundance. There is always more than enough love, more than enough grace, more than enough companionship at the Table to satisfy our deepest longings.
We might also remember that there are no random or insignificant details in these Gospel stories. After feeding the crowds with what little they had, there is more leftover. How much more? Not eleven, and not thirteen, but exactly twelve baskets of leftovers.
Just as there are twelve tribes of ancient Israel, and just as there are twelve disciples, so there are twelve baskets of leftovers.
“Gather up the fragments,” Jesus says, “so that nothing will be lost.”
Nothing? Not one single tribe? Not one single disciple, not even Judas?
In today’s world of zero-sum games, there must be losers in order to have any winners and our triumph rises up only from the wreckage of the tragedy of others. But that is not the world of John’s Gospel where Eucharistic abundance is so pervasive and so comprehensive that nothing, absolutely nothing and no one is left behind.
John invites us to catch a glimpse of God’s own heart in this story, where no one is lost, and no one is left behind. The implications of this story for how we live and the kind of communities we create are actually quite staggering.
It’s nearly impossible to imagine a world where we no longer keep score; where constant contests give way to communion and “fairness” doesn’t matter nearly as much as inclusion; a world where there is no such thing as “acceptable losses” and “collateral damage” is a forgotten notion from a far distant past.
Many Gospel parables evoke exactly this unimaginable world, and John’s Jesus underscores that vision by remaking entirely what it means to “win”: it means not leaving any one behind—not a single one, not even the betrayer.
This vision is so difficult to trust that other parts of the New Testament—even other parts of John—seem to step back from it. And today, many centuries later, the Eucharist—or rather the last supper—continues to be a flashpoint for cultural controversy. The latest example just occurred at the summer Olympics in Paris where the opening ceremony included what appeared to be a parody of the last supper with drag queens.
A variety clergy and churches demanding an apology for that performance, I think we Christians should instead be thanking the performers. Not only is a drag queen last supper not offensive, it might actually illustrate John’s Eucharistic vision better than most Christian liturgies—not only is everyone invited to the Table, we are invited to leave no part of ourselves behind. All of us and our whole selves belong at the Table.
I love John for retaining and preserving at least this kernel, this seed of a truly radical Jesus who shows us a truly unbelievable God—the God for whom even one is an unacceptable loss. If God cannot tolerate losing even one, then even if it takes an eternity, God will find them.
So much is arrayed against that vision in a world built on scarcity and exclusion. That’s one of the primary reasons why I practice what is often called an “open table” policy in the parish where I’m privileged to serve as the rector.
At All Saints’ Parish in Saugatuck, Michigan, there are no preconditions for participating in the Eucharistic Communion. Everyone is welcome—no exceptions, no caveats, no kidding. Nothing is required to receive Communion at the All Saints’ Table other than one’s own desire for Communion—because God loves each and all of us without limit. Nothing we can do can make God love us more than God already does, who has given God’s own self to us already. And nothing we can do can make God stop loving us, not ever.
I am convinced that this kind of Table Fellowship can change the world; it offers healing to a world of hurt, and then still more. It offers a Eucharistic vision of a world remade by love and grace where no one is left out—not a single one.
“Gather up the fragments,” Jesus says, “so that nothing may be lost.”
…so that nothing will be lost.
