It feels like the opening to a Marvel movie: a furious cry steadily rising as the camera pans to a single, crude and bloodied spear waving invitingly over a sizable hill of lifeless bodies - "Josheb-basshebeth a Tahchemonite... wielded his spear against eight hundred whom he killed at one time" (2 Sam. 23:8). Flanking one side, Shammah, who (as this is a classic en medias res Marvel intro,) enters a flashback, standing alone on a deserted plot of the family farm watching his family and countrymen flee for their lives, his feet, in contrast, cemented to the ground, his ground, against the onslaught of approaching Philistines, his family's oldest enemy. His sword raises and quivers, betraying the mixture of anxiety and rage within him: "Not today--not ever" quietly reverberates from his lips as the scene returns to its beginning, those same words echoing within Josheb-basshebeth's infuriated scream. On the other side, Eleazar, accustomed to standing alone, sword in hand, defying orders to withdraw, continues to battle: "I can do this all day long," his eyes announce. Heroes for any age, but these men are recorded in the annuls of the king as David's mighty men.
David, giant killer, poet, chosen one, king, crouches among them after battle, filling the cave walls with nostalgic lore about the homeland. His congenial presence, genuine friendship, "one of us" persona, make him more than a commander to his mighty men. He makes the fight worth the cost. He is not just a king, he is their King. Longingly, David waxes, "what I wouldn't give for a drink of the water from Bethlehem's well right now." As he recedes into reverie, Josheb-basshebeth raises an eyebrow at Eleazor before casting a tenuous glance at Shammah. The men causally slip from the cave.
Returning hours later (after an exciting 11 minute battle sequence), the three humbly present a cup to the king. Playful smiles creep over their faces - like younger brothers poorly concealing their bursting affection. The king receives the water from the well of his cherished Bethlehem and meets the eyes of his men with deep pleasure and esteem before suddenly pouring their offering on the ground: "Far be it from me, O Lord, that I should do this. Shall I drink the blood of the men who went at the risk of their lives?" (2 Sam. 23:17).
With David's culture-defining rule constantly in the back of our minds, we zoom in on a strikingly different context, first century Capernaum, a very different kind of remarkable man standing in the midst of an eager, energetic crowd, "Truly, truly, I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves..." (John 6:26). In the last 24 hours alone, this man has gathered thousands of people with the power of his teaching and healing, fed them all (yes, thousands of people) with 5 mere loaves of bread and 2 fish (plus baskets of leftovers.) Resisting the temptation of the people's ambition and adoration, he withdrew by himself to pray, only to catch up with his crew later by crossing the sea of Galilee on foot (Moses much?) It seems everyone has some wild account:
"He healed my uncle's neighbor!"
"You should have seen how many people he baptized, John was just standing there watching from accross the river as his followers ran to his side of the beach..."
"I heard he consorts with Samaritans..."
"Here in Capernaum, he healed the son of a Roman official!"
"At my cousin's friend's brother's wedding, he turned water into wine!"
Could this be the one? God's chosen King, the culmination of Israel's past, present and future? The line of David, the prophet Moses promised, “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you, from your brothers—it is to him you shall listen— I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their brothers. And I will put my words in his mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I command him..." (Deut. 18: 15,18).
But then, these horrific words pierce the air and eager followers moments ago stand dumbstruck by this outrageous claim: "Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you" (John 6:3).
Some walked away on the spot, disgusted, outraged. Others struggled through the weight of the words, filtering them through the command from Moses' Law ringing in their ears: "“If any one of the house of Israel or of the strangers who sojourn among them eats any blood, I will set my face against that person who eats blood and will cut him off from among his people" (Lev. 17:10). Eat my flesh? Drink my blood? What can he mean?
The discourse had wound to this inexplicable conclusion. Jesus had claimed the title "Bread of Life," reminding his followers that it was not Moses, but God, who gave the people manna in the wilderness: "Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh” (John 6:49-51).
A fickle, weak, dependent lot, humans require nutrients, bread, in order to live. The Bread of Life sustains life. Jesus shows, through this dialogue, that he is the prophet whom Moses promised. And unlike the daily manna that lasted a day, Jesus feeds eternally. The one whom Moses promised? I am.
But, Moses is not the only figure who looms larger than life in the Jewish memory. The Jews awaited a prophet, but they also awaited a king. A king like the one who poured the strong, lavish, foolhardy adoration of his men to the ground, an offering to the Lord.
David, like a good commander, saw in risk, in sacrifice, in obedience, the cost: blood, ("...the life of the flesh is in the blood" (Lev. 17:11)). As the ground absorbs this symbolic offering, David's message is clear: I will not profit from the risk and sacrifice my men took on my behalf. I will not drink to their deaths. I will not benefit from their bloodshed.
Jesus now stands before the people, having already fed them with loaves and fishes, holding a different kind of plate and cup. The mighty man extends his offering to the people, the same brotherly affection shining in his eyes, and with kingly authority pronounces: You must eat my flesh. You must drink my blood. You must profit from my sacrifice. Do not let it fall to the ground: "Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides me in, and I in him" (John 6:54).
Life comes not from the risk and sacrifice we make on behalf of the king, he does not call us to foolhardy errands. Rather, life comes from swallowing the sacrifice he made for us, receiving a cup from a different well, one which required much risk to obtain--though not by us--and drinking a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
A prophet, a king, the mightiest of mighty men.
Jesus, give us this bread always.
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