Sunday Sermon - 2 August

"Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself." This is the first sentence from our Gospel this morning.  

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.

Heard what? What did He hear that nudged Him to find solace in solitude, to be in need of being alone?

Jesus has just learned that His cousin and friend, John the Baptist, has been murdered. Beheaded at the whim of Herod after a drunken banquet. The one who prepared the way for Him, the one who baptized Him in the Jordan, the one who proclaimed Him as the Lamb of God, is gone.

So Jesus does what many of us would do in the midst of grief. He withdraws. He seeks solitude. He wants space to grieve.

I think this is one of the most vulnerable and profoundly human moments in all of the Jesus stories. Sometimes we become so accustomed to speaking of Jesus as the Son of God, the all powerful redeemer, that we forget He was also fully human. He knew exhaustion. He knew disappointment. He knew loss. He knew the ache that follows the death of someone you love and He simply wanted to be alone. But the crowds found Him.

I am, believe it or not, an introvert - I find and restore my energy when I’m alone - especially when I am grieving or sad. So I get what Jesus is looking for, I get what He wants, and it isn’t hard to imagine how frustrating it must have been for Him to be denied his solitude. You've planned a quiet moment. You've sought a little peace. Instead, 5,000 people (probably close to 10,000 if read literally) are waiting for you. The disciples see the obvious and simple solution:  "Send them away."

It's getting late. They're hungry. We're tired. Let them fend for themselves. It is, perhaps, the most reasonable suggestion they could have made and yet Jesus looks upon the very crowd that interrupted his grief and, as Matthew tells us, "He had compassion for them." Not annoyance. Not thinking; they should have packed a lunch or something. Jesus didn’t have that resentment for them. He had compassion.

 Compassion.

That word means much more than feeling sorry for someone. The Greek term suggests being moved in the very depths of one's being - a deep visceral response. Jesus feels their hunger. Their need becomes His own.  Even in His own sorrow, He notices the depth of suffering in others.

What an extraordinary picture of God's heart.

It resonates with Paul's words in our reading from Romans. Paul writes; "I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart." He grieves because so many of his own people have not recognized Christ.

Paul's heart breaks for Israel. Jesus' heart breaks for the crowd. Love never stops feeling the pain of others.

Perhaps that's where some of us find ourselves this morning. Carrying grief. Carrying disappointment. Carrying burdens no one else can see. Jesus understands that place. He has been there. He still meets us there.

On the other hand, the disciples have another concern. There isn't enough. Only five loaves and two fish. Five thousand men, plus women and children. It simply doesn't work. There isn't enough time. Enough energy. Enough money. Enough volunteers. Enough faith. Enough hope. The disciples can only see what they lack.  

Jesus sees what can become enough when it is placed into God's hands. He simply says; "You give them something to eat." Can you imagine what they must have thought? We can't. We don't have enough. This is impossible.

Jesus' answer, in effect, is, "Bring me what you have." That is still how God works. God rarely asks us to begin with abundance. God asks us to begin with faithfulness. Bring what you have. Offer what you have. Trust me with the rest.

That invitation has always involved struggle. It seems embedded in our human nature that we envision all of the obstacles, the scarcity of solutions to our problems. Our first reading reminds us of that. Jacob spends an entire night wrestling with God. At dawn he receives a new name - Israel.

The name literally means "one who struggles with God." Isn't that a remarkable name for God's people?

Not "those who have all the answers."

Not "those who never doubt."

Not "those whose faith is effortless."

The people of God, the people who are in closest relationship with God, are those who struggle with God. Those who wrestle. Those who question. Those who think critically about what our faith is all about and those who refuse to let go until they receive a blessing.

As Christians, we have been grafted into that same story. Spiritually speaking, we are descendants of Israel. That means struggle should not surprise us.  Faith has never been about pretending everything is easy. Sometimes we struggle with forgiveness. Sometimes with loss. Sometimes with unanswered prayer. Sometimes with what Jesus asks of us.

Like the disciples, we hear him say, "You give them something to eat," and everything inside us protests, "Lord, I don't have enough.”  

Yet somehow, in the wrestling, God blesses us.  

Jacob walked away from the river limping, but he also walked away blessed. Perhaps that is the pattern of discipleship. We are not called to leave our struggles behind. We are called to let God transform us through them.

Then Matthew tells us something else. After everyone had eaten and was satisfied, the disciples collected twelve baskets full of leftovers. Twelve. Matthew could have omitted that detail. He didn't. Numbers matter in Scripture - there were twelve tribes of Israel, there are twelve apostles and now there are twelve baskets overflowing with bread.

There are twelve baskets left over. Twelve tribes of Israel. Twelve apostles. Twelve baskets overflowing. 

Amy-Jill Levine, the commentator for our June study on Miracles, observes that this miracle reveals a God whose generosity exceeds expectation. God doesn't simply provide enough to get by. God provides abundantly. Every time we gather at this table, we proclaim that same truth. We never come to an empty table. We come to Christ's table, where there is always more grace than guilt, more mercy than failure, more life than death.

The God who formed Israel and who called the twelve disciples is showing that there is more than enough for all God's people. This isn't merely about leftovers. It is about abundance. God is not stingy. God does not measure out grace by teaspoons. God pours it out lavishly. There is enough mercy. Enough forgiveness. Enough love. Enough hope. Enough bread. Enough Christ. For everyone.

That is why this miracle points beyond itself. Notice what Jesus does with the bread. He takes it. He blesses it. He breaks it. He gives it.

Sound familiar? They are the very pattern we hear again in the Upper Room on the night before Jesus dies. The feeding of the five thousand is preparing us for the Last Supper and every time we gather around this altar, we enter that same story once again. Christ takes ordinary bread, blesses, breaks and gives it not simply so we may receive it but so that we ourselves might become bread for the world.

In closing, I’d like to ask one final question: Where do you see yourself, who do you most connect with, in today's Gospel?

Perhaps you are Jesus. Not in the sense of being the Saviour, of course, but perhaps you know what it is to carry grief while life keeps making demands upon you. Perhaps you have wondered whether you have anything left to give.

Perhaps you are one of the disciples. You're tired, you've worked hard, you simply want the crowds to go away. You want to protect what little energy and food you have left and yet Christ gently says, "Don't send them away. Do something."

Perhaps you are one of the crowd. Hungry. Yearning. Searching. Following in hopeful trust because somewhere, deep inside, you believe that this Jesus is the One who can give you the life you cannot find anywhere else.

I suspect that, at different times, we are all three. Sometimes grieving, sometimes reluctant, sometimes hungry. The wonderful news is that wherever we find ourselves in the story, Jesus meets us there. He meets us in our grief with compassion. He meets us in our struggle with blessing. He meets us in our hunger with bread. He keeps giving until we are full, and there is always more than enough. It is in our fullness that we know we are blessed. 

Thanks be to God.

Amen.