Becoming Bread (revised 2026)

The young man stands on the east side of the river, expectant within an expectant crowd, eyes fixed on his cousin as he leads one person after another from east to west through the ancient waters. Who could not hear the echoes of Joshua and Elisha as John leads the people through the brackish water to inhabit the land in a renewed and renewing response to the way of the Liberator. (No wonder it draws hostility from the temple and the court.) Joshua led a nation through this water to a land in which – they promised – they would follow the way of the Liberator. Elijah and Elisha crossed out of the land, and Elisha returned alone, both of them part of a long struggle against prophets of other gods who made shiny promises to that nation, to that people.  

And now the young man watches as his cousin takes his turn in the witness of the prophets. The shiny idolatrous things are once more on offer from the establishment, the temple and the court: to make peace with the prince, with Caesar, with the empire, with greed and idolatry and blinding ambition.  

By the usual and dispiriting inversion, the king of this land has killed children in the name of power and fear, and the old plantation of pyramids and pharaohs has become a place where one of those children – the one who survived, the young man now watching his cousin – found safety.  

In the face of this, the young man’s cousin performs baptism as theatre. This repentance is a turning and re-turning – away from the corruption and pretense of the religious leaders, and towards the promise and the purpose of God for this land. Leaving the old corruption behind, then inhabiting the land anew in the ancient way of the Liberator.  

The young man watches, and soon will join in re-imagining of the land as the homeland of justice, compassion and neighbour-care. What he anticipates with the crowds is the in-breaking power of a Spirit, holy, who breathes that homeland into being. Across the reed of this strange wilderness assembly, the Spirit breathes. And a song begins to take shape across that reed, answering its hunger, and its hope. 

The young man presses through the crowd, not impatient, not aggressive, but determined to move past watching to joining. Some jostling and wriggling through to get to the river’s edge. A flash of recognitions. (The cousin says, “this is bigger than me.” The young man says, “this ‘bigger’ invites us both into this moment.”) And then “Yes” and “Yes”, and the strength of the cousin pulls the young man into the sluggish current, through the weeds and mud and murk.  The young man’s feet cannot keep up with his cousin’s pace, and down he goes, and then up he comes and then… 

…And then it is not only the hands of his cousin who lift him, stumbling, as he makes the shore. Other Hands lift him, singing as They work – "You are my child, my beloved."  And just like that, the Spirit – who joins her Song to the young man’s longing– drives the him into the wilderness. 

It is no easy blessing. The Hands that lifted him, gasping, into the land, no longer cradle gently. They push and fold and their hand-heel squeezes. The Song, though, doesn’t falter. "You are my child, my beloved."  

Forty days, a quarantine with nothing but those Hands and that Song, and the young man is hungry, fainting-hungry. The memory of the blessing becomes vague. After forty days, the stones – wind-rounded, sand-polished – begin to look disturbingly like bread. The new voice has conviction and pragmatism on its side. There they are. There you are. They could be bread. You could be satisfied. Make them what you want, what you hunger for. Something whispers something about how the Holy has spoken the stones, and will speak bread in due course. Do not be afraid. Sand in his eye, he blinks, and the stones look like stones again. (Is it remembering this moment that the young man says, later, “Consider the lilies”?)  There’s a rest from the pushing and folding and hand-heel squeezing. The Spirit breathes and the song continues. "You are my child, my beloved."  

And then... he can picture it: Applause as he leaps from the temple. Soft landing from audacious leap. Destiny, providence, the adrenaline rush of risk and reward, the careening climax as Hands reach down from the sky to cradle his bold, daring Self and then… 

The song fades, its intimate resonance drowned out by the roar of the crowd. (Is it remembering this moment that the young man says, later, “Woe to you, when all speak well of you.”?)  A lizard brushes his ankle, reminds him of earth, limit, boundary. Lizard and messiah share the dust, and something like Wind blows his hair across his scalp. The Song returns, "my beloved."  Lizard scurries. Legs give way to hunger and exhaustion as he sprawls backwards, as the dust envelops him. He can’t find the power to stand on his  feet. Where will he find the power to continue? What will sustain the godly haunting?  

He knows where power can be found. He has seen Herod, living in rented power. He knows of Herod’s landlord, Pilate. He knows about power, the single-minded power of chariot-legion-sword-cross. If he had such power, (he is asked) would he? Could he? He couldn’t, not without the idolatry that trades purpose for power. If he had power like that, the young man… (It is remembering this moment that he says, later, “My kingdom is not from this world.”)  

Something like lightning pitches him backwards into the scrub. Hands soft as pillows lift him close to something like the warmth of a beating sun. The Song is so close and deep it rises through his body, through skin and bone and muscle, to his own beating heart: "You are my child, my beloved."  

His mother’s courage strengthened and softened her to make this child her work. By such courage he now chooses to take up the work of becoming bread. He stumbles out of the desert, into a life whose power is compassion, whose status is servant, whose fullness is to feed. 

Bartimaeus says, “Let me see again”, and sees, and takes up himself the work of becoming bread. 

Matthew loses count, then counts halfway to one, and takes up himself the work of becoming bread.  

A foreign woman sees the light of healing through him, begs that light for her daughter, breaks his heart, and shares with him the work of becoming bread.  

Weak-willed overeager Simon becomes Rock-Peter, fails, takes his lumps of grace at the last breakfast (Do you love me? Feed my sheep), and takes up himself the work of becoming bread.  

Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener, and he speaks her name in love. Known and loved, she takes up herself the work of becoming bread. 

Saul muttering murder becomes Paul breathing grace and takes up himself the work of becoming bread. 

Jesus leaves the stones be. They are stones for the Holy’s holy reason. Hungry Jesus takes up himself the work of becoming bread. 

Hands kneading, loaf rising, baker singing. Hungry fed. Hunger – all kinds of hunger. Bread – all kinds of bread. Pierced Hands will be and break the bread. The mystery is not that bread becomes Body, but that Body becomes bread.  

This mystery set in motion when Hands first lifted. This mystery of One who takes up the work of becoming bread. This mystery kneaded by choosing and compassion, by suffering love, by naked bruised abandonment. This mystery, cradled by Hands that draw this child from the womb, gentle this child into the tomb, lift this child from death to life. This mystery, becoming our bread. This mystery, these Hands who call to us, drench us, lift us, drive us, test us, cradle us, and gentle us into our tombs, these Hands who lift into the new creation, this Baker-Who-Sings, who sings to us: "You are my child, my beloved."