American Christianity is at a crossroads. Undermined

by the same forces that have eroded trust in nearly all

institutions, we’ve experienced decades of decline and

division. Scandals and controversies have wounded

our witness. A craving for worldly power and political

influence has driven many so-called Christian socalled leaders to embrace agendas increasingly

divorced from gospel grounding, using faith as a

weapon of abuse, a sign of supremacy, a fortress

of isolation, or a license to judge. Some of the most

amplified voices proclaim a Jesus I find nowhere in the

pages of scripture—an idol built only to bless brazen

ambition. As church affiliation has receded, religious

and political identities have merged, with the latter

often taking the lead. As the researcher Ryan Burge

has written, “Politics has become our master identity.

Everything else lines up behind partisanship.” Let me

be clear. This constitutes a kind of heresy. A church,

or disciple, who believes we need a party, a president,

or a nation to preserve the faith has replaced Jesus

as Savior. Indeed, this is a dangerous theology. And

so, the crossroads at which we Christians stand has

everything to do with identity. It’s time for some soul

searching on the question: who are we?

And in the Christian community, responding to this

question must follow deep reflection on an even

more central question. Who is Jesus? Our identity

must be built on Jesus Christ. As disciples, we make

the bold claim that Jesus is Lord, and this confession

must challenge every other loyalty and allegiance

in our lives. This should be our master identity. Now,

more than perhaps any time since the early Christian

movement, we must have a clear, compelling answer

to the question, “Who is Jesus for us? What differences

does he make?”

And so, this Sunday we begin a sermon series on the

statements of Jesus in the Gospel of John, statements

that bring clarity to our witness because they shine

a light on who Jesus is. In John, Jesus tells us who he

is. Seven times he begins foundational claims with

the words I AM. This is not a neutral statement in the

Gospel of John. It harkens back to the Book of Exodus

and the burning bush from which Moses hears the

words of God. I AM who I AM.

At this crossroads moment, in this time of rebuilding,

we will let the words of Jesus Christ inspire and guide

our way forward.

This morning’s passage comes early in Jesus’

ministry. Just before we tuned in, the hunger of

a huge crowd has been miraculously alleviated

with a meager supply of bread and fish. And so, as

you would imagine, word gets around about this

miraculous event and the man behind it. A growing

group of intrigued observers approach Jesus, but

their dialogue is laughably, almost painfully, disjointed

because those in the crowd keep asking Jesus

practical questions. And Jesus keeps responding with

spiritual wisdom. They are interested in the bread that

will keep them alive. He speaks of bread that makes

life worth living. What they need most is what they

already have in the presence of Jesus.

There is a deep hunger in our land. For some among

us, that hunger is physical—unmet needs and

desperate conditions. For others, the scarcity from

which we suffer is more difficult to name. And yet, we

feel it. Not the sharp sting of physical hunger pains

but the persistent ache of anxious hearts and worried

minds. Perhaps we sense that there must be more

to life than what occupies our days. Some source

of more lasting nourishment. Some pathway to a

more meaningful life. Some role for us to play. Some

divine purpose for us to fill. Some call to serve the

common good and relieve the suffering of others. The

persistent ache of anxious hearts and worried minds

leads to a feeling of helplessness. And in my pastoral

experience, helplessness is often a close cousin to

hopelessness. I’m hearing both in the voices of many

within and beyond our community. There is a deep

hunger in our land.

Jesus spoke to the crowds of hunger. Famine in the

land of plenty. And so, we ask, as did they, “What do

we lack? For what do we ache? What must we do?”

I think we are experiencing a famine of meaningful

relationship. Last April, the U.S. Surgeon General, Dr.

Vivek Murthy, diagnosed us as a lonely nation. He

proposed some steps to rebuild our social connections

and communities, but the truth is that there is no quick

fix to this particular hunger. Relationships are about

time and about effort. They involve inevitable conflict

and necessary reconciliation. They are the result of

commitment over the long haul. Jesus spent much of

his ministry gathering with others around meals. And

yes, feeding hungry bellies was part of his purpose.

But feeding the need for human community was at

least as important, and the reason we know it to be

true is because of who was invited to his table. Jesus

gathered unlikely guests. He brought enemies to a

common table. He invited the outcast, the left behind.

He gave them a prized seat. Indeed, often it was his

choice of dinner companions that got Jesus in the

most trouble.

This weekend our nation remembers the life and

renews the legacy of a powerful preacher whose

faith-fueled witness spoke to our deepest hunger.

Martin Luther King, Jr., led a movement shaped by the

teachings of Jesus Christ. They were lessons he first

learned as a child of the church, a son of the pastor.

King rooted his work in the testimony of the earliest

Christians, those first disciples who found the courage

to imagine a different kind of world, a different kind of

kingdom, a deeper sense of nourishment. In one of his

first sermons, after his installation as pastor of Dexter

Avenue Baptist in Montgomery, King spoke these

words, “We need to recapture the glow of the early

Christians, who were nonconformists in the deepest

sense of that word, refusing to shape their witness

according to the mundane patterns of the world.

Willingly they sacrificed fame, fortune, and life itself on

behalf of the cause they knew to be right.”

What would such nonconformity, such sacrifice,

look like in our lives and in the life of our church?

My sense is that it begins in relationships that break

down dividing walls and overcome preconceived

judgements. In a time of painful isolation and

destructive disintegration, the church sets a table.

The church sends an invitation. What if, in the months

ahead, we were intentional about that practice? What

if each of us made the conscious choice to widen

our circle, to stretch beyond our comfort zone? What

if here we intensified our efforts to become a more

inclusive community, and what if we carefully listened

to the voices of those whose experience is not our

own? I believe that we would find a deeper sense of

unity, more commonality than we might imagine, and

a surprising surge of the hope we are desperate to feel.

Those crowds following Jesus begged him for a sign,

a sign that would prove his worthiness, a sign that

would show that he, like Moses, could command God

to rain down bread from Heaven. Perhaps another

miracle, a healing, a feeding, a magic trick. But the only

sign Jesus offered was himself. The greatest miracle

was his own life offered as bread for a famished world.

Blessed, broken, and shared. He is the bread of life. He

is the nourishment that satisfies our deepest hunger.

And so, whenever we build our faith on self-sufficiency

or succumb to the idolatry of human leaders, what

we will find are only empty spiritual calories. When

we begin our work in the presence of Jesus, we will

find sustenance for a courageous and costly witness.

Friends, we must never give in to hopelessness

because we are never helpless. Having been fed, we

must offer ourselves in acts of service and compassion.

The week before Christmas, a handwritten note

appeared on my desk. It was addressed “to all that

manage and help at the food pantry” and signed “a

thankful patron.” The writer describes how she used

to volunteer at the food pantry near her home and

how, as a volunteer, she was always surprised to see

folks who had fulltime jobs coming to receive food.

Afterall, she and her husband both worked. They were

able to save money. They bought a house. Raised two

sons. And then, an accident at work. Her husband had

open heart surgery. Spent a month in the hospital.

Savings depleted. A series of crises. A need she never

could have imagined. She closes her letter this way:

“Your pantry makes a huge difference in our lives, a

difference we never thought we would need. As it is,

we could not afford the items we receive there. So

thank you for making life a little easier. I hope you have

a wonderful Christmas.”

Friends, as followers of the one who is the Bread of

Life, we must be about the work of feeding those

who are hungry. We do that in many different ways.

The work of this congregation has a sustaining

and transformative impact on our city and for our

neighbors in need. But there is so much more to do.

There is a hunger in our land, and we have bread

to share. There is despair among us, and we have

hope to offer. There are children of God who suffer

exclusion, who are wounded by hateful words, and we

have a table set by the one who says, “Come to me,

all who are weary.”

Yes, there is work for us to do. He told us who he

was. The bread of life. Given for you. Meant to be

shared. Amen.