We’re probably all familiar with classical marble sculptures––

images of legendary figures or ancient Greek and Roman deities… 

like Venus or Apollo or the Emperor Augustus––

statues that are larger than life…

but, otherwise, are realistic and anatomically accurate representations of the human form…

albeit, perhaps, somewhat exaggerated or idealised.

Of course, it was a style of sculpture that was very influential…

and much copied by artists of the Renaissance period…

such as Michelangelo…

who sought to return to classical values and sensibilities.

And, for many of us, that’s probably what we think of when we hear the word “statue”––

an exquisitely and intricately carved piece of white marble…

that is, notwithstanding that, quite realistic and life-like.

But, in reality, we have been duped.

Those classical sculptures that we see in museums… 

are not in a form that the ancients would have appreciated.

Having carved their statues…

ancient sculptors then painted them brightly––

we might even say gaudily.

Rich golds, deep purples, vivid blues and yellows, and bold reds were common.

They also used a variety of hues for skin tone.

And, indeed, the pigments used to paint and colour those ancient statues were––

according to archaeologists––

more valued and sought after than the marble from which they were carved.

Now, until fairly recently, we didn’t know that. 

After all, by the time that many classical statues were unearthed…

all of the colouration had been leached off.

So, the neoclassical artists of the Renaissance period assumed that they were meant to be white.

And yet… 

that doesn’t appear to be the whole explanation.

It also seems that artists like da Vinci and Michelangelo considered such colouration to be “exotic, gaudy and somehow ‘foreign’”.

Whiteness, for them, was equated with perfect beauty.

Even when they saw clues that the classical sculptures had been coloured… 

they chose to ignore it…

in order to propagate their particular aesthetic sensibilities…

and, perhaps, their societal sensibilities.

But, in so doing, they have shaped how we have understood and appreciated these works of art…

until quite recently.

 

When we look at artefacts from the past…

how we understand them––

or how we appreciate them––

is constrained by the traditions that we have inherited.

The same, of course, happens when we read the Bible.

Our reading, this morning…

from John’s Gospel…

follows directly from the one that we had last week…

and continues this extended ‘fleshing out’ of the symbol of Jesus as “the bread of life”.

And nearly all commentators contend that here–– 

in our reading––

the author clearly has the sacramental practice of Communion in mind.

In other words…

they argue that the author believes… 

that it is through our participation in the sacramental and symbolic consumption of Jesus’ body and blood…

that we have “communion” with God…

and, thus, “eternal life”.

But that doesn’t make any sense.

Leaving aside a dubious theology…

which makes the sacrament…

itself…

a means of grace…

there’s simply no evidence that the Johannine community was at all sacramental:

nowhere in the Gospel or the Letters of John is there any reference to baptism;

and our author deliberately omits any version of the Last Supper narrative from his Gospel––

unlike the other three Gospels.

The suggestion, by many scholars, that our passage this morning is its symbolic or metaphorical equivalent… 

is simply special-pleading.

For at least two reasons.

 

First…

at the start of our reading… 

the author uses the regular Greek verb for ‘eating’. 

But, about mid-way through our reading––

when he starts elaborating on how it is that by eating the “flesh” of Jesus that we “abide” in him…

and have “life”–– 

he suddenly changes to a different verb.

And the one that he uses has some interesting connotations and nuances. 

This new verb doesn’t imply eating in a dignified or dainty way––

as we would expect in a solemn, sacramental context. 

Rather, this verb means, literally, to munch––

even to gnaw––

and it implies doing so quite loudly. 

It’s a term that was particularly used for animals eating––

like a dog gnawing and crunching on a bone.

It’s trying to conjure an image of uncouth and uncivilised devouring…

that is…

a manner of eating that we would find offensive and abhorrent… 

if it were displayed by a dinner guest.

But we’ll come back to that.

 

Second…

I think it’s significant that nowhere…

here… 

does the author use the term “body” in conjunction with “blood”.

Those two terms, combined, would have made for an obvious eucharistic or communal reference.

Instead, throughout, he uses “flesh” rather than “body”.

And “flesh” is an important word––

and an important symbol––

for this author.

Think back to the very beginning of this Gospel…

which we all know so well:

“and the Word became flesh”. 

“Flesh”, for this author, refers to “humanity”…

in its full earthly, physical, corporeal sense.

And that sense is even stronger, here, through the combination of “flesh” with “blood”…

which would seem to have a similar connotation to how we use those two together.

Rather than a reference to some sort of life-giving, spiritual consumption or nourishment––

through the symbolic and sacramental consumption of bread and wine––

the author is saying that it is by “devouring” Jesus’ humanity itself––

being filled with that…

being nourished by that––

that we find life.

And, as an aside, note that… 

in our reading…

the author keeps jumping in the Greek…

between speaking to us as individuals…

and speaking to us corporately or collectively.

In other words…

he’s not speaking here of some sort of offer of individualised eternal life… 

through an individual act of consumption.

Rather, he is suggesting that the life of the faith community…

indeed…

the life of the world…

depends on us “devouring” Jesus’ humanity.

And the emphasis, clearly, is on his humanity.

Our salvation comes from us being nourished by the humanity of Jesus…

not his divinity.

In a sense, we find life––

individually and collectively…

and our world finds its salvation–– 

only through our being nourished by the sort of humanity that Jesus offered.

 

And yet…

alongside the connotations of undignified and uncivilised devouring––

and its social and cultural offensiveness––

there’s the further implication, here, that this act of ingesting that John’s Jesus demands…

has cannibalistic connotations as well.

Not only the manner of our consumption…

but the very act of consuming Jesus’ humanity will be offensive to civilised society.

The life that Jesus offers us––

the salvation of our world––

will only come through activity that our world…

and our culture… 

deems inappropriate…

even unsavoury.

Perhaps, the point here is somewhat akin to something that Martin Luther King jr once said––

and please excuse the non-inclusive language:

“Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted…Christianity has always insisted that the cross we bear precedes the crown we wear. To be a Christian, one must take up his cross, with all of its difficulties, and agonizing, and tragedy-packed content, and carry it until that very cross leaves its marks upon us, and redeems us”.

That… 

I think… 

is what the author of John’s Gospel is getting at.