Text: John 6.35-40
Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away, for I have come down from heaven not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day.”
“I am the bread of life,” says Jesus. And we nod, because we’ve heard it before. We’ve got it printed on banners, carved into tables, stitched onto kneelers, maybe even tattooed somewhere we wish we hadn’t! “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
It sounds beautiful. It is beautiful. But it also sounds like the kind of promise that might raise a few eyebrows if you’ve lived through a bit of real life. Because here’s the thing: there are people who come to Jesus and still feel hungry. Still feel thirsty. Still feel restless, uncertain, weary. Some of us have prayed the prayers, sung the songs, read the books, said the words — and yet we find ourselves still longing, still aching, still wondering if there’s more. So what is Jesus really offering here?
He’s not offering us a never-ending lunch, of course. He’s not repeating the miracle of Elisha and widow whose oil never runs out. Nor is he offering a solution to the theological questions in which some of us get tangled. Rather, Jesus is offering himself. He’s offering presence. Not packaged answers or easy fixes, but something deeper — something nourishing. Something that gets into your bones and makes you live again.
But let’s be honest: this idea of “believing” in Jesus has gotten a bit tangled over the years. For some, belief means signing up to a list of doctrines — a checklist of truths you agree to. And don’t get me wrong — truth matters. But Jesus never said, “Whoever recites all the correct theological positions shall never be thirsty.” He said, “Whoever believes in me.” And that sounds more like ‘trust’ than ‘textbook’. More like ‘relationship’ than ‘recitation’. Salvation is not offered as a reward for believing the right things about Jesus. Salvation is a process – an ongoing journey of being changed from glory into glory, or of becoming more like the Master we claim to follow.
When I was young, we used of collect Top Trump cards. Do you remember them? They were collections of cards about a particular subject – maybe motorbikes, or cars, or superhero characters. The object of the game was to trade your cards with others, until you had the complete set. For some of us, following Jesus can be a bit like that. We try to collect all the right opinions, the right teachings – so we can feel secure in our salvation. But, it turns out, Salvation is not about collecting the right ideas, like Pokemon cards. It’s about leaning into Jesus. Coming to him. Living as though what he says about love, mercy, grace, and resurrection might actually be true — even when we’re not quite sure.
And that’s the real tension, isn’t it?
You see, we’ve been trained to want certainty. Certainty feels safe. But the bread of life isn’t a brick of certainty. You don’t build walls with bread. You feed people. You tear it, pass it round, get crumbs on the floor. Bread doesn’t control. It nourishes. And that’s what Jesus does. He nourishes. He gives of himself. He welcomes the hungry without checking their credentials. Just as I know you do in the Bus Stop Café. You don’t check people’s credentials before feeding them. You don’t give them a theological exam to make sure they believe the right things before you feed them. And nor does Jesus.
He says, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.” That line should stop us in our tracks. Because there are those who’ve been made to feel like they don’t belong. Like they’re too messy, too complicated, too unconventional, too full of questions – or in some of the worst cases of Christian pharisaism, too female! Like God might just quietly back away from them and prefer someone a little neater, a little more well-behaved.
But Jesus says the opposite. “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.” Not “whoever gets it all right”. Not “whoever has a perfectly tidy testimony”. Just… “whoever comes…”
That means the door is wide open. And not just open — welcoming. And that brings us to this table. Because here, today, we’re not celebrating theological perfection. We’re not celebrating moral achievement. We’re celebrating grace. The kind of grace that says, “You are welcome.” The kind of grace that doesn’t wait for you to be certain, or clean, or calm. The kind of grace that comes running when all you’ve got is hunger and hope.
This bread and wine — symbols of Christ’s body and blood — are not just reminders of a death long ago. They are signs of life now. They are tokens of a truth that still holds: Jesus feeds the hungry. Jesus welcomes the thirsty. Jesus does not turn people away.
And so, if you come today with doubts, come. If you come with joy, come. If you come with failure clinging to you, come. If you come with questions that won’t go away, come. If you come just because you need to believe that love is real and that hope has not died, come.
Jesus is the bread of life. Not a rulebook. Not a membership card. Not a distant deity with a clipboard and a raised eyebrow. Bread. Nourishment. Welcome. Life.
So come to the table. Bring your hunger. Bring your heart. Bring your whole, unfinished, glorious self. And let’s eat. Amen.
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