Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
August 6, 2023

Feed Them!

Lucy Forster-Smith
Senior Associate Pastor

Psalm 145:8–9, 14–21
Matthew 14:14–21

The miracle story of what is termed the Feeding of the 5,000 can be viewed as a far-fetched tale. You can’t fathom it is true, because it is simply not possible that five loaves and two fish fed the crowd that followed Jesus, abandoning all common sense. Men, women, children in blind obeisance to this new miracle worker, this successor to John the Baptist, who is stirring up quite a reputation. This healer, teacher, compassionate leader, who has a tribe of followers, coming to the outskirts of the town, taking them to the deserted place. And as they follow, the momentum builds.

But what is hidden in the reading of this story is that Jesus is trying to get a break. He has just learned from the disciples of John the Baptist that Herod has beheaded John. The absolute shock of that revelation and the details of what transpired lands Jesus in, what we must assume, was unrelenting grief. Jesus needs time to let the situation come to full view. Jesus needs time to process it. Jesus needs space to realize that with John’s work finished, Jesus’ work takes on epic proportions. He needs rest. He gets in a boat and heads for a deserted place. But the word is out on him, and as he goes ashore, the crowds thicken and follow him. It was a great crowd, about 5,000 men; with women and children it swelled to 20,000. And it may be out of his own scarcity of energy that he views the enormous need of the crowd with compassion. The scripture says, “When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd and had compassion on them.” And he cures the sick ones.

So, taking a breath, the story winds down a bit. As a matter of fact, it is rather predictable. It is starting to get dark. Babies begin to get fussy. Granddad needs his evening meal. Moms get nervous because they know what happens when the blood sugar begins to dip in the teenagers, though they certainly did not know those terms. The crowd begins to stir, realizing that they have followed this compelling healer to a deserted spot and the sun is setting. It is the disciples of Jesus who approach him with what is very obvious. They often seem to bring an obvious and annoying word into the picture: “In case you didn’t notice, Jesus … well, we did, Jesus … yes, Jesus, did you happen to see that we are in the middle of nowhere and out here there are no villages with markets to buy the food, Jesus? Yes, Jesus, isn’t it time to send these folks on their way, before things get too out of hand … well, Jesus, right?” And maybe catching his eye, they have a kind of blaming edge to their comments. But there is likely a “we know better than you do” edge to it as well.

At this point, I love to imagine the expression on Jesus’ face. Does he raise his eyebrows with a bit of “really?” in the gesture? Does he take a deep breath and let it out slowly, with understanding of the disciples’ worry? Or does he simply, plainly, without much ado, just look them in the eye and say, “Keep ’em here because you have the power, the possibility, yes, you, can tap into the miraculous life I am here to give you, right here, right now.” And then he cuts to the chase: “You give them something to eat!”

“Wh…what?” “We don’t have anything here except five loaves and two fish,” they say, fishing around in the satchel that might be a bit wet from the little unexpected launch across the sea. We don’t have anything. How often do we say the same thing? We don’t have anything to give, to feed, to offer, to bring. When the call comes from the Nominating Committee — will you be a deacon, an elder, a trustee — do you also say, “I don’t have anything; well, maybe a little something but not enough”? Or when a capital campaign host for a cause you care deeply about comes with what seems to be a preposterous ask, do you find yourself shrugging it off as a compliment but totally beyond any possibility, even if the stock you invested in twenty years ago has gone through the roof? Or when the neighbor comes over to ask your six-year-old to watch their fish for a few days while they are visiting a sick relative — “Truly, just put a little fish food in the aquarium” — and your little one blushes because she is scared of such “enormous responsibility,: and you stand by ready to lift it off because you don’t want to have expectations … well, yes, like the disciples we all default to a scarcity mentality.

Jesus calls the disciples out — or even more accurately, he states it plainly: You give them something to eat. You have what they need. You are hungry; they are hungry; the world is hungry.

And still fumbling to see if there might be something they’ve missed, the plain-talking Jesus simply says, “Bring them here — the fish and the bread.” And taking the bread, he lifts it before the seated crowd: he gives thanks with a blessing; he breaks it and hands it to the disciples to give to the crowds. And at the intersection of miracle and the disciples’ hands delivering the bounty, all are fed, and all were satisfied. Yes, there were 12 baskets left — bounty … abundance … a miracle?

Rather than dismiss the miracle as something far-fetched, something out of the realm of possibility, the miracle comes to our twenty-first-century modern mind, blowing it open. Wendell Berry, the farmer poet, once said, “Those of us who dwell in the time we call modernity do not easily recognize miracles because we have lost any sense of the miracle of life. … To treat life as less than a miracle is to give up on it” (cited in Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew, p. 140). Yes. And the true miracle was that it ends with lavish abundance for those fed and the disciples, who must have been smiling, not to mention Jesus, who knew they had it all along.

The miracle here is that beyond the scant holding of life is abundant life. Jesus said, “I come that you would have life abundant.” And this is not just a good life, a life where you claw your way to the top and then rest on your laurels so proud of your accomplishments. No. The life abundant that Jesus talks about is one that begins with the deep and growling hunger, the morsel of a couple stale rolls and a little dry fish. It arises from overwhelming need and realizing that to address it we must lean on the power and generosity of our God-given bounty. And the abundance that arises from this miracle on a deserted spot is so important that it shows up in all four Gospels. It is also centered in our gathering this day, in this space, with the table set. It is the realization that what we bring to this table is our hunger to be so filled with the abundance that we would tear out of this place with breathless readiness to feed, clothe, give, serve, love, and simply bask in the miracle of life that we could not hold anything back. But we mostly make life small, manageable, predictable, controlled because we do not trust that abundance awaits us. What would it be like to live with an assumption that we have enough? How would our lives be shaped if the assumption of a roaring hunger, a panicked grasping, a me-at-all-cost, was met with “you have everything you need”? And you do!

One of Fourth Church’s strategic directions is living with a spirit of abundance. It is interesting to me that this specific strategic direction has been seen by many of you as an outlier. The other four strategic directions of partnerships with Chicago neighbors, anti-racism, embracing young adult ministry as we know they are our future, and technology are seen as the real deal, and living with a spirit of abundance seems out of place. And maybe it is, if we live in the mode of managing our lives and the church being an extension of what happens in the commerce of daily living. But this moment in the Christian narrative when abundance pours out on a vast throng of seekers through the unsteady but waiting hands of disciples helps us see what the Jesus-possibility is. It is daring to live in the alternative world of discipleship — seeing through the eyes, ears, heart of Jesus. It is so vast, so rich, so blessed, so there that it waits for you to be bold, to ask for the daily bread, to sing the song of Zion and usher in the alternative, miraculous, soaring life that lives right there in your skin, for the sake of this world.

Through Christ. Amen.

Sermon © Fourth Presbyterian Church