The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ ~ Susan McGurgan, D.Min.

It sat like a gleaming jewel

right smack in the middle

of a poor town’s

poorest neighborhood.

It was nothing fancy, really—

just a square brick building

overshadowed by row houses

with peeling paint and sagging porches.

Yet, each brick

of the Gospel Holiness Church

looked as if it had been polished

and set into place with an artist’s precision.

Along the sidewalk

grew a defiant patch of green

that talked back to the trash

blowing down the street

and the graffiti

marking the abandoned corner store.  

Each Monday,

a group of seniors from the church

gathered to prepare a dinner

for the neighborhood children.

Each Monday,

over a hundred children

came to a place

where birthdays were celebrated,

and generosity overflowed.

A place where empty stomachs

could feel a little less empty.

I was just a runner,

dropping off a box or two of food each week--

food that someone else

collected from a local store

to give to soup kitchens and shelters.

This was my stop,

an easy good deed for a former Scout—

something done without much thought

while I was on the way to someplace else.

Some weeks,

there were boxes and boxes

overflowing with good things.

Bread and potatoes and lettuce

and bags of chips just past the expiration date.

Sometimes,

there were dozens of dented cans of fruit,

or ripe bananas—just beginning to turn.

Some weeks,

usually right after a holiday,

there were elaborately decorated cakes and fancy pies. 

Those were the days

when the Church ladies swooped down on me,

ooohing and ahhhing,

enveloping me in lavender-scented hugs,

and laughing to think of all the birthdays

that could now be celebrated with pink icing roses

and bright blue Cookie Monsters.   

One day,

all the store had to give  

were dozens and dozens of hot dog buns,

a little stale and slightly squashed--

a sad collection of post holiday grilling rejects.

I was tempted to stop and buy something else

to add to the pile.

After all,

it was embarrassing

to walk into that place of giving

with nothing

more than hotdog buns

a little past their prime.  

But I was running late,

and money was running low,

and I pulled up to the sidewalk,

more than a little embarrassed.

Yet when that box was unloaded,

there was an awed silence,

followed by shouts of “Praise Jesus!”

and “The Lord is surely good!” 

As they celebrated,

they explained that someone donated

hot dogs, drinks, chips and cookies--

everything needed for an epic cookout.

Everything, that is,

but the buns.

“We’ve been sitting here all day,

storming heaven,

praying for hotdog buns.

We knew He would never fail.”

Maybe, like me,

you didn’t grow up

praying for hot dog buns.

World peace or grace or forgiveness—

those were acceptable topics of prayer.

Those prayers were distant enough

and generic enough

to be safe.  

But hot dog buns?

And maybe, like me,

you never

ever

saw yourself as an agent

of answered prayers

or an active participant in a miracle—

or if you did,

it would be something dramatic or big—

talking someone through a crisis, perhaps

or leading someone to faith--

Certainly nothing as ordinary as stale buns

tossed thoughtlessly

into the back of a van.  

What happened that afternoon

at the Gospel Holiness Church

was a miracle of loaves

every bit as unexpected,

every bit as profound

as the miracle on the hillside we celebrate today.

Did the disciples feel as I did?

Shocked?

Amazed?

Dazed?

More than a little frightened

by this graphic

and unequivocal demonstration

of the power of prayer to call down bread from heaven?

To be honest,

I still struggle with the reality of that yeasty miracle,

both the miracle on the hillside in Judea

and the miracle on the sidewalk in Newport, Kentucky.

I don’t understand them,  

but I don’t want to explain them away, either.

I have heard homilies about the

Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes that

tiptoe cautiously around the “miracle”

as if the God of creation can create

dolphins

and galaxies,

and opposable thumbs out of nothing,

but is stymied by a little yeast and salt and flour.

I've heard homilies that go something like this:

“Everyone travelled with some food in those days.

The miracle was that people dug into their robes,

and shared the bits and bobs of bread and fish they brought.

It was a miracle of human sharing!”

Um. No.

Just no.

Either Jesus becomes bread, feeding us,

or our faith has no foundation.

Either Jesus was who he said he was,

The Bread of Life,

calling down Bread from Heaven

or we are members of a club,

not a community of missionary disciples.

Miracles happen.

Period.

Full Stop.

Especially miracles of bread,

broken on the altar,

even if we cannot

quite

wrap our minds around them.    

Jesus invites us to be his witnesses,

proclaiming the truth of this profound miracle,

that God became human,

and is poured out and broken open for us.

God becomes food for us.

We receive this miracle,

and we are sent out like the disciples

to Samaria,

to Rome,

to the ends of the earth--

to a neighborhood across the river

where children go to bed hungry.

Whenever a dark night of the soul

overtakes me,

whenever I wonder if faith is real

and God is really listening,

I remember that little patch of manicured grass

shining like a jewel

in a poor town’s poorest neighborhood.

And I remember a group of seniors

who each week,

created magic from donated cakes

and overripe bananas

and stale hotdog buns.

And I remember a day--

a day that began like any other,

but ended in an unexpected miracle of loaves

that brought me to my knees.

May the God of Bread and Life

continue to feed us and send us out.