I am the bread of life.

-Jesus

When it became clear that rumors of a global pandemic were, in fact, true, two things happened almost immediately:

1.     Drew and I began exercising in our living room to workout videos on a YouTube channel called “PopSugar.”

2.     I learned how to bake bread.

One of these practices has remained, while the other has mercifully slipped away now that we are elite card-carrying members of the Auburn community fitness room—a place which has its own quirks as its screens perpetually show re-runs from the early 2000’s semi-horror shows “Supernatural” and “Charmed,” along with pumping out classic rock hits at an unyieldingly high volume. It’s no PopSugar, but it’s home.

When we were little, my mom and sisters and I made Resurrection Buns every Easter. Resurrection Buns are made of dough wrapped around a large marshmallow, then dipped in butter and cinnamon sugar. After baking, the marshmallow disappears but the dough shape remains—flat on the bottom, puffed on the top—like an empty tomb. To this day, I remain enchanted by these wondrous buns. My faith is restored each Easter by a melted marshmallow and the reminder that the Resurrection is not only real, it is sweet.

When I bake bread, I practice resurrection. In faith, I mix the ingredients and plunge my hands into the dough, kneading until I achieve the desired smoothness and elasticity. Anxiety and worry melt away as I give myself entirely to the work at hand, absorbed with the here and now. Flour, water, yeast, a little oil: these are the elements of a unique communion I’ve cherished in the silence of rainy afternoons.

After the dough has been formed, I cover it, place it in a warm space, and wait. This is a spiritual practice all its own, this waiting for something wonderful and good that cannot be hurried or it would lose its goodness. I think of how often I’ve felt covered—smothered by the weight of the unknown and unresolved. Only recently have I come to suspect that the seasons I most long to cast off like a heavy cloak are the ones which are best preparing for me an eternal glory which far outweighs them all. Do I trust the One who formed me from clay, knit and kneaded me together in my mother’s womb, yet then chose to cover me with his hand so that his glory might be revealed to me as he did with Moses? Is it not true that our greatest joys are the ones which seemed long in coming to us? Perhaps in our most painful seasons of waiting, we are being covered by the hand of God—being prepared for a deeper revelation of glory than we could have ever fathomed. In such seasons, all that is required of us is to wait and rest.

After some time, I check the dough to make sure it has risen and doubled in size. When it has, I punch the dough down again and watch all that waiting swiftly deflate beneath my fist. It is necessary to test the dough’s consistency against the pressure of my hand, though hard to watch hours’ worth of waiting collapse. I cover the dough and let it rest again. There have been times in my life that I thought I was ready for the thing I most wanted, times I was so sure that the job, the husband, the challenge, the role was exactly right for me—so I strove for those things and attained them, only to be completely deflated by the weight of getting exactly what I wanted, when I wanted it. There is a hard yet virtuous beauty in the necessity of living as people tied to the seasons. Each season reveals the futility of striving for things out of season and prove that the judicious hand of God’s timing is better than our own. Insisting on baking bread directly after its first rise is like insisting on sunflowers in January. For everything under the sun there is a season, and a perfect time for its fulfillment—so it is with unfulfilled longings and baking bread.

At just the right time, God sent his son to be born in Bethlehem—literally, the “House of Bread.” Bethlehem, cloaked in its own insignificance, was the very place the Bread of Life chose enter the world. Could such miracles visit our own houses of bread? Though it is mid-January, I have not removed our wooden nativity set from the mantle because I want the miracle to stay alive in front of my eyes, to feed my spirit and revive my hope like bread revives my body. I am not ready to pack away the Bread of Heaven and save him for next year like I am surprised he came back. I want to ruminate upon this Word of life like the scroll covered with prophecies of doom that God handed to the prophet Ezekiel with the words, “Eat this scroll I am giving you and fill your stomach with it.” The scroll of bitterness, it turns out, tasted sweet—sweeter than honey. How often have I refused what has been handed to me, fearful of its appearance, yet missed the surprising sweetness of saying yes? Christ’s obedience was bitter unto death, but his resurrection was sweet unto life.

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:6,8)

While the bread rises again, I warm the oven to create the perfect conditions for it to become its intended form. I think of the Israelites and their thousands of years of waiting in darkness, little guessing that the light of deliverance was about to dawn upon them in the form of a baby in a feeding trough. In the book of Romans, Paul describes the act of waiting (even in darkness) as a gift that expands our ability to receive the fruit of our patience:

We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.
(Romans 8:25, MSG)

I place the ready dough in the oven and wait with joyful expectancy for it to become bread. As its warm scent fills our home, I become almost giddy with anticipation. No matter how many times I bake bread, each time is its own resurrection. In Jesus’ ministry, he described the kingdom of heaven with the language of bread:

The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds of flour until it worked all through the dough.
(Matthew 13:33)

I find it intriguing that Jesus seemed to find the ordinary, earthy act of baking bread to be a vessel of the Holy, too. Remarkably, Jesus goes a step further and claims that he is the very Kingdom bread we’ve been waiting for—in partaking of him, we will live forever. So what are we waiting for? The bread of life is here, with us in the commonplace and the darkness and the waiting. With us in kitchens, traffic, nurseries, loneliness, and illness. We look upon him and are given the bread of life, more than enough for each day.

Will we trust that even in the painfulness of waiting, we are being enlarged to receive more of God’s glory?

Do we believe that our Maker knows the perfect conditions needed for us to become who we were meant to be, and that we will be met and fed each day with goodness and grace?

The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time.
(Psalm 145:15) 

Beloved, we have been given the Bread of Life. Let us feast on him and enter joyfully into the Kingdom of Heaven—the Kingdom of Bread.

Amen.