Citius, Altius, Fortius?

This sermon was preached on July 28-29, 2012, at Grace Lutheran Church in Des Moines, Iowa, where sinners have ears to hear.

I’m happy to say that my quadrennial experience of becoming an expert at fencing, dressage, field hockey and archery has again arrived. I love watching the Olympics. I remember Peggy Fleming ice skating in the 1968 winter games and have a vague memory of medal ceremonies in Mexico City later that year. I remember Jim McKay telling us about the Israeli hostages in Munich and the glories of Dorothy Hamill in Innsbruck. I missed the US hockey team victory in Lake Placid and was a camp counselor during the Barcelona games. Well, you get the point. I love the Olympics.


The motto of the Olympics is citius, altius, fortius – faster, higher, stronger. I think I love the Olympics most because that motto really fits with how the world seems to work. We get rewarded for greater effort, stronger results, bigger successes. It plays into our inner sense of how things should be. The American archetype is the self-made person. It’s a good thing to pull yourself up by your own boot straps (or your Mary Jane straps, depending on your gender). You can see it just about every other day in “Your 2¢ Worth” in the Des Moines Register where someone complains about all those lazy folks on welfare. And in this silly season of politics let the presidential candidate who doesn’t advocate personal responsibility beware.

In a world where nothing breeds success like success, where the fittest survive, and the strong, beautiful and buff have our adulation, our gospel reading breaks in with a word for those who fail in all those categories. In fact, the motto here seems to be inferius, tardius, dissolutius – lower, slower, weaker. If you are burdened, out of control, failing or dying, this reading is good news for you.

There’s something about times of success, strength and lofty soaring that get us to think we’re hot stuff on a silver platter. I’m going for the gold and deserve to medal. I want others to think highly of my bronzed and buffed body. And when I win, I can look back and regard it as proof of Newtonian physics: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I pushed and my Sisyphean stone rolled over the hill. I tugged and the baggage of my history came forward. I asserted myself and the world heeded my demands. None of this, of course, is an argument against not making an effort in life, but it is a caution – caveat sinner. Let the sinner beware, for where you see yourself as the agent of your success, the author of your grand future, or the master of your domain, there is little room for the one who is the agent of creation, the author of eternity and the master over sin, death and the devil.

Our reading from is actually two stories – the first about Jesus feeding the five thousand, the second is about Jesus coming to the disciples in the midst of rough seas – and walking on water, no less. Both parts begin with a missing Jesus and people in need. First we have a bunch of hungry people in a remote place with no chance of cobbling together a meal. Then we have those disciples worried about their safety. We don’t like either situation. We like to be in control. We want to be confident in our ongoing existence. We want solid ground. God, as the source of all things, should bring all those things on, don’t you think? And when the evidence in our lives doesn’t look like that will happen, it’s ground ripe for planting despair and unfaith.

That’s the place the serpent found Eve and her man. The first question the serpent in the garden asked her brought her to question whether God would actually provide. That serpent pitched her a good one: “Did God really say not to eat of the tree? Did God really mean it that you’d die?” That hissing tempter got her to think that it would all be up to her – she needed to act to grab the golden ring and secure her place in the world. It’s an old, old story that is our story. When things go sour and we think God isn’t following the dictates of our will, a ripple of fear starts deep inside. And as it spreads we ask the serpent’s question: Can I actually trust God? If I can’t, I’d better start lifting weights, eating dark green leafy vegetables, managing my calendar and to-do list, and buy a hybrid. When it comes down to it – who you gonna call but yourself? What it comes down to is the central problem for us human beings in our relationship with God: idolatry – looking to the wrong gods. And the first god we turn to is ourselves. If God’s not up to the job, I can go all citius, altius, fortius on you.

It’s not a very hopeful situation. But our gospel reading has another take on this for you. Neither the crowds nor the disciples are left to their own devices. Jesus, God’s Son, the Bread of Life himself, does show up. And when he does, the weak, the slow and the low know where to look for their salvation. They turn to him for food in due season. They rely on him to calm their fears. Think of all the stories you can remember where people met up with Jesus and came away changed. Not a single one of them was a person on the top rung of the ladder. None of them was a success. Certainly none of them had their poop in a group. And some of them – like the paralytic let down through the roof, or blind man by the side of the road – couldn’t even come to Jesus on their own power. And some weren’t even alive. The son of the widow of Nain was being carried to the burying ground and Lazarus lay in his grave, decomposing for four stinking days.

Jesus has little or nothing to give to those who have it all. Not because he doesn’t want to give them what he has, but because they don’t think they need it. But those five thousand in John’s gospel were hungry, so Jesus fed them. The disciples’ boat rocked, so he brought them to shore. There’s always irony and paradox when Jesus shows up. It’s not where the bright sunshine, rainbows and Olympic medals wrap themselves around you that faith springs up strongest. It’s where you’re weak. When you’re lost. When you despair over your ability to manage your days is done. When you are past the end of your rope. When God has closed a door, and all the windows are locked. That is the breeding ground for real faith.

God gives you his son that you might turn to him and find yourself in his presence. Jesus shows up and says, “Hey! It’s me. Relax. I’ve got this in hand. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” In the next few weeks, you’re going to hear a series of gospel readings about Jesus and bread. He’ll tell you that he’s the bread of life. You’ll hear him called the living bread come down from heaven. And today, you’ve heard the results of partaking in what Jesus brings you. When all of those five thousand had their fill, Jesus told the disciples to gather up the leftovers. They started with five barley loaves and two fish, and they ended up with twelve baskets of food. Where Jesus is, you’ll have more than enough. He is the sign from God that you need not take matters into your own hands. You need not be your own god. And best of all, he is God’s promise that whenever you come to him empty, you will be filled – with mercy, with forgiveness, with a future, with abundance, with more than enough. As he says at the end of Matthew’s gospel: “I will be with you to the end of the age.”

Of course, your lowless, slowness and weakness aren’t virtues in and of themselves. But when you are nothing, Jesus can be everything to you. When you are weak, he can be strong. When you are empty, he can be the fullness and abundance of life he’s promised to give you. If that’s the kind of bread he brings, I say, “Tear me off a chunk. I’m hungry.” Amen.