Our journey through the Gospel of John leads us to a moment of profound significance—John, chapter 6, verses 56 to 69.

Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your ancestors ate manna and died, but whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.” He said this while teaching in the synagogue in Capernaum. On hearing it, many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?”

Aware that his disciples were grumbling about this, Jesus said to them, “Does this offend you? Then what if you see the Son of Man ascend to where he was before! The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you—they are full of the Spirit and life. Yet there are some of you who do not believe.” For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him. He went on to say, “This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless the Father has enabled them.”

From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him.
“You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve.
Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.”
This is God’s word.

Earlier this year, I travelled with students to Munich, Germany. We visited the Munich Concentration Camp, a grim reminder of history’s darkest chapters, a place where democracy had failed, and humanity was stripped bare. Our guide, a German national, walked us through the desolation, explaining the brutal realities that unfolded there. We came to a sorting station, where those deemed enemies of the state were categorised, stripped of their identities, and marked.

We reached the place where Christians were kept—those convicted for defying the Nazi doctrines. Among them was a peculiar group, unlike any other. Despite the horror surrounding them, they radiated joy. They spoke of hope, encouraging others even in the face of despair. In a place designed to crush the human spirit, they were a beacon of light.

This group was often isolated, subjected to unspeakable punishments and tortures, yet their joy remained unshaken. Frustrated by their resilience, many were put to death. I asked our guide if their faith was the reason for this joy, to which she replied, “It wasn’t just their Christianity. Many others here identified as Christians, but they had no joy. These few were different.”
This is the context in which our passage speaks today.

We find ourselves at the end of John chapter 6. Over the past weeks, we’ve delved into Jesus’ teachings on being the bread of eternal life. John 5 and John 6 narrate different rejections of Jesus—one from the world and one from within. In John 6, the rejection is not from outsiders but from those who once followed Him eagerly. This passage is a warning, not to the outwardly rebellious, but to those of us who follow Jesus, urging us to remain steadfast even when the path becomes hard.
“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them,” Jesus said. His words, though strange to our ears, hold a profound truth.

Jesus is saying, “I must be your meat and drink. I must be what sustains you, what gives you life. It’s not enough for me to be your teacher or your inspiration—I must be your centre, your nucleus, the very thing that makes you tick.”

Consider this: What is your meat and drink? Is it your career, your relationships, your success? What truly drives you? Whatever it is, that is your meat and drink. And Jesus is telling us, “I must be that for you.”
This is the demand that caused so many to turn away. It’s not that His words were hard to understand—they were hard to accept. To accept Jesus as our meat and drink means surrendering all other sustenance, all other sources of life.

I once met a former Australian Olympic swimmer who shared his story with me. After his swimming career ended, his life began to unravel. He lost his job, his marriage, and his sense of purpose. He had been offered drugs to feel something, anything, but it only led him further down. His soul was starved because swimming had been his meat and drink. When that was taken away, he was left empty.
It was only at his lowest point that he found Jesus, and everything changed. Jesus became his meat and drink, his source of life.

This is the challenge Jesus presents to us all: to make Him our all, or nothing at all. It’s a demand for absolute lordship. True Christians understand this and wrestle with it daily. They recognise the magnitude of Jesus’ claims and strive to align their lives with Him, knowing they need His help every step of the way.
But there are also those who claim to follow Him yet have never truly come to grips with His demands. They go through the motions but have not let the truth of His words penetrate their hearts.
Jesus Christ consistently warns us of a peril far greater than non-Christianity—false Christianity. While non-Christianity is a condition that can be remedied, false Christianity is a far more insidious threat. It masquerades as faith but is, in reality, unbelief cloaked in the guise of devotion, like a deadly disease hidden beneath the appearance of health.

The weight of this truth is staggering when you consider how often Jesus emphasises it in the Scriptures. His fear is palpable—a deep concern that some might believe they are true followers of Him, only to discover, in the end, that they were deceived, following for the wrong reasons. It’s almost as if Jesus is overwhelmed with the urgency of this warning, and the intensity of His concern is unmistakable.
Consider the parables He tells. The parable of the ten bridesmaids is a haunting example: on the surface, all ten appear to be the same, but only five are truly waiting for the bridegroom, and the other five are ultimately rejected. Then there’s the parable of the two houses. Two men construct homes that look identical from the outside, but one is built on sand and the other on rock. When the storm comes, only one house remains standing.

And what of the parable of the four soils? It’s a powerful metaphor for the human heart. The Word of God, the teachings of Jesus, fall on different kinds of hearts, just as seeds fall on various types of soil. Out of the four, three show signs of growth, but in the end, only one produces lasting fruit.

The message is clear: the danger of false Christianity is profound. It’s not enough to appear devout or to momentarily respond to the Word; true faith must be deeply rooted, built on a solid foundation, and bear lasting fruit. Jesus’ warnings are not to be taken lightly—they are a call to examine our hearts and ensure our faith is genuine, lest we find ourselves among those who were mistaken in their belief.
It’s like putting a coin in a machine and nothing happens—the penny hasn’t dropped. Until it does, until we truly accept Jesus as our meat and drink, Christianity cannot produce what it’s meant to in our lives.
Jesus explains:

Aware that his disciples were grumbling about this, Jesus said to them, “Does this offend you? Then what if you see the Son of Man ascend to where he was before! The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you—they are full of the Spirit and life. Yet there are some of you who do not believe.” For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him. He went on to say, “This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless the Father has enabled them.”

From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him. Jesus wants to make it clear that this is not just a add on but is the centre.

Imagine the force of a crowd, like a tidal wave. It can sweep you off your feet, carrying you where you never intended to go. It’s the same force that can lead someone to doubt, yet it can also drive someone to follow Christ without question. In the pull of the crowd, you stop thinking for yourself. Some of you have been going to church for years, not because of a burning faith, but because your family goes, your friends go, or because it’s what your culture expects. But you’re not swimming; you’re just drifting, letting the current take you.

For many around during the war years, church was a place to go and meet friends. People often called themselves Christians as they had been baptised but had never accepted the claims of Jesus. So, when trouble came, they had no root or foundation to draw on.

The National Church Life Survey statistics often have shown a declining trend in churches, but I believe these have been a correction for those who truly follow Jesus. Many who claimed Christianity once upon a time, now claim no religion. In fact, in the early census material no religion was not an option. Now it is the first on the list.

Then there are those who follow for the miracles. In John 6:26, Jesus says, “You followed me because I fed you bread.” This is the person who sees the lives of Christians improving—anger subsiding, depression lifting, fears fading—and thinks, “I want some of that. I’ll give Christianity a try, make a little investment, and see if I get a return.” But here’s the catch: you set the terms. You stay with God as long as He delivers on your expectations. But this isn’t a relationship with a Father or Saviour; it’s a business deal. And let me tell you, the rewards of faith, which are immense, are never handed out on your terms. They come on His terms. True discipleship begins when you say, “Yes, I need comfort and help as a sufferer, but first, I need pardon as a sinner.”

Can’t you see? When you ask, “What’s in it for me? Will this faith make me happy? Will it force me to change my life?”, you’re not asking the right questions. You’re trying to keep control, to hold on to your self-will while hoping for the peace and joy of faith. But you can’t have both. You must choose: – abandon your self-will or abandon your hope, but you cannot cling to both.

Then there are those who follow out of guilt. Many of us carry the weight of broken rules from childhood—”Don’t lie,” “Share what you have.” But as adults, we trample over others, cheat in our relationships, or fail in our personal discipline. Some people come to church to ease that guilt, confessing sins, giving to the poor, but without truly opening their hearts to Christ. They don’t seek to reshape their lives around Him; they’re just hedging their bets, treating faith like fire insurance. But that won’t work either.

There are those who follow because they love being right. They relish studying doctrine, finding a church with the “correct” teachings, and then looking down on others who don’t measure up. They say, “We are the insiders. We know better.” But that’s not true discipleship.

And then there are those who want Jesus as their king—but a political king. They’re willing to follow Christ as long as He fits their political agenda. But that’s backward. You don’t start with your politics and then try to mold Christ to fit; you start with Christ and let Him guide your politics.

The irony is that when you truly follow Christ, you will find a new crowd. You’ll find help for your problems, relief from your guilt, wisdom that others lack, and healing for social ills. But the core, the heart of why you follow, is what Peter articulates. When Jesus asks Peter, “Are you staying or leaving? And why?” Peter, led by the Spirit, answers with a truth that defines what it means to be a Christian. This is where we find the essence of discipleship.

Everyone else choked on this. They came to Jesus seeking many things—healing, wisdom, a miracle to fill their needs. But when He demanded absolute authority, when He asked for their complete surrender, they turned away. They wanted relevance, fulfillment, a Saviour who would fit neatly into their lives without disrupting their plans. But surrender? To the truth? That was too much. And so, they split, just like we all do when the cost of discipleship becomes clear.

Then Jesus turns to Peter, the one who’s still standing there, and asks, “Why are you staying?” What does Peter say? In that moment, with the help of the Spirit, Peter speaks the words that define the core of true faith. He says, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

This is the great, irreducible minimum of what it means to be a Christian. Peter admits, “Lord, to whom shall we go?” Peter, like all of us, once believed he could save himself, that he could maintain control over his own life. But in this moment, he confesses his powerlessness and helplessness. He realises there is no other path, no other refuge, no other source of life and truth but Jesus.

Think back to your youth. How many times were you warned? Your parents, teachers, mentors—they all said, “If you spend your money like that, here’s what will happen,” or “If you follow that crowd, here’s where it will lead,” or “If you let that habit take root, it will grow into something you can’t control.” And what was your response every time? “Mum, Dad, Aunt Jane, friends, I’ve got this. I’m in control. Everything’s fine.”

But do you see how deep that self-reliance goes? How deeply rooted the lie of self-sufficiency is in our hearts? “If I can just get through this next problem, if I can just land that job, if I can just win over that person… I can handle it. I’m in control. I’m fine.” And that’s exactly why people stumble over orthodox Christian doctrine. Because orthodox Christian doctrine doesn’t let you keep that illusion. It tells you the hard truth: “You are a sinner. You fall short of the law of God. You fail to love God and your neighbour as yourself. And because of that, Jesus Christ had to die for you, so you could be forgiven.”

This truth demands that we let go of the fantasy that we can save ourselves, that we can stay in control. It calls us to surrender, to admit our need, to acknowledge that without Christ, we are lost. And that’s what Peter understood. “Lord, to whom shall we go?” He knew, as we all must come to know, that there is no other hope, no other way, no other truth, but Jesus.

What does it truly mean to be a Christian? Consider this: what separated the true disciples from the false ones? The false disciples believed in Jesus—they believed He was the Messiah, they believed He could work miracles, and they believed He was the King of Israel. But when He declared, “You must eat my flesh and drink my blood,” they couldn’t handle it. What Jesus was really saying was, “You’re not good enough. I’m going to have to die for you. Everything depends on grace, not on your own goodness. God owes you nothing, despite all your efforts.”

That was too much for them. They were like the person standing tall on a wall, proclaiming, “I’m worthy of God’s grace because of my deeds.” But when confronted with the truth, they choked. They couldn’t accept it. Yet Peter didn’t choke.

Here’s the thing about the gospel: eternal life is the most wondrous gift, but accepting it requires acknowledging a harsh truth. Imagine someone giving you a book on how to lose weight as a birthday gift. If you accept it graciously, you’re admitting, “Yes, I know I’m overweight.” Or if someone gives you a book on how to make friends, by thanking them, you’re admitting, “Yes, I know I’m a wallflower.” In the same way, when you receive the gift of eternal life, you’re saying, “Thank you, Lord. I know I’m a sinner, and I can’t save myself.”

Each of you is in a different place in your journey. Let me close with this: some of you are now worried about your motives. Let me tell you what true sincerity is. Real Christian sincerity is knowing that you’re not sincere. It’s understanding that your motives aren’t pure or sufficient. There’s something deep within us that desperately wants to be our own saviour. Some of you might be thinking, “I can’t go to God because my motives aren’t pure”.

Oh, but here’s the heart of it—true Christian sincerity isn’t about convincing yourself that your motives are pure. Real sincerity is looking into the depths of your soul and admitting, “I see it now—my motives are flawed, insufficient.” It’s the bold realisation that, no, you aren’t sincere in the ways you thought. But that’s where the light breaks through: you realise your need for Him, and with a trembling heart, you confess, “My only hope rests in what Jesus accomplished on the cross. I can’t even trust my own sincerity anymore; my trust is in what God has done for me.”

Some of you, perhaps, are awakening to this truth. You’re realising that you’ve been like those false disciples, struggling, choking on the very idea of surrendering to the authority of Jesus Christ. And yet, Jesus stands before you, not with condemnation, but with an invitation. “Come unto me,” He says, “Take my yoke upon you. Yes, it may seem heavy, daunting even, but it’s the only burden that won’t crush you. Come to me, and I’ll give you life.”

Now, friends, imagine this—some of you might be in the shoes of those twelve disciples. I can almost see them, standing there, watching the crowd disperse, wondering, “What’s happening? Should we go too?” Maybe you find your own faith growing cold, stagnant, barely flickering in your heart. Perhaps you’ve lost the fire, the love you once had for Him.

But look—look at how Jesus reclaims what is His. Picture Him, turning to you, not with a threat, but with a question that pierces the soul. He doesn’t say, “Are you going to leave too? If you do, you’ll face the consequences.” No, that’s not His way. Instead, He asks, “Will you also go away?” Can you feel the tenderness, the love wrapped in that question?

This morning, let that question sink deep. Jesus isn’t demanding, He’s pleading. He’s reasoning with you, out of pure, unshakeable love.

Listen closely—if you truly hear His question, you’ll stay. He’s saying, “Look at me. I’ve broken my body for you. I’ve poured out my blood for you. Do you really believe that this fleeting pleasure, this momentary pride, this comfort—any of it—is worth walking away from me, after all I’ve done for you?” He’s pleading with you, appealing to your heart, reasoning with you in love.
Anyone who truly listens to this question, as it echoes out from the Table, from the bread and the cup, will find the strength to stay. Because Jesus doesn’t command your loyalty; He wins it. He doesn’t just call you back; He woos you with His sacrifice, with His relentless love. He says, “If you need strength, just remember what I’ve done for you.”

And when you hear that, what else can you say but, “O Lord, what am I doing? How could I be so cold, so distant? What am I doing to you, and to myself? You’re the only one I want.” It’s a question that stirs the soul, brings you back to your senses.

Some of you, dear friends, are true followers of Christ. But know this—the journey doesn’t end here. The coin can always drop further, unlocking deeper wells of greatness in your life. Let it fall. Let’s make sure it falls further today. Listen to Him say, “Will you also go away? Look at what I’ve done for you,” and let that truth reach the very core of your being.

And when it does, you’ll see the power of the kingdom released in your life.
Jesus’ words are not merely to be acknowledged—they are to be lived, to be the very essence of our being. So let the penny drop, and let His life become yours.

This is God’s Word, calling us to a decision that will define our eternity.
Amen.