Jesus said, “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." He said these
things while he was teaching in the synagogue at Capernaum.
When many of his disciples heard it, they said, "This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?" But Jesus, being aware that
his disciples were complaining about it, said to them, "Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man
ascending to where he was before? It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you
are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not believe." For Jesus knew from the first who were the ones
that did not believe, and who was the one that would betray him. And he said, "For this reason I have told you that no
one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father."
Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, "Do you
also wish to go away?" Simon Peter answered him, "Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We
have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God."
I’ve never been much of a talker, but I have always been fascinated by language, and my love for words was
present early on. I was always with a book. Even now, I take a book with me pretty much anywhere I go: go to
work, take a book; go to the dentist, take a book; come to preach, take a book!
Now, even though I have a book, I won’t always read it - truth be told, I find a sort of comfort in carrying words
with me.
Some of you may know that I am working toward my master’s degree in religion at the Seminary of the
Southwest. On my first day at the seminary, in my first-ever theology class, it was fitting that my professor
introduced the course with the very first verse of John.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
And he said: John’s Gospel starts in a much different place than the other gospels. Why would the story begin
here?
Well, John reiterates Genesis here, taking us back to THE beginning. Because the story - our story - doesn’t
begin with Jesus, it begins with God - and the Word was with God and the Word was God. Jesus - the Logos the Word - is God made man. The Word embodied.
Needless to say, I was transfixed.
It may be a little strange then, with this love for language and words, that my master’s thesis is about silence.
As I’ve grown older, and as a quiet person, I’ve observed that quietness is often met uncomfortably or even
negatively. Which made me wonder, because it seems that in my life, it has been in moments of quiet that I’ve
felt closest to God.
I recently heard of a man named Gordon Hempton - an acoustic ecologist - a collector of sound from all over
the world. He has spent most of his life listening to and recording the sounds of nature - from wind blowing
through the grass in a Wisconsin field, to the hum of the Pacific Ocean as it reverberates off of the rim of a
volcano in Hawaii.
But lately, Gordon has been advocating a need for quiet, for silence - a bit odd for someone whose passion
involves sound.
It is worth mentioning that Gordon’s definition of quiet is little different than our definition.
Gordon believes that to be quiet is not to be absent of sound, but to be fully present - to realize and become
part of the space in which you are. To be still. To be undistracted. To engage all of your senses. To listen.
As I read the gospel for today, I thought about this kind of quiet. I thought about Jesus teaching at Capernaum:
“Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”
I imagined that as Jesus spoke, a quiet enveloped the crowd. Some disciples allowed themselves to be open to
that quiet. To be still as His words surrounded and flowed through them - to feel the movement of the Holy
Spirit. To stop and listen.
But for others, the quiet was too much. And in this overwhelming moment they began to chatter.
“Who can accept this?”
“Who can hear this?”
These days, it can be hard to just stop. To let ourselves be undistracted. In the age of smartphones and twitter
and instant communication, we have so much at our fingertips all of the time.
To give that up that control is vulnerable, and it can almost be frightening. When we stop and listen - when we
let go of our distractions - we really don’t know what we’ll encounter. We may not understand or like what we
hear.
There is a lot of trust that goes with us when we are quiet.
When we hear about the disciples who complained, notice that Jesus doesn’t console them: “The words that I
have spoken to you are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not believe.”
In Latin, credere - the root of the English creed – means “to believe.” But another meaning of credere, a better
meaning I find, is “to trust.” Let’s replace Jesus’ “believe” with “trust” in that same verse:
The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life. But among you there are some who do not trust [me].
Kind of hits you in the gut, doesn’t it?
There are always times in our lives when we become overwhelmed or confused or in despair. Where the quiet
is too much to endure, and you cling to any distraction you can find. When you’re mourning a loss - facing
deployment - trying to cope with all of the responsibilities as a parent - or even when you may, like me, be
starting school - oh tomorrow!
But I’m going to make a suggestion. When it does get to be too much, don’t be afraid. Find a moment and
stop. Be still. Be quiet. Trust. Don’t lose hope. And know that you carry the Word with you wherever you go.