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Pentecost 8, 08/03/2014
Sermon on Matthew 14:13-21, by Pari R. Bailey
Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, "This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves." Jesus said to them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat." They replied, "We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish." And he said, "Bring them here to me." Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.
After the news of the murder of John the Baptist, Jesus retreats to a lonely place. But the crowd is always present and people come to Jesus, needing healing. Jesus ministers to them, despite what surely must have been his own grief and weariness. The crowd stays late; more and more people need Jesus' attention. And finally, they begin to need food. The disciples think it best to send the people away so they can get food for themselves, somewhere else.
But Jesus has another idea. He says, "You feed them." The disciples look puzzled. The disciples respond, "We have nothing-only five loaves and two fish." Jesus says, "Bring this nothing to me." Jesus blesses and breaks the bread and fish. As Matthew tells the story, "All were filled." And what's more, there were twelve baskets of leftovers.
The details of the story are so dramatic that they just beg for some exploration. I've always wondered where the loaves and fish came from. The Gospel of John reports it was some small boy's lunch, but Matthew doesn't say-why not? And what about the leftovers-where did they go? And how many people were really in the crowd if the men numbered 5,000, and why weren't the women and children counted? It's just the kind of story to really get the speculation flowing.
But if we are impressed and intrigued by this miracle, there are lots of scholars, pastors and teachers around who scoff at a face-value reading of this story. They say that this passage is really about sharing, that the disciples were humbled by Jesus' command for them to feed the crowds, and they brought out their beef jerky and trail mix that they had been hoarding for themselves, and seeing this, the whole crowd decided to share the food they had brought, too. The sharing, these scholars say, is the real miracle. And if anybody tries to connect this story of the feeding of the 5,000 with Holy Communion, as I did once at seminary, those same teachers chuckle and shake their heads at such naïveté. When I was in seminary, such a thing as believing the plain sense and obvious implication of a text was derisively called "Sunday School faith."
Well. I may be simple and Sunday School-ish, but I truly believe the plain sense of the texts we have today: that our God is God of abundance, turning a little into so much more--not just by inspiring a moral response in us, but by miraculously proving with the most ordinary of stuff that he is God, the Creator of the world: barley loaves and fish included. Jesus illustrates to the disciples and the crowds that God takes our nothing and makes it something, so that we can feed and help others even when we feel like we have so little. That God is always taking what is small, unnoticed, unregarded--and making it grow until it flowers as a foretaste of the kingdom of heaven on earth. Like the faith-filled mustard seed of last week's lessons; like a virgin named Mary engaged to a carpenter named Joseph of Nazareth; like a small lunch of coarse bread and smoked fish: God is the one who regards our lowliness, satisfies our hunger and fills our emptiness.
And who hasn't been empty this week? Or this month? Empty, tired, overwhelmed, sleepless, sin-sick, worried, enslaved to all your old habits. Who hasn't given just about all they have to give, and ended up having to dredge up more? Who's here this morning feeling as dry as the fields and as brittle as the August grass, as battered as the trees in last week's storms?
Putting aside all the theological calisthenics with the lessons today, all we are left with is a compassionate God who feeds hungry people both physically and spiritually, and invites people to a fine dinner they can't pay for. A God who invites you, if you're thirsty and hungry, to come and be filled.
Notice the action here. Jesus is not asking for you to be the ones to do and be everything. What Jesus wants is for you to come, dragging your nothing, and then get out of the way so that you and others can be filled by his action, and his abundance, and his generosity.
Filled how? Here. At this table. Because you know what? This passage from Matthew may be about sharing. It might be about Jesus overcoming the social taboos of his day and getting people to sit down and eat together. It could be about hidden signs a la the Da Vinci Code, with the 12 baskets representing the 12 Tribes of Israel, who are broken pieces gathered into one by the Messiah. It's perhaps all that. And Isaiah might possibly have been talking about the political situation during the years leading up the Babylonian exile instead of some outrageously fancy banquet at the end of the world-yep, that's very possible. There are, of course, more ways to look at a text than just one, and more interpretations than what is always apparent in the English translations of a Greek text.
But: any time Scripture talks about food and feeding, the feast and the banquet; any time we get mention of hungry, then filled, with even-in this instance-- some doggie bags to take home for later...any time that pops up, I just can't get out my head a thin round wafer of bread and a small sip of wine. The ultimate Biblical Feast, cooked by the Ultimate Master Chef who won the showdown with Satan in Hell's Kitchen by giving his own body as the bread of life and food for the world.
Physically, this bread and wine isn't enough to make a meal of. But beheld with my tired, hungry eyes as I thump to my knees next to other weary sinners who have found their way here on a Sunday morning...well, if I look at it that way, then I see the truth. That this bread and this wine is the greater miracle, even greater than the feeding of the 5,000, because it is the Lord's own body and blood. Given and shed for you. For you...yes, you! A foretaste of the feast to come. A preview of the Lamb's High Feast. An appetizer of the wedding banquet of the heavenly Bridegroom and his churchly Bride. And meal enough for us here--this side of the second coming--to be fed, soothed, healed, forgiven, filled, and pointed to a time when all our striving for things which don't satisfy will be ended, and our eyes will see God face to face, as even now the eyes of faith see him under these forms of bread and wine.
That's what this all is about: the body and blood of Jesus, given into your very hands, for you to eat and drink. And then you get up, go out of here, and have enough strength to live another week, doing what you have to do, caring for those around you, living your life meeting the needs of your family and friends, until the well runs dry and here you come again, hungry and tired, and dragging the nothing for God to make something.
Ho, everyone who thirsts. Come, drink. You that have no money, come and kneel down and open up your hands and your mouth and your heart. Don't worry about the bill-it's already been paid, and it was more than you could ever afford, anyway. Come, bring your nothing and your everything, your emptiness and your full-to-overflowing busy lives with no room to rest. Drag it all and come on in. There's a seat here for you and an extra plate. And the Lord is setting out the wine, and the bread is almost done. Come on. Supper's ready. Amen.