Sermon, Ninth Sunday after Trinity: 'Feeding the 5000'

As a paid-up introvert, as someone who needs time alone in order to recharge, I like to go to deserted places. For four years, Heather and I lived on the Hebridean Isle of Lewis, a place famous for its beautiful beaches. We would often take ourselves off at the end of the day to walk on one of them. And if we saw more than two or three other people in the course of an evening, we would comment that the beach was rather busy! The deserted place can have a restorative effect.

Today’s reading – the miracle of the feeding of the 5000 (as told by Matthew) – begins with the words:

"Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself." (Matthew 14.13)

One of the problems of reading portions of a Gospel at the Eucharist each Sunday is that it’s easy to hear a passage of Scripture out of context. The Gospel writers are always intentional in the way they order their material. Events from Jesus’ life and ministry often occur in a different order in different Gospels, and with differing emphasis depending on the concerns of the author or editor. The context is always important.

"When Jesus heard this, he withdrew.... to a deserted place"

When he heard what? Well, the earlier verses of Chapter 14 (before today’s passage) tell of the imprisonment and execution of John the Baptist. This is the context in which Matthew sets the miracle story of the feeding of the 5000: the story which starts with Jesus going to a deserted place. We don’t know a great deal about Jesus’ relationship with John—the Gospels tell us only the theologically important bits—but we do know that they were close relatives, and that John in baptising Jesus, played a significant part in revealing him to the world as God’s Son, and in launching Jesus’ public ministry. So it’s inevitable that the news of John’s vicious execution at the hands of King Herod would have affected Jesus deeply – to the extent that he needed to get away from other people, and to be by himself. This opening verse, in context, reminds us that Jesus is a fellow human being: one like us, for whom the pain of bereavement, the trauma of loss, is keenly felt. It’s a helpful insight into the humanity of Jesus who

"...who knows our needs, hears our cries, 
feels our pain, and heals our wounds."

We’re then told that when the crowd heard the news, they followed him on foot so that when he arrived at his ‘deserted place’ there were thousands waiting for him. This was no empty Hebridean beach, but something closer to Brighton on a bank holiday, packed with men, women and children.

It would be fascinating to know what then went on in Jesus’ mind. I suspect that if it had been me, I would have resented the crowd being there. But Jesus’ action—to cure the sick—reveals his compassion for them. He was able to translate his sorrow over John’s death into practical care and concern for others. We see this quite often in the way some people are remarkably able to channel what could easily become self-centred thoughts into outward-

facing action: the parent, for example who, on losing a child to illness, campaigns for medical research, or fundraises for a hospital unit. And in so doing they mirror the action of Jesus – in brining compassionate action out of their grief.

It seems as though Jesus’ compassion for the crowd had an effect on his disciples, because when evening falls, they bring the people’s material needs to Jesus’ attention:

"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."

But it’s interesting that Jesus’ response is to throw their concerns back at them:

"They need not go away; you give them something to eat."

In other words, ‘if you really care about them, help them yourselves.’

There’s a challenge here for all of us. Many of us are faithful at remembering others before God in prayer – especially those who are sick, bereaved, or in need. Here in the Cathedral, we have a long list of people we remember by name every morning at the early Eucharist through the week – and we add to this list names written by our many visitors. It’s a valuable ministry of prayer. But is it enough? ‘You give them something to eat,’ says Jesus. If you really care, do something…

The disciples’ response to Jesus is understandable:

"We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish."

Logic says, this really isn’t going to go very far among this crowd of thousands. The disciples look on the problem from a human and a rational perspective and their conclusion is that it simply can’t be done. And I suspect that, for many of us, we look at the situations of need around us—the needs of individuals and of nations—and say to ourselves ‘what can we do in the face of such a huge problem?’ And there we stop. Our response is inevitable, because we are human beings, bound by time and space, and with limited resources, and we fail to look beyond the obvious.

But what follows in the Gospel is something so utterly mysterious and powerful that it is almost impossible to comprehend. The sequence of events is well-known. Jesus takes the bread and fish, gives thanks, breaks and the disciples distribute them so that all have enough to eat.

There are several points to draw out here.

The first is that Jesus operates not in the world’s economy, but in God’s economy. Rather than agree with the disciples that 5 loaves and 2 fish really are not going to be enough, he asks the disciples to bring him what they have. And in the offering what they have – small and pathetic though it is – Jesus is able to bring about a miracle of transformation: a transformation of the physical substance of the bread and fish, but also a transformation of the disciples’ hearts and minds, as they begin to see with the eye of faith, that even the little that they have, when offered, has the potential to do great good.

The second is that Jesus involves the disciples: it is they who distribute the food to the crowd; Jesus doesn’t do it all himself. As the wonder-worker he could presumably have fed the crowd without the disciples’ help but he chose to use them.

As Jesus’ disciples of today - 2000 years later – we have to be the agents of God’s action in the world. As the 16th century mystic Teresa of Avila put it so memorably:

Christ has no body now on earth but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours, 
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
With compassion on this world. 
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

Whatever it is that any of us can offer – whether that’s our time, our energy, our skills, our money – it is blessed, and then returned to us, so that we can use it to do Christ’s work in the world.

And the third point to draw out is that as we read this account in the light of 2000 years of Christian faith and worship, we see a greater significance in Jesus’ actions. The food is taken, thanks are given over it, it is broken, and then shared with everyone present. But this is not just about an isolated miracle on Jesus for a particular time and place. This four-fold action—of taking, giving thanks, breaking and sharing—is mirrored in every celebration of the Christian Eucharist.

It’s always fascinating to try and work our whether our practices in worship derives from these recorded instances of what Jesus did; or whether the Gospel writers work into their accounts of Jesus’ ministry an early Christian liturgical practice. It’s probably a bit of both – but the link between this miracle and our Eucharistic celebration is too close to ignore.

The crowd, having gathered, was hungry having come (it seems) empty-handed, but left filled and satisfied with the bread and fish. Likewise, we come to the altar empty-handed but we leave, nourished by the precious body and blood of Christ. The feeding miracles (this one, and the feeding of the 4000 in Chapter 15 of Matthew’s Gospel) resonate strongly with Moses’ provision of manna in the wilderness to overcome the hunger of the Israelites. Matthew’s first readers, themselves Jewish, would have recognised this, and would have begun to understand Jesus as the new Moses – the one in whom God’s promises and purposes are fulfilled.

In the Eucharist, we too encounter Jesus face to face: in the Gospel as Jesus speaks directly to us; in one another, as we gather intentionally as his body, the Church; and in the Sacrament where. It is here that we are united with our Lord and, with his life within us, strengthened to being his love and compassion to the world.

Let us pray in the words of two ancient hymns:

Jesu, thou joy of loving hearts! 
thou fount of life, thou light of men! 
From the best bliss that earth imparts 
we turn unfilled to thee again. (12th c)

Strengthen for service, Lord, the hands 
that holy things have taken; 
the bodies by thy body fed 
with thy new life replenish. (Ephrem the Syrian, 4th c)