The Word Made Meat

"It’s like God looked at the empty tortilla of the world and said, “Let’s fill it with something good.” And we get a God taco. Jesus, packed full of grace and truth, radiating love, healing hearts, and telling the kind of stories that rearranged people’s souls."

I need to make a confession. For the last year or so, I’ve been doing Weight Watchers.
 
Now, I’m not on it just to shed pounds, but I’m trying to discipline myself with healthier eating habits—especially in that space between the fridge and my tummy. And honestly, I was doing okay. Until vacation.
 
First in Richmond, Virginia where the BBQ and beer flowed as abundantly as the laughter with my cousins.

Now here in Prince Edward Island where lobsters and mussels seem to just leap from the butter straight into my belly.

And let’s not even talk about the donuts or lack of exercise. Anyway, I haven’t given it too much weight—so to speak. I’m on vacation, after all.

But unfortunately for me, I did the unthinkable. I stepped on the scale. And sure enough, there was more of me than I remembered. More flesh than I had hoped.

Which brings me to what I want to talk about today: fleshiness. Not the lumpy, pinch-an-inch kind. I’m talking about the tangible, visible substance of faith. The kind that shows up when love takes on skin and bones and walks into a room.

​And maybe, just maybe, reacquainting ourselves with this deeper kind of fleshiness can help us make better and more faithful choices as we seek to shape our spiritual body—individually and as a community.
 
Our reading today comes from: John 1:1–18

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it. . . . . And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. . . . . From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is the only Son, himself God, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.                                 John 1:1-5; 14-18

I love John’s prologue. Not only because it speaks to the humanity and divinity of Jesus, but because—well—it reminds me of tacos. Yes. Tacos. Stay with me.

You probably didn’t catch tacos in the text, but you may have noticed that John skips the usual birth story. No baby, no manger. No shepherds or wisemen. No angelic choir. What we get instead is a poetic, cosmic overture—about Incarnation. The Word becoming flesh. God showing up with meat on his bones and dust on his sandals.
 
And here’s where tacos come in. The root word for incarnation is “carne”—which, in Spanish, means “meat” or “flesh.”  Any taqueria worth its salt will serve up carne asada—grilled steak tacos.  Who doesn’t love a good steak taco? Growing up in church, I was taught the Bible was the Word of God. And in many ways, it is. It’s sacred, shaped by divine breath.
 
But John is pointing to something deeper. When he says “the Word became flesh,” what does that mean? Is John saying Jesus is the Bible? Or something more profound?
 
John uses the Greek word logos—which means  more than simply “word.” It also speech, reasoning, message, and communication. It’s where we get English words like “logic” and “dialogue.” Perhaps it’s better for us to understand that John is telling us Jesus is the divine logic of God—God’s mind, God’s messaging and meaning wrapped in flesh.
 
In logos, we find the content of God’s thoughts made visible in the actions of Christ. We see this first in Genesis: God speaks, and creation happens. “Let there be light,” and—boom—there’s light.

God’s Word does more than just describe reality; it creates it. One day, God speaks—not with a sentence, but with a person: Jesus.
 
It’s like God looked at the empty tortilla of the world and said, “Let’s fill it with something good.” And we get a God taco. Jesus, packed full of grace and truth, radiating love, healing hearts, and telling the kind of stories that rearranged people’s souls.
 
When I think of Jesus—God with meat—I think of tacos. Because tacos warm my heart and feeds soul like Jesus does.
 
This God-taco moved into the neighborhood and knocked on our doors. He laughed with us, wept with us, touched our lepers, hugged our kids, and even healed our wounds. But most importantly, Jesus came and made sure everyone had a place at the table, especially the ones whom religion pushed away.
 
One could argue Jesus was the originator of DEI by embodying diversity, demanding equality, and welcoming everyone. This is why he is the Good News. The logos—the logic, the message, the movement of God who conveys divine intention through action. He doesn’t just tell us who God is. He shows us.
 
John tells us, “To all who received him… he gave the power to become children of God.” And that’s where we come in. You see, Jesus needs you and me—in all our ordinary fleshiness—to carry his mission forward. He has left it up to us to reveal God’s love to a hurting world. 
 
Now, let’s imagine the church is a taco. Jesus, obviously, is the meat. But we’re the onions, cilantro, guac, and salsa. Each of us brings a little flavor, a little salt, a little spice to the party. Together, we become the full-bodied taste of Christ.
 
Now, I get it. I’m sure it sounds just as silly to think of yourself as a taco as it does Jesus being one. John says anyone who sees Jesus and trusts what he says has been given the power to be God’s child.
 
Born from the Spirit of God, we each carry a word inside us—a slice of the logos. Some of us carry justice. Others, compassion. Some speak mercy, tenderness, courage, hope. Whatever your word is, don’t just say it—flesh it out.
 
Jesus didn’t come to be worshipped. He came to be followed. And following him means putting meat on your word. Being a holy and sacred taco.
 
As we build a community of love in the space between, we’re building upon what God has already spoken into us: life. Full and abundant. This is more than just saying I believe in Jesus. It’s about taking on his flesh and bones and being the good news ourselves.
 
You see, faith isn’t just some theory. It’s something that sweats and struggles with us. It shows up at the hospital at 3am. It feeds someone without asking why they’re hungry. It forgives when you’d rather hold a grudge. It’s about loving God and others with your hands and feet. Serving both with your whole heart.
 
Paul tells us we are one body with many parts. Each of us adds to the substance of Christ. If we are his body, then we must move like he moved. I can tell you to love God, love others, and serve both—but unless we actually do it, these words are just meatless bones.
 
A few years ago, Corey Booker said: “Don’t tell me about your religion. Show me how you treat people. Don’t preach your faith to me. Teach it through your compassion. In the end, I’m less interested in what you have to sell and more interested in how you choose to give.”
 
Sounds a lot like Jesus to me. John says he is the Word of God made flesh. And His entire message, his divine logic and message, can all be boiled down to one word and one action: Love.
 
Every time we show love, the Word becomes flesh again. That’s because, the Incarnation wasn’t a one-time event. It’s an ongoing invitation.  It’s a call to embody Christ—not just admire him. It’s a call to carry the weight of divine love into a hurting, hungry world.
 
So instead of counting calories and measuring our waistlines, let’s count the ways we can become little Christ’s in the flesh. Let’s measure our lives not by what we consume, but by how we nourish. Let’s do the work of Christ—feeding the world with the savory goodness of God’s love.

People are hungry out there. Hungry for justice, hungry for kindness, hungry to know they matter. And you—you, with all your flavor and heart—you get to feed them. With your compassion. With your presence. With your willingness to show up in the space between hurt and healing to meet them in God’s glory.
 
You are not just a child of God. You are a holy and sacred part of Christ’s body. You are his hands. His heart. His seasoning. Your tenderness is the salt. Your mercy is the lime. Your welcome is the warmth of the tortilla. Your courage is the spice.
 
When we work together, we make a feast. Not for ourselves, but for a world starved for grace. So, who will take on the weight of the Word? Who will bring their flavor, their gift, their yes? Who will wrap their little slice of the divine in grace and serve it to someone who’s starving for hope?
 
The Word still longs to become flesh. Not just once in Bethlehem—but again and again, in places like Prince Edward Island, Sherman Oaks, and right here, right now, in you. So go. Be tender-hearted. Be tacos. Be the Word made flesh—full of grace and truth.
 
Work Cited:
Adapted from an original sermon entitled Fleshiness on July 18, 2021.