I have to admit that I hate daily chores. So many of the tasks that keep life running smoothly involve doing the same thing every day, day in and day out. Watering the plants. Doing the dishes.  And perhaps the most non-negotiable: figuring out what’s for dinner.

This is the beauty of leftovers. If I’m going to the trouble of making a recipe, why not double it so I can eat it tomorrow…or better yet, triple it so I can freeze some for next week! I try to skirt the daily demands of meal preparation by stocking up and planning ahead.  There’s something so appealing about working a little harder today so that I don’t have to do it again tomorrow.

Apparently, some of the people of ancient Israel had the same idea. The book of Exodus recounts the story of their escape from captivity in Egypt. As relieved as they were to be free, freedom came with a lot of discomfort and uncertainty. The Israelites found themselves camping out in the desert, unsure of where their next meal would come from. Today’s first reading recounts how God sent manna and quail – bread and meat that fell from the sky to provide for their needs.  

The book of Exodus describes the manna as God’s “test” for the Israelites. I don’t think this was a test to trick them, but rather like testing a bridge to see if it is strong enough to hold weight. The manna tested the strength of the relationship between God and God’s people, and then continued to build it through daily gratitude.

You see, the manna came with a stipulation: God instructed them to gather just enough to feed their household for that day. One day’s ration – no leftovers. That was the deal. In fact, those who tried to keep some extra discovered that it molded and got maggots overnight. So every day – with the exception of the Sabbath – the Israelites had to gather a fresh supply of manna. I can imagine them waking up in their tents every morning, stomachs rumbling, and wondering “will there be manna again today? What if there’s not enough?” They had no leftovers and no backup plan. But God was building a relationship of trust with the Israelites. Every day, their hunger brought them out of their tents, looking toward the heavens for nourishment. And every day, when the manna was there as promised, the Israelites had another reason to trust in their God.

Now let’s fast forward to today’s Gospel reading from the book of John, when Jesus makes the claim “I am the bread of life.” The day before, Jesus had miraculously fed a huge crowd of people using only five loaves of bread and two small fish. Just as God had miraculously fed the ancient people of Israel with manna, Jesus fed their descendants with the loaves and fish. Again, we see God developing a relationship of trust with humanity through meeting physical needs. But when the crowd follows Jesus, hoping for another free meal the next day, Jesus redirects them. He tells them that he has something better to offer: himself. Jesus tells them “I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me will ever be hungry. No one who believes in me will ever be thirsty.”

I struggle with this statement. At face value, it seems to imply that if I simply believe in Jesus, I will never again experience spiritual hunger. Could Jesus really mean that once we have received Christ’s presence, we are supposed to be satisfied and “set” for the rest of our days? I seriously doubt it! In fact, experience shows just the opposite: the more I taste God’s presence, the more I crave it. The psalmist describes this feeling as panting after God like a deer looking for a stream of water. An encounter with God is just the beginning – it whets the appetite, then keeps us coming back for more.

You see, there are no “leftovers” in the spiritual life. No matter how hard I pray on Sunday, I’ll still need God’s presence with me on Monday morning. Going on a great retreat won’t “tide me over” spiritually for years to come. Sacraments of initiation give us a tantalizing taste of God’s presence, but they are just the beginning. We celebrate First Communion in hopes that it will be the first of many times we commune with God.

Let’s think about when we experience spiritual hunger. Perhaps it is when we glance at the news, see ecological destruction around us, or experience inequality. Perhaps it’s when we are overwhelmed or lonely. Every time we experience a gap between the world as it should be and the world as it is, that craving for peace and justice is our soul’s way of saying “I’m not satisfied.” It’s the spiritual equivalent of our stomach rumbling. That’s our cue to turn toward God for spiritual nourishment. So pray. Go for a walk in the woods. Receive Christ’s presence in word and sacrament. Be filled by the presence of the Divine.  

And tomorrow, when you feel the pangs of spiritual hunger again, go back for more. That feeling of holy discontent doesn’t mean that yesterday’s prayer didn’t work; it means that God is building a relationship of trust with you. Just like the Israelites’ physical hunger kept them looking to the heavens for manna, our spiritual hunger turns us toward God.

Hunger grounds us in the everyday. It’s in this everyday hunger that God will meet us, giving us this day – each day – our daily bread.