She put me in my place and I deserved every word. We had been rummaging around a topic in a small group, about being hungry and poor, so we had quickly and conveniently moved the focus of our conversation to “spiritual things”, to avoid it brushing too close.

I had begun to wax lyrical about the benefits of spiritual poverty, biblical quotes on the tip of my tongue. She stopped me, mid-theological-stride. “Have any of you ever been really hungry? Being poor is not romantic, it’s not exciting. If you’ve ever been poor, or hungry, you’ll know that.”

Awkward Christian silence.

I have learnt some things along the way, and one in particular is that sometimes (frequently) there will be the need for me to apologise. So I did. We paused, and restarted the conversation, not focusing on the newly discovered prophet in our group, but trying to shape our time with a new discipline of relevance and compassion.

One of the best ways to avoid the words of Jesus having any real effect (or affect) is to shift each bible reflection solely to the spiritual plane. We can make sinfulness simply about the relationship between God and me, not the person next to me. We can make discipleship about getting to eternity, not life here – and now. We can spiritualise bread and hunger and justice so easily that they become almost intangible and avoid our community altogether.

When John tells us Jesus’ words, “I am the bread of life”, he has just fed several thousand people with a snack box, and saved a boatload of friends in a storm. After a series of conversations, John tells us that Jesus saves a woman from being stoned to death, and stopped a cluster of rock-carrying clergy.

What Jesus says matters.

Not only because it’s wise, but essentially because it applies, here. And now. If we trust Jesus for each step, our behaviour and our allegiances change. Jesus is where real  nourishment is found, and not just for one meal, but for always.