So, when I was a little kid, I remember taking trips to Florida with my mom and grandparents. We would load up in the Chevrolet, trunk packed to the brim, with a red and white chest cooler always packed for easy access. And off we'd go, down new fangled I-75, roaring down the shining highway, all the way to Treasure Island for a week of sun, sand, and shuffleboard.
We had our rituals. Wherever we stopped, my granddaddy would look up other Hixsons in the phone book and call them out of the blue to ask if they might be relatives. My mom and I had a contest of who could first spot Spanish moss (I never won). But it was my grandma who had the most important ritual of all. She packed and prepared the food.
See, this was a time before a McDonald's or Burger King on every off-ramp. In fact, there weren't all that many off-ramps, so you would see cars pulled over all the way down, with people scampering out of site to answer this or that call of nature. And even if there were off-ramps, they led you to small towns with actual restaurants and diners, and those took both money and time, and we were in a hurry and saving our pennies for Treasure Island.
So, around lunch time, my grandma would have my granddaddy start looking for a pull off area with a picnic tables and restrooms. Once found, we'd park and she'd pull out the red and white cooler. Inside was a feast. A baggie of fried chicken. Another baggie of peanut butter saltines. A can of cold pork and beans. Egg salad sandwiches. And the crème de la crème...a little can of Vienna sausages. While my granddaddy wandered off, saying he wanted to just look around, grandma would lay out the spread. My favorite part was the opening of the Vienna sausages with the “Pffffft” and then shaking out the sausages with the jelly. “Thworp! Splat.”
We each got two of those awesome, squishy tiny hot dogs that we could eat without grilling them! It was decadent. One year, my grandma picked the wrong can from the grocery shelf and bought barbecue Vienna sausages by mistake, and that was a game changer. Nobody else would eat them, so I got the entire can!
And I could always hear my grandma screaming, “Come eat!” No gentle “Lunch is ready.” No dulcet “Fix your plate.” Just a barked “Come eat.” She was having none of it if we had wandered off too far. You had a set amount of time, then she was packing up and getting us on the road.
I thought of her when I read the lesson from the Book of Kings. Here's Elijah. He's previously ticked off his queen, Jezebel, by killing all her priests. So he's on the lam, headed to the wilderness to hide out until things cool down. He's actually not opposed to the Lord just taking him now, so he can avoid being a prophet and having his mouth keep getting him in trouble. So, this angel appears and, like my grandma, kinda pokes him and says, “Get up and eat.” And he does. And the angel essentially pokes him again and says, “Finish your plate. Otherwise the journey will be too much for you.”
Like my grandma, this Get-Up-And-Eat Angel knew what was what. Even on your best days, even on days when you are on vacation with nothing but fun and sun ahead of you, you need to eat.
I wonder, do you notice them? Those Get-Up-And-Eat angels? The ones that show up in our everyday lives?
I have met the Get-Up-And-Eat angel so many times, we all do, in the form of encouraging friends and family along the way. Those who may poke their head in my office just to say, “Hey, you looked tired last Sunday, is everything OK?” Or send a note on your birthday, or invite you over for leftovers.
It may have seemed like a small thing when the Get-Up-And-Eat angel urged Elijah to ‘get up and eat,’ but for that person at that time it was everything he needed. But here's the thing. I’m not so sure Elijah would have even been able to see the meal right in front of him if the Get-Up-And-Eat angel had not tapped him on his shoulder, waking him up, and showing him this simple gift of bread.
What a difference that simple act made for Elijah, enabling him to go out and finish the work God had given him to do. That's what we do here, right? We come here for that simple bread that is so very complicated in its own way. Simple bread that is Jesus. Simple bread that is life-changing. Simple bread that is eternal.
But here's another thing. I think, in some way, when we eat this bread, we are not just set free, but we are also held responsible. That's the way of life as a follower of Christ. Something that our nation so often forgets. Freedom without responsibility of anarchy. And responsibility without freedom is slavery. But freedom with responsibility...that is salvation; it is kingdom building; it is Jesus. This communion that we do, and this worship, this living in God's word, and this coming together as a body, it's as if we are each a Get-Up-And-Eat angel, not just free to worship, but responsible for offering this simple, complicated, miraculous meal to everyone we meet.
Each of us, a Get-Up-And-Eat angel, reminding others that God is not finished with them yet. Each of us, sidling up to our family and friends, long time acquaintances and strangers alike and reminding them of the simple ways that God still touches their lives. Giving them simple reminders to eat or drink, to rest a while, to take a walk. To love one another and to love God just as God loves them, period.
I've said this before, and I'll say it again: we have absolutely no idea how what we do in the world affects others. We have no idea what that “thank you,” or that unforced smile can accomplish. We have no idea just how our prayers can affect the world like that proverbial butterfly beating it's wings. And we have no idea how offering – just offering – the bread of life to those we meet might give a prophet we don't even recognize the strength to get up and fight for justice and mercy in a world that so desperately needs it.
Look, we don't always have to be changing the world single handedly. But surely we can be there for each other to offer support, to be the Get-Up-And-Eat angel to one another.
On those trips, my granddaddy's role was to drive, my mom's was to be co-pilot. My role was to be the kid (I probably thought I was the comic relief, but I'd suspect more of an annoyance). And my grandma was our Get-Up-And-Eat angel. Making sure we had enough strength to make it all the way.
And here's the thing. I hardly remember a thing about Treasure Island, but I sure remember the meals. I sure remember my grandma's single-minded drive to keep us fed. Even today, years after her death, I remember that.
The bread of life. It's like that. And we have enough, each of us, to share, to encourage, to feed. And to love.