Feasting and Fasting
Summary
What does it look like to follow Jesus when what you really want is what he can give you — security, community, meaning, answers? In John 6, Jesus calls out a crowd still thinking about yesterday's free meal and declares himself the bread of life. The people want a sign. They want bread from the sky. They want what God can do, not God himself.
Dominic Jackson explores what it means to hunger for God himself rather than the benefits that come from him, and introduces the church's Lenten fast as an invitation to disrupt the ordinary and rediscover an appetite for God.
Questions for reflection
When you examine your own spiritual life, are you more focused on what you're getting from God or on God himself? What does that focus look like in practice?
What are you most likely to come to Jesus for? How does that compare to simply coming to Jesus?
Where in your life are you trying to fill a zoe need — something deep, like meaning, belonging, or purpose — with a bios solution?
Jesus tells the crowd that "the work of God is this: to believe." How do you respond to that? Does it feel like enough, or does it feel like a cop-out?
Richard Foster writes that spiritual disciplines "can only get us to a place where something can be done." How does that reframe the way you think about fasting, prayer, or other practices this Lent?
Is there a way you've been asking God to "prove himself,” looking for a sign before you'll commit to trusting him more fully?
Dominic observes that the church can drift toward offering people the benefits of faith rather than the source of it. Where do you see that tendency in yourself?
The sermon ends with a distinction between having access and having appetite. Which do you currently have more of? What would it look like to cultivate more appetite for God?
-
I recently went to the doctor, mostly for a checkup. And like usual, before I saw my doctor, a nurse took me in the back to update a couple of things on my chart — height, weight, blood pressure, all of that.
Before she had me step forward to do any of that, I asked her — since I'd never been to this doctor before — "Do you want me to take my shoes off or empty my pockets or anything like that?" She just shrugged and said, "I don't care. It's up to you."
So when it was time for my height, I of course kept my boots on. Because I am normally five-ten and seven-twelfths, which is basically five-eleven, which is basically six feet, right? It's not. I'm five-ten. But still, that extra inch really helped.
Then she said, "Okay, go ahead and step on the scale." I said, "Give me a second." I took my boots off. Started emptying my pockets, because I did not need any extra weight in that department.
Then a moment later: "Okay, I'm going to take your blood pressure now." Can you give me a second? I closed my eyes. I did a couple of deep breaths. Started picturing myself on a beach — feet in the sand, no one else around, just listening to the waves. "Okay, I'm ready now."
Here's the thing, though. If I really wanted accurate results in that moment, I probably should have asked the nurse: "Hey, can you do me a favor? Can you start screaming? And maybe ask for chicken nuggets — but not those chicken nuggets. And then have another nurse come out and say she wants macaroni and cheese, but she doesn't want it to be yellow or orange somehow. And maybe you could just start climbing on me as I'm sitting here." Anything other than me pretending to be on a beach in Mexico somewhere.
Because the truth is, 99% of my day — bad drivers and packing away your snow gear only for the snow to come back a week later, toddlers beating me up, trying to decipher IRS forms — that's my real blood pressure. That's the real me.
The real me is five-ten. The real me could lose a couple pounds. The real me is probably more stressed out in Des Moines than I am imagining a beach in Mexico.
The Spiritual Chart
As I've been reflecting on my own readings and results — on my own chart, if you will — not just physical health, but my spiritual life, I've realized something. If I manipulate the data a little bit, like keeping my boots on and emptying my pockets and pretending I'm on a beach, I'm checking all the boxes.
I'm here pretty much every weekend. I read the Bible a lot — I've read through the whole thing a couple of times, studied it, even gone to school to study it. I'm listening to worship music all the time in the car. The real charismatic comes out during worship. Hands up and everything. I'm part of a community group. I'm checking all the right boxes.
So if somebody were grading me — if a nurse were grading me on my spiritual life — I think I look pretty good.
But what I've been asking myself lately is: What about all the areas that are below the surface? In the same way somebody could be the perfect weight, work out seven days a week, and still be incredibly unhealthy — I've been asking myself, what areas in my life have I grown complacent in? Complacency and contentment often look the same.
And this isn't to beat myself up or shame myself or guilt myself. I've just been asking out of curiosity: How am I missing out on experiencing God? What areas of my faith can I grow in? Because I hope if I live to be 100, I'll still be asking that question. Once you've arrived, there's nothing else you can learn this side of heaven.
So I could keep my shoes on, take them off, pretend I'm on a beach — whatever the spiritual equivalent is. But I've been asking: How am I tipping the scales? What areas am I not inviting God into?
Lent: An Invitation
This is why I believe Lent is a perfect time for those questions.
As a church, we are starting a fast this morning. For those of you in community groups, this is what we'll be discussing alongside the sermon series as we look at the latter life of Jesus and work our way toward the cross. For those who aren't in a community group, I still encourage you — we have packets in the back.
I will say, I've gotten some feedback that this might come across as intense or a little more intimidating than it's supposed to be. There is a lot in here. But the encouragement is this: by removing a lot of distractions and normal everyday habits — things that aren't even bad things, just things that have become second nature — it's a way to disrupt the everyday in order to experience God.
Let me take two minutes to walk through the fast, and then we'll pray and look at our text.
First, our fast is mostly from good things, or at least neutral things. Though some people might choose to break bad habits during this time, traditionally Lent is about taking away things that are meant to be enjoyed — desserts, entertainment, wine, community replaced with solitude, feasting replaced with fasting — and then breaking that fast on Sundays or your Sabbath day as we come together to celebrate.
The point is to disrupt our lives and remind ourselves how much we need God.
Additionally, some of the practices in the guide might not make sense for you, and that's fine. This is meant to be an invitation, not a burden. For example, some fasts are connected to food — historically the church has done this. But I've known many wonderful, Jesus-loving, Spirit-filled people for whom food fasting just didn't make sense, whether because of health reasons, a history of eating disorders, or the pain of diet culture. Or maybe your job requires social media. Or one week is about noise — turning off the radio in the car and using that time to talk to God. These are outlines and encouragements, not requirements.
The point of Lent is that it's supposed to cost us something — but it's not supposed to be a burden. It's an opportunity to join with Christ in a kind of suffering in order to experience his presence. Not a box to check. Not a technique. A journey.
And finally, in the backpacking world, there's an acronym you'll hear: HYOH — Hike Your Own Hike. Don't worry about other people's pace or path. Worry about your own hike. That acronym works just as well during Lent. As we follow Jesus on the journey to the cross, don't worry about what other people are doing. Worry about you and Jesus. Hike your own hike.
For me, every year, Lent is hands-down a restart, a reignition of my faith. The most significant growth in my personal spiritual formation happens during this season. So I encourage you to pray about joining us, make it work for you, and grab a packet on your way out.
[Prayer for the Lenten season]
Sermon: Hunger and Bread
So we begin this series looking at the road that led Jesus to the cross. We'll be examining some of his very last teachings, last interactions, last miracles, last encounters. This is the end of his life. And as we do that, Lent gives us an opportunity to do exactly what he asks of us: to follow him — not just in life, but also in death. We choose to die to ourselves, to pick up our crosses, in order to experience the true life that is found in Jesus.
If you hear one thing this morning, hear this: Lent is all about resurrection. But the thing about resurrection is that it requires both life and death. Many of us in the church today are tempted to skip over the cross and go right to the empty tomb — Easter eggs, good food, celebration. And those things are wonderful. But Lent is a season to slow down and prepare our hearts for resurrection and life by starting with death.
This morning we hold up two conflicting concepts that are actually more connected than you might think: hunger and bread.
The Crowd's Mistake (vv. 25–27)
Jesus had just multiplied the loaves the day before. He took some fish, some loaves, multiplied it, and fed thousands of people. That's fresh on everyone's mind. More and more people are following him, asking more of him, turning to him — but also questioning him.
"Rabbi, when did you get here?" they ask. And Jesus cuts right to it: "You are looking for me not because you saw the signs I performed, but because you ate the loaves and had your fill."
I couldn't stop thinking about this one illustration as I was reading it. Megan and I used to go to a Mexican restaurant in California called El Ranchito. They had this endless supply of tortilla chips and salsa — always warm, always running. And I would eat so much of them every single time. Then the main course would come out, and I would say to the waiter, every time, "I'm stuffed. Why did I do this?"
I filled up on the wrong thing.
That's exactly what Jesus is telling them. You feasted on the wrong thing. They ate bread. Yes, it was a miracle — Jesus multiplied it, and it was extraordinary. But they are more interested in the miracle than they are in the miracle worker.
The Work of God (vv. 28–29)
"What must we do to do the works God requires?" they ask. Notice where the focus is. It's on them. How can we tip the scales in our favor?
And yet, how does Jesus respond? "The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent."
The work is done — but not by them. Not by you and me. The focus is to believe, on Jesus, the one God has sent.
Richard Foster gives a great illustration on our role when it comes to works versus God's role. This is worth remembering before we begin to fast:
A farmer is helpless to grow grain. All he can do is provide the right conditions for the growing of grain. He cultivates the ground, plants the seed, waters the plants, and then the natural forces of the earth take over and up comes the grain. This is the way it is with the spiritual disciplines. They are a way of sowing to the Spirit. By themselves, the spiritual disciplines can do nothing. They can only get us to a place where something can be done.
We move ourselves to a place of receiving. We do not move God to a place of manipulating.
Kierkegaard puts it beautifully in talking about prayer: "The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays." You could say the same for any of our works.
Do you see how these guys are missing the point? They ask, "What can we do to do the work God requires?" And Jesus turns that question upside down and points the attention back on himself. Believe. That's your homework. And sometimes belief looks like action, like works, like fasting, like spiritual disciplines — but it has to be rooted in Christ.
Everyone knows John 3:16, right? "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever shall behave shall have eternal life." Whoever shall do the most shall have eternal life. Whoever shall earn their way to heaven…
No. That's not what the verse says. Whoever shall believe. All of our hard work and religious acts and works of faith mean nothing if they are not rooted in Christ.
The Sign They Want vs. What Jesus Offers (vv. 30–33)
"What sign then will you give that we may see it and believe you? Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness — he gave them bread from heaven to eat."
They want a sign in order to believe. And they want bread from the sky — the way God showed up for their ancestors. What work can we do to receive a sign like that?
Jesus says: you don't need to do any work. Just believe. And they say: okay, how about this — give us a sign so we can believe. Notice where their attention still is. They don't want Jesus. They want what comes from Jesus.
Everybody would love to have bread falling from the sky. And he flips this upside down: "Instead of a sign, I will give you something from heaven that gives life to the world. You want bread? I've got something better."
Now, this is worth pausing on. In Greek, there are a few different words for "life." One is bios — from which we get "biology," the study of life. It refers to physical or material life. But there's another Greek word: zoe. This doesn't refer to physical life, but to quality of life. It transcends whether a person is simply breathing. It describes someone who is thriving. It's the difference between being alive and being full of life. One is defined by a pulse; the other by a purpose.
The people come asking for something physical — something they can touch and experience. A bios want. And you might expect Jesus to respond with the bread of bios. But instead, he uses zoe. He is talking about eternal life, something far beyond what they're looking for.
In other words: You have a hunger that transcends your physical hunger. You need to be filled up — but not by food. By the Spirit. You have a zoe need that you are trying to fill with a bios solution.
They Still Don't Get It (v. 34)
"Sir, always give us this bread."
They still don't get it. They're still looking for manna. They're still looking for how God responded to their ancestors, how God has worked in the past. The bread is right in front of them, and yet they are missing him. They still want the thing that comes from God, not God himself.
At first I read this and thought, Come on, guys. Jesus is right there and you're asking him to perform tricks.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how many times I've done exactly the same thing. I want Jesus in my life, but sometimes my faith isn't rooted in him. It's rooted in a desire for security. For meaning. For hope. Not in Jesus, but in what comes from Jesus.
And I don't think I'm the only one.
So many people come to church seeking community, or a relationship, or a better marriage, or trying to keep their kids out of trouble. "If I go to church, maybe my kids will hang out with good kids. Maybe they won't do drugs. Maybe they'll get into a good college."
And here's the thing — in my experience, being part of a faith community genuinely does make your life better. Being in a church community is good for your marriage. Maybe you will meet a partner. Maybe your kids will make better choices. These things often are the result.
But they're not supposed to be the motivation.
This isn't to shame anyone. Lord knows I've been part of the program-driven model myself over the years. But as an observation — not a critique — in the last sixty years, it seems that somewhere along the line, the evangelical Western church moved the goalposts a little bit. And something is missing. Or better yet, someone.
Skye Jethani writes in his book How Churches Became Cruise Ships:
The logic was simple. If the baby boomers did not feel the need to connect with God, then perhaps another felt need would draw them into the church — the need for community, or entertainment, or help with their children and marriages. While they consumed the upbeat music, support groups, dramas, and therapeutic sermons, the hope was that they would find God as well.
There's a difference between approaching Jesus for the benefits from him versus pursuing Jesus for the relationship with him — and letting the benefits follow.
The Bread of Life (v. 35)
"I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."
He keeps unpacking this, and they still aren't getting it. Not because of their theology or their intellect — but simply because they aren't looking in the right direction. They're not looking for what Jesus is actually offering.
If you read ahead to verse 60, many of them eventually start leaving. And this is happening near the end of Jesus's life. Some of these people have been with him for years. "This is a hard teaching," they say. "We can't do this."
He has exactly what they need. Just not what they want.
The truth is, we all have access. Every single one of us. But the question we need to ask is: Do we have appetite?
Which brings us back to Lent.
Our prayer is that by going without, we will experience more. That this season will be preparation for resurrection. Lent is more than denying the self. It's filling our hearts instead of our stomachs. It's choosing to listen for God's voice instead of the constant buzzing and noise and entertainment. It's seeking real connection over shallow interaction.
Lent is longing for God as the deer longs for water.
It reminds us how much we need food and drink to survive. And it's here that we discover an invitation to reflect on how much more we need God to survive and to find life. You can survive without food for a while. Without water for a while. Even without oxygen for a short while. But eventually you need those things. And you can try to survive without God — but we all need God eventually.
Lent is a chance to pray louder than the rumbling in our stomachs. To sit in the quietness of silence and solitude. To empty ourselves so that we can be filled with the Spirit.
Closing
My prayer is that this season is an invitation, not a burden. Not another thing to do. An opportunity to reset our weekly schedules and connect with God.
Not shame. Not guilt. Just invitation.
May we all experience the bread of life, which fills us up beyond all measure. The living water, which quenches our thirst. May we all find life in the road that leads — yes, to death, the death of Christ. May we participate in that death by dying to ourselves. And may we remember that that journey doesn't end there, but instead with resurrection: of Christ, of life, and of us.