Is Jesus Fat?
By Rev. Dr. Jason Byassee
Sunday, September 15, 2024
Reading: Matthew 11:7-19
I got to visit Alaska one summer. Some friends and I went and saw the dogs that run the Iditarod, the 1000-mile race across the state in temperatures that reach 100 below. They even pulled us on some sort of summer-modified sled on grass. When we saw the hundreds of dogs our guide said: you probably think our dogs are too skinny. That’s because your dog is fat. Somehow, I felt ashamed on behalf of an animal in our house whose only job is to decide where to nap next.
My title is meant to be salacious, “Is Jesus fat?” We had people come in off the street this week to weigh in (as it were). If that keeps happening the titles are going to get even more sensationalist, you need to know. Fat is a fighting word. In the wealthy west we don’t really have problems with starvation. We do have hunger—you may have seen reports that one million Canadians visited a food bank this past year for the first time in our history. We have plenty of food, our crisis is a cost of living one in major Canadian cities. I sure wish our church’s food bank—the busiest in the city—were less busy. But we don’t have starvation, we tend to have diseases linked to obesity: diabetes and heart disease. Most of our doctors tell most of us we need to lose a little weight, or a lot. They may even be right. Where I grew up, folks still eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes and all kinds of good things that’ll kill you. That was fine when we worked in the fields all day. Not when we sit at desks.
There’s a class and race element to conversation about fatness and thinness. For most cultures and in most of human history to be fat was a sign of wealth and leisure. Monarchs and lords were fat; serfs were skinny if not starving. But in our culture, being skinny is a sign of leisure. You can get to the club, hire a trainer, pay someone else to cook healthy food. A friend of mine taking her kids on college trips said she could tell the wealth of the other students’ families by how fat she was (her words) compared to the other parents. Was she medium fat? Middle class college. Fat fat? Rich college. Another friend has one of these frames where she can’t really put on weight. And in her pastoral ministry women tell her all the time their lives would be fine if they could just be as skinny as she is. ‘My husband would love me more. My job would pay me more. I would like myself more.’ That’s what our culture has said to anybody who’s not rail thin. My friend can only say dear one, I wish you could see how beautiful you are, and how grievous the lies you’ve been told about your body.
Race: there was an article this week about fat phobia in the United Church’s magazine Broadview. I wish there were always a headline that close at hand for my sermon topic. The author is a Jamaican Canadian trying to reclaim fat as beautiful. She succeeds a lot of the time. It’s a Eurocentric aesthetic that says thin is beautiful. She’s reclaiming pride in her curvy black body, bless her. But it’s hard. She describes getting duded out with a girlfriend to go see Beyonce here in Toronto. They wear their nicest, coolest clothes, they’re cooking. And they go to their seats at the Rogers Centre and don’t fit. The chairs aren’t made for people their size. They complain and get moved to a standing room only spot where they can’t see. And I don’t have to tell you these social pressures are gendered. Men can have a paunch like mine and be considered distinguished. Women? Just shamed.
So, what’s up with my title? You’ll remember this mini-series we’re in is jokingly called “let’s get fired.” Fat is a fighting word. So why would I even ask if Jesus is?
Well, in our text today, Jesus is in a fight with his critics, as he often is. For someone who talks about peace, Jesus sure fights a lot. Friends of mine who are pacifists say it’s all you have to do to pick a fight to tell someone you’re a pacifist. They’ll immediately want to fight with you. It’s good practice, to see how serious you are. Jesus is in a fight and he says this: 18 For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘he has a demon.’ 19 the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’
He passes on this criticism. And he doesn’t refute it. Doesn’t feel the need to. Or can’t. His cousin John is a prophet of renunciation. Jesus’ life is the arrival of a kingdom, often compared to a feast, full of good food and wine and celebration.
Jesus, someone wise said, eats his way through the gospels. If you have read a children’s book to a child in the last 50 years, Jesus is the very hungry caterpillar. If you open the Bible to any two pages in the gospels Jesus will be eating somewhere in there. If there isn’t enough food, bam, he just makes more. Not enough drink? Not a problem, miracle incoming. In our passage Jesus says he is the bridegroom. We, the church, are the bride. And the wedding feast starts with his ministry and continues until he returns. What is a wedding without eating and drinking, music and feasting? Life with Jesus is a party and you’re all invited. And if you read the gospels, you’ll notice there are crumbs all over the pages. And if you imagine Jesus, you should think of him as having a mouth full of food.
That’s why I playfully suggest Jesus is fat. But of course, we have no record of Jesus’ appearance at all. None. We get more description of John the Baptist: he eats locusts and wild honey, wears camel’s hair, he’s usually depicted as a wild man in the wilderness—you know, the guy with a cricket’s leg jutting out of his mouth. Those sunken cheeks are appropriate. What’s Jesus look like? Dunno. One of you seeing my sermon title on the sign said Jesus was eating the original mediterranean diet—fish and olives and nuts and such, sugar not even an option, it’s a new world phenomenon, fruit’s the sweetest thing Jesus ever tasted. Fine. But he loves bread. Every meal there’s bread. No bread so he makes some. He even compares himself to bread. Says he’s hiding in the bread. Says every time we eat bread, he’s with us. Jesus is a bread man. If Dr. Atkins taught us anything it’s that bread makes us fat. Oprah says she’s a good dieter who, unfortunately, will never give up loving bread. Are you feeling me now on this Jesus is fat thing?
In his teaching, Jesus is always comparing his kingdom to a wedding. But with a twist. The invited guests won’t come. Aren’t interested. Okay fine, go find me other people, people with no invitation, people not normally invited to parties, and fill the hall with them. The poor, the lame, the blind, the oppressed, all Jesus’ closest friends. A meal with Jesus is an overflowing table, a bottomless glass, and people sitting by you that you wouldn’t have invited. Not on anyone’s guest list. The unhoused and refugees, protestors on the other side of the Israel/Palestine debates, Trump voters and Trump haters alike. Jesus’ parties will save you. But they’ll make you furious at the same time.
When I was in ministry in North Carolina the Duke Endowment decided to try and improve clergy health. Ministry is a sedentary occupation, lots of meetings and sitting. Jesus rose from the dead so we can go to meetings. Ministers like me eat too much fast food, and don’t exercise enough. That’s why I went into ministry: I’m normal weight for a minister. This research found that the average minister in North Carolina is in worse health than the average North Carolinian. And that’s impressive. Because the average North Carolinian, in the diabetes belt, is in terrible health. But! We ministers live on average seven and a half years longer than the average North Carolinian. Think about that. It’s terrible news for insurance companies. We stay alive in poor health longer. This is how healthy church is. The more you’re around church the longer you’ll live. God is good for you. Relationships with others are good for you. Over food and drink with Jesus and all his weird friends. I tried dieting then, even got good at it, and being skinny is cool. But have you tried eating?! It’s awesome!
I got to know an English priest once. He’d revitalized his parish in Newcastle by, you guessed it, eating. He’d been in his new post a few months and he groused hey, how come we only ever have snacks when we meet? Inedible finger food and the worst tea an English person has ever suffered? How about we have real food? Hearty stuff. Because when you eat together magic happens. You digest together, metabolize alongside each other, you start to like the other person, to tell stories, to enjoy each other’s presence. There’s a reason you go for food when you go on a date. This is the secret in Jesus eating his way across the gospels. He’s creating a community of love. When I met with this priest, he said sure I’ll meet with you. This place has an excellent buffet. You’re paying.
This is why I’m constantly trying to push us to eat together more here at TEMC. Others have joined me in this quest. No more stale nibbles and unbearable coffee. No: only food that’ll bring hungry people. What if our church were known in our city as the place that will feed you? I know we’d have folks come for “the wrong reasons”: food. But friends of mine point out, uh, I first came to church for the girls. Or the singing. Or the child care. Are those reasons “wrong?” No. Neither would coming for the food be. Jesus’ people should be known by the quality of our parties. There is always room for more.
A friend works in fundraising, and a friend of his has money to give. Sometimes he gives bottles of wine, a sort of currency. But once recently he gave a bottle and told my friend, listen, this one’s really valuable, don’t give it away, save it for something. My friend did what any of us would have done: he looked it up. It’s worth $2000. Wow. Do I save it for my kid’s wedding? My grandkid’s baptism? He was in a small group at church where a member had recently lost his wife. He brought the bottle to the next meeting. He brought up the woman who’d just died, offered sympathy to her widower, and told them about the bottle. They all joked as I did: sell it! No, he said, we’re going to drink it together tonight at small group. Because the next time we have wine this good it’ll be with her.
There is a place for renunciation in our faith. A place for fasting, sorrow, saying no. John the Baptist represents that. He’s the last and greatest of the prophets because he sets the stage for Jesus, after whom there are no more prophets. I’ve known lots of monks and nuns—people who refuse money sex and power for Jesus. And renunciation creates fascination. You’re really celibate? No kids? No job? No nothing? Right, I have enough joy with my spouse Jesus. I want to be on their prayer list. I’m sort of ruled by food. As we say about our puppy at home: I’m quite food motivated. Someone not ruled by their stomach: that fascinates me. I wish I were that free.
But Jesus is different than John. Jesus is the bridegroom. Humanity the bride. A wedding feast is here. No sorrowing around this guy, he brings the party with him wherever he goes. Hungry? Here’s the best plate you’ll ever have. Thirsty? Here’s wine so good it will change your life. Food motivated? He created food in the first place! He loves it! John Calvin—not thought of as a party guy in 16th century Geneva—said the tastes of different foods are evidence for the goodness of God. It could all have been gruel or paste, the little tablets of goo that distance runners eat. Instead, we get brussels sprouts fried in bacon grease. And crème brûlée and other desserts that require a blowtorch. And scallops wrapped in bacon. And, well, insert your favourite here (you’ll notice a bacon theme in mine).
The great novelist Anne Tyler’s book Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant is as cool as it sounds. It’s about a restaurant where you can order whatever you’re homesick for. For me, from North Carolina it’s vinegary barbeque with hush puppies and sweet tea. Mm. See: food isn’t just about fuel. It’s about being human. Home. Whether you love and are loved at the table. It’s about how mama’s kitchen smelt. About the continent you grew up on. One of the great restauranteurs alive wrote a book called Setting the Table. He argues that people think restaurants are about food. And they are wrong. Restaurants are about hospitality. Making a place where you’re treasured. At my favourite diner here on St. Clair, Emma’s, the staff knows my name. Knows my order. Asks how I’m doing and seem to care about the answer. I’ve noticed them sneaking me up in line before people who got there earlier. Don’t tell anyone. Can we help guests to our church feel that good? I’ve joked with Greg, their manager, that I want to hire him here as well as he greets me at the diner. He says he’s sort of busy Sunday mornings.
Do you see why food is so central to our life as a church? I got all the time in the world for cookies and doughnuts and coffee. I imbibe too much of each. But we also need full heaping plates. And drinks worth offering a toast. And time where we linger and tell stories and encourage one another and tease one another. Tell me who you eat with, and I’ll tell you who you are. And now you see why it’s so important that we eat with Jesus’ dearest friends: those with no other invitations, those usually hungry and lonely and unloved.
Here’s one of the only images of a round-faced Jesus I can find. It’s by a Mexican artist in the 1970s, playing with our culture’s fat phobia, showing Jesus as a well-fed happy eater. It’s a very old adage in the church that “what God has not assumed he did not save.” Jesus has to be human to save us humans. A friend who’s bald says that means Jesus has to be bald: to save bald people like him. Feminists point out that Jesus’ masculinity could be a problem here: how does he save us women? Gentiles might ask the same about his Jewishness. This is why we have to work to portray Jesus in a variety of ways. But for me and my fellows in the overfed community: Jesus is fat. To save us fat folks. Not only that: he’s fat because he wants to eat us all up. Make us part of his body. Swallow humanity whole so we’re one with him, and he’s one with us. That guy in that image has swallowed the universe.
You can narrate the whole Bible with food. Adam and Eve eat wrong, and we fall. The Israelites feast on lamb before delivery from slavery and eat manna God provides in the wilderness. Jesus eats his way through the gospels and leaves crumbs all over the pages. Paul wants the church to eat like Jesus with the poor first and the rest of us in the back of the line. The kingdom is a feast with no end—with only one catch: you have to serve each other. No selfishness allowed, just the service of feeding others.
There’s a fantastic TV show out there called The Bear, about a sandwich joint in Chicago taken over by a Michelin star winning chef. Carmen is one of the great cooks in the world, but can he run a short order Italian sandwich shop? Not clear. It’s remarkable in the show: this guy can cook anything, but when he needs to eat? It’s PB&J. A friend comes over to bake at his place and he says hold on, and he fishes all his jeans out of his oven. He never cooks at home. One character tells Carmen at one point he must love this frantic life of serving food to others. He says no, I do it maniacally, but I don’t love it. I just can’t help it. A friend from the food industry tells me she can’t watch the show. It’s too accurate about the stresses in the kitchen.
Not Jesus. He doesn’t only cook for others. He loves the food himself. In our theology Christ is the host at the banquet he’s bringing. He’s also the guest—anyone we don’t know is Jesus in disguise. He’s also the food: bread and wine and every other good thing. And his kingdom will have no end. Amen.