The Context of the Meal

 Matthew 14:13-21

Besides the Resurrection, the Feeding of the Five Thousand is the only miracle that appears in all four gospels; it’s a super important story for the early church and clearly meant to give us a glimpse of who Jesus is and what God is up to. And as bible stories go, it’s fairly tame and unassuming, so we love to tell it to children. It’s not scandalous or disturbing, and it has a happy ending too! What's not to like?

 

But like most things in life there is more going on than we see on the surface. The context matters. When we tell this story on its own, we don’t realize that in Matthew’s telling in a single 24-hour day, a bunch of big things happen that maybe have something to do with each other. And maybe it’s not as meek and mild as we think. 

 

Our story begins early in the morning with the words, “Now when Jesus heard this...”  Heard what?  When Jesus heard that John the Baptist, who had been in prison, had just been beheaded, and his head delivered to Herod on a platter in the middle of an extravagant and vulgar dinner party. John’s disciples had picked up his body from the palace and buried it, and gone immediately to tell Jesus what had happened. 

 

When Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place. 

 

 And who wouldn’t?  What else in the world is there to do?  

John is gone, his cousin, his friend, the one who knew who Jesus was better than anyone -  from before he was born, even – leaping in recognition in his mother Elizabeth’s womb at the sound of pregnant Mary’s voice, the one who proclaimed in the wilderness that the Messiah is coming, and plunged God incarnate under the waters of baptism, the one whose whole life was telling that God’s kingdom is coming and announcing that Jesus had arrived, this John has just died a pointless, disgusting, inexplicable death, as a pawn in a gluttonous game of revenge and power. 

 

When Jesus hears this he withdraws in a boat to a deserted place.  

But the crowds seek him out. 

 

On foot they go around, ahead, and I have always imagined them like clingy toddlers flooding his alone place and his apart time with their need and their clamoring, their sheer mass, the overwhelming sound, smell, the hungry obligation of them.  And I’ve felt defensive of him, as perhaps, his disciples were too. He has every right to absolutely lose it. To tell them all to go away. To tell the disciples to make them leave him alone.  To practice self-care and turn the boat around and float alone in the waves for hours until he regains his composure, until he finds some peace and quiet.

 

But when Jesus sees the crowd, it says, he has compassion on them, and cures their sick.  He brings the boat ashore and goes to them and stays there with them. 

Vulnerable, grieving, reckoning with the horror and consequences of evil, mourning the death of his beloved friend, Jesus embraces the vulnerable, the grieving, the sick and despairing.  

 

And I don’t think it was a “nevertheless” kind of thing, being with them. I don’t think it was “even though” he was sad he embraced them “anyway” sort of deal. I think it was an “alongside,” “with and for” kind of thing. I think it was sorrow meeting sorrow, a pretense stripped away, no games being played, hearts connecting scenario. 

 

I guess until now I have always seen the crowds as almost predatory, like relentless zombies following him around, grabby and demanding and needy. Why can’t they just leave him alone?   

 

But this time I saw something different. I had to read it three times: “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.” When confronted with the news of his friend’s death Jesus went to hide in his sorrow. But when the crowds heard the news that they knew would devastate Jesus, they went to find him.  And not to give every person there a noble and altruistic motive, but perhaps, without overthinking it, the drive to be together in suffering is a way human beings return to our humanity, which is also to say, a way we seek and share in the presence of God. Perhaps that’s the way God designed us.  When someone we care about suffers a great loss, the reflex is to be with them, to share the pain.  

 

A few weeks ago a friend texted me from a meeting of exhausted teachers, education assistants and therapists in a program for children with extreme trauma, to tell me that a therapist had just said, (and I paraphrase to remove the swear word), “Self-care is hogwash. When something happens we don’t take care of ourselves, we take care of each other.” This is not to say we should not have good boundaries, or cultivate healthy habits, or that we should give and give when we are tapped out. This is to say: in crisis we do not take care of ourselves; we take care of each other. We belong to each other.

 

So perhaps, as much as all those people needed Jesus, Jesus needed them too.  Maybe he needed to feel his belonging to each other and God, and that was not something he could have done on his own in the moment. 

Being with them connected him to the bigger context, the deeper story, the wider belonging. In his own need and dependence on God, Jesus was moved with compassion for the people, and he welcomed them, listened, touched, and healed their sick. In his own vulnerability Jesus reached out to theirs.  And I wonder how God-with-us being with us with them on that day–the Great I Am coming in weakness alongside weakness with healing and hope—how this may have fed Jesus himself in that moment. 

 

As the day stretches toward evening the disciples, who, let’s face it, must have been freaking out all day at this impromptu gigantic event they were apparently hosting in the wilderness without a port-o-potty or vendor stand for miles around tell Jesus that maybe he should send the crowds away so they can find food for themselves in the villages.  But Jesus answers, They need not go away - you feed them. An impossible and ridiculous instruction.

 

But impossibility is God’s favorite canvas. And now a meal is about to take place that will upend the meal that preceded it. 

The first meal happened among sycophants in the seat of power. Full of insecurity and hungry for esteem, a cruel leader fed his own ego in a vicious power play of political manipulation and demonstrable control, killing a person in a mighty flex of fear and dominance. 

The second meal is happening here among ordinary people in the middle of nowhere. Full of sorrow and hungry for gentleness, a brokenhearted healer is feeding thousands with a single child’s handful of bread and fish, in a compassionate outpouring of inconceivable abundance and demonstrable unity, nourishing all these people in a colossal expression of love and solidarity.  

 

And the people, out there in the deserted place, far from the center of commerce and empire, are sitting down on the ground like one enormous picnicking family, dining on manna, until all, every single one of them, to the last man, woman, and child is full, and there are leftovers galore. And the power that brought the world into being, is here, among them, healing the sick, providing their daily bread and receiving their love and gratitude, and together, all of them are connected and held in a power greater than death, a force greater than evil, that is moving the world toward love. This power is not encountered by the strong but the vulnerable, and it comes not through coercion or control but through compassion and companionship.  

 

In a few minutes we will share a meal that seems almost silly, really. Without the context it could feel tame and unassuming, a nice tradition, a lesson to remember. But real violence rages in our world, rampant corruption and evil, power is wielded to selfish ends and lives are lost for pointless reasons, and own lives from time to time threaten to brim over with despair. 

In this context we will eat bread and drink grape juice and claim that God is with us right here and now and it means something important and powerful.  Because God is, and does; Jesus himself was broken for us, taking into God’s own heart the heartbrokenness of us all. 

 

We are gathered today in our shared need and vulnerability, with whatever we bring and however we’re struggling, and Jesus meets us here, joining us with all those gone before, including those that one evening in that deserted place who ended that sad day side by side with a sister who was just healed, and a neighbor who just found hope, and thousands of siblings in this world God is creating anew. 

In receiving the bread, taking it and pass it to one another as they did, we are connected held in a power greater than death, a force greater than evil, that is moving the world toward love.

 

And, just to wrap up the day, because, believe it or not, there are still a few hours remaining: after the feast Jesus releases the disciples and disperses the crowd and finally gets away to a quiet place. He rests. And stops. And makes space for his grief to breathe.  But he does so now not as one thrown into isolation by his pain, but as one who has been held in solidarity in the love and care of others, as having experienced the power of God moving through him to them and through them to him and the love of God holding them all as they all shared that day together, that meal together. Now, grounded in his belonging to God and each other, Jesus finds the solitude, solace, and silence he needs. 

 

But just in case we don’t yet get how big it all is, just before dawn breaks on this long, full day, we meet back up with the disciples, who left that epic experience to find themselves all night long battling raging winds and torrential rains in their precariously rocking boat. And just as he did for the crowds, Jesus meets them right where they are, which means that as the vulnerable and terrified disciples squint through the storm, they see Jesus calmly walking to them on the water.  

 

Amen.

Absurd, Subversive Feasting

Matthew 14:13-21

It’s a pretty cool trick to have a bunch of food appear to feed thousands of people when there was only a very little bit to begin with.  Besides the Resurrection, the Feeding of the Five Thousand is the only miracle that appears in all four gospels; it’s a super important story for the early church and clearly meant to give us a glimpse of who God is and what it means to be disciples.  And as bible stories go, it’s pretty tame and unassuming, so we love to tell it to children. It’s not scandalous or disturbing, and it has a happy ending too! 

What’s not to like?

Once, in the middle of what was the darkest and most wretched period of my life (so far), I had a conversation with my sister about an experience of unexpected and inexplicable blessing from God.  She was in the middle of a prayer meeting and some people suddenly got gold teeth. A miracle of the Holy Spirit, I guess, just to say God loves us.  She told me that, and how it had impacted her, and then I hung up in the phone and got in the car and a few minutes later drove past the worst car accident scene I had ever witnessed, complete with a bloody sheet-covered gurney.  And I wondered, deeply raging, wailing wonder, what kind of God this is that we have?  And what God could possibly be up to on this earth, or not?

Our text begins, “Now when Jesus heard this...”  Heard what?  When Jesus heard that his cousin, John the Baptist, who had been in prison, had just been beheaded, and his head delivered to Herod on a platter in the middle of a extravagant and vulgar dinner party – when he had heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place.

 And who wouldn’t?  

What else in the world is there to do?  

The utter horror and shock; the terrible helplessness and loss. This can’t be undone. 

John is gone, his cousin, his friend, the one who knew who Jesus was from before he was born – leaping in recognition in his mother Elizabeth’s womb at the sound of pregnant Mary’s voice, the one who declared the news in the wilderness that the Messiah is coming, and plunged God incarnate under the waters of baptism, the one whose whole life was about proclaiming God’s kingdom come and announcing that Jesus had arrived, this John has just died a pointless, disgusting, inexplicable death, as a pawn in a gluttonous game of revenge and power.

How could this happen? 

How did God allow it? How could it not be stopped? What could it mean?

Who is this God? And what could God possibly be up to on this earth, or not?

So Jesus withdraws to a deserted place. 

After all his teaching about the Kingdom of God, always surrounded by people, so many words, so much touching, all that talking and healing, everyone wanting a piece of him and he having much to give -  when he hears that John is dead, he goes off to be alone. And who could blame him?

But the crowds catch wind of his little escape attempt, so on foot they go ahead, like clingy toddlers they flood his alone place and his apart time with their need and their clamoring, their sheer mass, the overwhelming sound, smell, the hungry obligation of them. 

He has every right, here and now, to absolutely lose it. To tell them all to go away. To tell the disciples to make them leave him alone.  To turn the boat around and float alone in the waves for hours until he regains his composure, until he has some peace and quiet.

But when Jesus sees the crowd, it says, he has compassion on them, and cures their sick.  He brings the boat ashore and goes to them and stays there with them, each one.  What’s your name? What do you need?  How can I help? I see you. God sees you.  Be healed. Go and be well. You are set free.  Find new life, my friend. How long have you struggled with this? It ends today.  Peace to you.

As the day stretches toward night the disciples start getting worried – I imagine as much about Jesus as about the hungry crowds without a port-o-potty or vendor stand for miles around, so they tell Jesus to send the crowds away so they can find food for themselves in the villages.  A very sound piece of advice, if you ask me. But Jesus answers, They need not go away-you feed them.

There are two meals in this chapter of Matthew.  At the first meal a corrupt and cruel leader who wields the power of the empire for personal gain, thinks little of using death for entertainment or personal reward, and a good and faithful person dies.  That feels really big and really powerful.

And then comes the second meal, where, out on the edge of nowhere, Jesus unexpectedly feeds 5000 plus people with a few pieces of bread and fish. 

And I have to admit, seeing these back to back, at first a part of me wonders, is this meal some kind of l gold teeth to the world’s traffic accidents? Some kind of feel-good, flash in the pan miracle in the face of life-ending tragedy? 

Who is this God?  And what could God possibly be up to on this earth, or not?

Israel and Palestine are locked in a bitter and terrible cycle of destruction, oppression and death, and innocent people are dying daily.  Terrified kids are fleeing danger in their countries and traveling to our borders for safety, and finding themselves in a precarious place with no future clear.  Ebola creeps through villages and neighborhoods in West Africa, and cancer ravages loved ones, or alcoholism, or mental illness.  What can we do in the face of injustice and evil – on a global scale or right here in our own lives?  Where is God in the middle of all of this? 

It was incredibly vulnerable for Jesus to be with the crowds that day.  He was grieving, his cousin was dead, evil had dealt a harsh blow.  But in his vulnerability, he met them in theirs.  In his humanity he reached out to theirs.  In his own need and dependence on God, he saw them as God sees them – beloved and valued.  The Son of God looks on the crushing crowd of humanity and, even in grief and the desire to be alone, Jesus is moved with compassion, and goes to be with them, touches their sick and their dying, bringing new life to them all.  And then they are fed a banquet of unexpected abundance.

The power that brought the world into being, is here, among them, healing the sick, and providing their bread for today, until all, every single one of them, to the last man, woman, and child, is fed until full, and there are leftovers galore.  Food enough for all.  Like no meal in memory, a meal of promises past and hope futured.  An impromptu feast that in every way threatens the powers that be, uncontrolled, unrestricted, unearned and unexpected.  That night all receive and are fed. 

And the people, out there in the deserted place, far from the center of commerce and empire, sit down on the grass like one enormous picnicking family, and dine on manna.  Like the Israelites in exile, the crowd is fed at the hand of God and drawn into the promise of the story larger than themselves, encompassing history and future and a love that is stronger than death.  A very different kind of dinner party than the one before it.

We here today will share a meal in a few minutes, a feast that seems almost silly, really, bread and grape juice in the face of starvation and sickness, a meal of symbolism and signs while the real violence rages and scared children get caught in the crosshairs, and our own lives threaten to brim over from time to time with pain and injustice and fear. 

In this feast we are reminded that Jesus himself was broken for us, even alongside us, instead of saving us out of the world’s pain, God joins us inside of it, that all might be saved.  In this feast we receive that gift of God’s love, and in even our own brokenness we are called to share that gift in the world.

But what can we do about the evil and the sadness, the injustice and the hopelessness? What can we do? What could Jesus do about his cousin’s death at the hands of a tyrant?  Nothing.  And also everything. 

We could go away, bury our heads in the sand of a deserted place, and wish these things didn’t happen. Or we could watch Jesus join the people, moved with compassion, and we could join him, listening to the needs around us and within us, receiving the meal he offers and reaching out and sharing that gift with others in real and concrete ways. 

We can let love direct us instead of fear, let God set the terms for how life is supposed to go instead of evil and brokenness and sin.  Don’t send them away, he said, you feed them.  And hey, disciples, you will feed them. I will give you the food and you will distribute it to all, as each one has need.

Gathered here today at our little absurd and subversive feast, we are like those gathered on that grass that night at their absurd and subversive feast, finding themselves plopped down next to a sister who has been healed and a neighbor who has found hope, and thousands of other strangers who are now roommates in this world God is creating anew.  And I imagine that evening the picture must have looked pretty big, the lens pretty pulled back, as the God who promised way back when to your ancestors in the wilderness to provide and lead and love and save, leans down and looks you in the eye, and hands you a piece of fish and a crust of bread, and you take some and eat, and turn and pass it on down the line.

There is a power greater than death, a force greater than evil.  And it comes not to the powerful but to the weak, and it comes not through force but through compassion.  Instead of wielding death, it brings life. Instead of revenge it heals, instead of retribution it births hope.

And there is a feast more abundant than the most lavish and excessive meals of the empire, a different kind of meal.  Instead of gluttony, it grows generosity, instead of greed, it draws all to freely give.  And instead of playing people against each other it brings all people together and reminds us that we are one, that we belong to each other and that we belong to God. 

There is so much more going on than what we can see. God’s rule is utterly different than human rule, and God’s realm is breaking in in unstoppable ways.  Love endures to the end, and love will prevail.  

That is who our God is, and that is what God is up to in this world.

May we receive and be filled. May we share and the world be healed.

Amen.