"And Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to Me shall never hunger. . ." John 6:35a

Of Bread and Eternity

            Many things can prompt us to seek God; we lose a loved one, we reach a certain age, or we go through a traumatic, life-threatening accident or health crisis, and suddenly the reality of our own mortality is brought home to us in a way we couldn't have previously imagined.  And so, there's eternity to consider. 

             There's a wonderful passage in Luke 24 that records an encounter between the resurrected Jesus and two people who were, shortly after His crucifixion, walking to a little town called Emmaus.  He drew alongside them on the road, and they, not recognizing Him, continued with their laments about the fact that the Romans had crucified Jesus.  The two talked about how sad they were because the One they had thought was going to redeem Israel was dead.  Though He spoke with them, they didn't recognize Him.  Jesus, seeing their sadness and their lack of understanding, beginning at Moses and going through all the Prophets, "expounded to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning Himself."  Even then, they still didn't recognize Him. It wasn't until later, when they shared the evening table with Him, that they at last recognized Him.

Now it came to pass, as He sat at the table with them, that He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.  Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him; and He vanished from their sight.  And they said to one another, "Did our hearts not burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us"?  Luke 24: 31-32 

     I am praying that as you open your Bible today and read about Jesus, the bread of life, your eyes will be opened, your heart will burn within you, and you will come to know Him in a marvelous new way you couldn't have previously imagined.

Daye Phillippo

May, 2010

Bread

There is a day that comes when you realize

that you can't bake enough bread

to make things turn out right, no matter

how many times you read Little House on the Prairie

aloud to your children. There aren't enough

quart jars to fill with tomatoes  

or translucent slices of pear to keep you from

feeling unproductive. There is no bonfire that burns

orange enough in the chilly October night

to keep your mind from following the lonesome

howls and yips of the coyotes concealed

by darkness in the harvested cornfield

just beyond the circle of your fire. And when you

step away from your family and fire,

into the dark pasture and tip your head back,

feel the whole black bowl of sky

with its icy prickles of stars, its swath of Milky Way,

settle over you, you know that no one

and everyone is just this alone on the Earth

though most keep themselves distracted enough

not to notice.  In your hollowness

you open your arms to God because no one else

is enough to fill them. Eternity

passes between, and no one knows this, but you.

The hum of their conversation, the whole world, talking.

When it is time, you turn, grasp the woodcart's handle,

pull it, bumping behind you across the frosty grass,

up the hill to the house, where you

step inside cubes of light, and begin to do ordinary things,

hang up coats, open and close drawers,

rinse hot chocolate from mugs.  And you are still

separate, but no longer grieving bread.

Daye Phillippo