It was around the time of our second Passover season with Jesus. We always look forward to Passover, gathering with family to remember and retell one of the stories that forms us as a people. This year before we gathered with our families, we had a huge gathering with Jesus. We were going around to the other side of the Sea of Galilee when this huge crowd began to follow us. I mean, they were following Jesus, but we disciples were there too. They had heard about the healing powers of Jesus and they wanted to get close to him.

As the crowd grew, Jesus, ever the good host, looked at us and said: “Where can we buy some bread for these people to eat?”  Nowhere, Jesus, that’s where. No where. We are on the other side of the Sea of Galilee, there are no places to find food.

The crowd kept growing and, by my estimation, it was about 5000 families. I knew that Jesus had done a miracle, turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana but that was nowhere near this many people. There was no way we could feed all these people, even if we did have money or water – which we didn’t. But Jesus wanted us to find them some food.

Well then, bless his heart, Andrew started asking around. And don’t you know, Andrew found this little kid that had five (child-sized) barley loaves and two fish – and the child was willing to share. I didn’t think we should take this child’s bread. I mean they were small, unleavened, barley loaves, for goodness sake. Everyone knows that only the poorest people make bread from barley. And we shouldn’t be taking food from children. Not to mention that barley bread is very tough to tear into. My old teeth can barely manage it. But Andrew and this child came forward, giving the bread to Jesus.

Jesus didn’t blink, didn’t seem to mind taking bread from a child. Now that we had some food, the bread of poor people, Jesus gave us another assignment: Make the people sit down. We tried. Then it felt a little like Passover with this giant “family” gathered as Jesus took the unleavened bread, gave thanks, and broke it. He passed it around and we helpers helped. Before we knew it, everyone was fed, I mean everyone.

What a Passover. I know, I know, it wasn’t officially a Passover meal but what a wonder of a meal. There were twelve baskets of leftovers. Twelve, just like the tribes of Israel. I had to wonder if the leftovers would spoil, like the manna when our ancestors disobeyed Moses and gathered extra food in the wilderness. But I decided not to bother Jesus with this question. I would just wait and see.

The people were so grateful and amazed at this miracle of enough food, they began to chase after Jesus, trying too catch him and make him king. I tried to run interference. If they made him king, that would really start trouble with the Romans. We do not need that.

To get away, Jesus ran up into the hills to hide – and pray. He likes to go to remote places to pray. We knew he might be a while and we got tired of waiting, so we got in the boat to go on ahead, to our next destination.

Just our luck, a storm blew up and rowing became practically impossible. We could barely see. I was starting to wonder if we were even going to make it to the other side – and then I saw, through the mist, a figure. There was Jesus, walking toward us, on the water. I felt really scared. But he just said, It’s me. Don’t be afraid. We started to reach out to help him into the boat, and just then I felt the boat hit the sand. We had arrived. We all got out – and walked through the water to the shore.

While there have been a lot of strange experiences with Jesus, this is one that I still have not figured out. Much later, I thought about that saying from Ecclesiastes, (11:1) “Cast your bread upon the waters.” Jesus had just fed us all bread. Was Jesus himself the bread, casting himself on the waters? I am probably being too literal. Jesus often accuses us of that, trying to understand every last thing literally when his teachings are more about story and mystery and deeper meanings – that we need to live into rather than understand immediately.

Of course, I am not the only disciple with questions for Jesus; I am not only one trying to understand what it all means. We often ask Jesus our questions, when we are in private, when it is just a small group, the inner circle, of disciples. Sometimes Jesus even explains things in ways we can understand.

Anyway, when it gets close to Passover, we can’t help but think about our ancestors and the unleavened bread. We remember our faith. Jesus speaks his thoughts aloud. He talks about our prophet Moses, and Jesus reminds us how Moses meets the Holy One, the I AM. He recalls the manna, the “what is this stuff”, sent by the Holy One. Then Jesus ties it all together in a new way and says I AM the bread of life. Whoa, this kind of language inadvisable. The Romans could be listening in. And we have to watch out for some of the religious leaders, who are starting to get suspicious of Jesus. They are starting to challenge his teachings and ideas, beginning to get angry about his new interpretations.

But just as Jesus told us not to be afraid, he himself seems unafraid. Jesus takes us right to the synagogue, here in his adopted hometown of Capernaum. It’s one thing to ask our questions when we are alone with Jesus but at the synagogue, the questions make me nervous. The people ask how they are to believe all that Jesus says. They want a sign. They say, “Our ancestors had manna to eat in the desert. Scripture says “God gave them bread from heaven to eat.”  What is our sign?

Jesus doesn’t hesitate. He jumps right in explaining that manna is the old bread, it does not give life. When they ask for the new bread he says, “I AM the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry. No one who believes in me will ever be thirsty.”

I recall Jesus saying something strange like this before, to that woman he met at the well in Samaria: “Those who drink the water I give them will never be thirsty.”  (John 4:14) He is consistent, I’ll give him that – but does he have to be so public about it? In the synagogue?

I try to make sense of it all in my mind. I remember that in the desert Moses learned the name for the Holy One, the name that isn’t really a name, I AM. When Jesus says things like I AM the bread of life, how are we supposed to understand that? Does that mean that the Holy One, the I AM, is the the bread of life? Does it mean that Jesus himself is the bread of life? Is Jesus equating himself with the I AM? Is Jesus the I AM?

I am still trying to wrap my head around all these questions when I hear Jesus say, “The truth of the matter is, if you don’t eat the flesh and drink the blood of the Chosen One, you won’t have life in you.”

What? Now that gets my attention. This is gruesome, grotesque. But then I try to listen differently; I remember what Jesus says about being so literal. I hear that Jesus is not quite saying eat, he is using a word more like “gnaw.” We are to gnaw on the bread of his flesh. We are to bite down and not let go.

This is the real food, the real drink. When we chomp down on his teachings, when we bite through that hard crusty barley bread that poor people eat, we are committing ourselves to the task of nourishment, spiritual nourishment. This kind of bread, the kind of bread that Jesus gives, brings life. This way of eating the bread, gnawing and chewing, it connects us to him. Or maybe I am getting too literal again, like Jesus warns against. But somehow it feels like an opening into a new understanding.

Just as I am beginning to make peace with this strange language and teaching, I hear one of the disciples say, “This teaching is too difficult; who can accept it?” Another one says, “We can’t put up with his kind of talk. How can anyone take it seriously?”

Ever the rabbi, Jesus asks some questions of his own: “Is this a stumbling block for you? Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Chosen One ascend to where they came from?”

Now the conversation is really getting strange. The Chosen One, the Messiah, ascending to where they came from? What are we to make of this? It is no wonder that the religious leaders are getting their hackles up.

But Jesus goes on: It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.”  The flesh is useless? Then why do we keep all the commandments? The flesh is how we meet the holy one, isn’t it? Moses was in the flesh when he encountered the burning bush, what could be more fleshly than that? Our ancestors flesh was tormented in slavery. How can we disregard the flesh?

Yet, with the constant threat of the Romans, the unpredictability of where we might sleep each night, never quite knowing where our food will come from, it is kind of a comfort to hear from Jesus that our faith is not only about flesh and blood. The Spirit is what gives us life; the words from this young Rabbi give us new life.

I feel myself beginning to embrace this strange way of thinking, embracing it in my own flesh, and then I hear Jesus say, “But among you, there are some who do not believe.”

Does he mean me? Does he sense that I am still gnawing on the bread of life? Does he wonder if my flesh is useless? The crowd begins to thin, even some of those who have been traveling with us for days and days drift away. We are now a much smaller group.

Jesus turns to the few of us who are still left and asks, “Are you going to leave too? Do you also wish to go away?”  Do I want to leave with the others? My many questions continue to gnaw at me. And I gnaw on the questions. Though I can’t make sense of it all, I am not ready to let go of this rabbi who has changed my life, this One who has given me a new understanding of bread, of flesh, of spirit, of faith.

Amidst all the internal questions, one emerges clearly and I hear myself ask, “Rabbi, where would we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe you are the Holy One of God.”

This sudden declaration of faith surprises even me – and I can’t say that it clears up all my questions. I know there will be more at the next Passover. Following a rabbi like Jesus, more questions are bound to arise. But knowing that I can sit with the questions, gnawing on them like barley bread, knowing that in the chewing life can be found, that makes a difference. At least for now.