Matthew 14:13-21
You know, I’ve probably read this story dozens of times. It’s the only one of Jesus’ miracles, his “signs of power,” that is recorded in all four gospels, so it’s hard to miss. It’s a story with which we are so familiar that we’ll often make jokes in relation to this story: standing in line at the covered dish luncheon, looking down the table at how much dressing is left in the pan, or how many slices of lemon icebox pie are left on the dessert table, and you start counting the number of folks in line between you and that last deviled egg, and you sort of turn your head towards the person in line behind you and say something like, “man, I sure hope somebody blessed this real good so it’ll stretch like them loaves and fishes, ‘cause I’ve been looking forward to plate of dressing and some deviled eggs!” We’ve read this story in Vacation Bible School, Sunday School, in worship, private prayer times, and likely seen more than one cinematic rendition of it, but it wasn’t until I re-read Matthew’s version that something caught my attention—something that made me see the whole thing from a different point of view.
You see, it’s actually something that’s not in the passage we’ve read this morning (at least not the verses we read in the translation in which I read them). There’s a remnant, a trace of it in verse 13, but we’ll have to walk it back a bit to really know what it is. You see, in verse 13 the Bible says, “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.” Did you catch it? Did you hear what’s NOT there? “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.” What exactly did Jesus hear? What was it the crowds heard? Did they hear news about the latest tax increase from Rome? Was their favorite television series canceled? What was it? Well, just look up a few verses in chapter fourteen and you’ll discover that what Jesus (and eventually, the crowds) heard was news of John the Baptist’s death at the hands of Herod, a senselessly cruel execution and sign of the Tetrarch’s power. “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.”
Can anyone blame him? He learns that John—his friend, mentor-turned-follower, cousin, “The voice of the one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight’”[1]—has been brutally murdered by one who wields the power of the empire. Not only is the shock of such news painful as it relates to one’s loved one, but it is also news of the first real casualty of this movement Jesus has going. John’s death brings into sharp focus the cost that comes with proclaiming the Good News of God’s Kingdom. John’s execution no doubt brought home the weight of Christ’s mission, the reality of its consequences, and the realization of where this would all wind up for Jesus himself. So it’s no surprise to me, really, that when Jesus heard of John’s death, that he withdrew to a place that was otherwise deserted, to be alone, to grieve, to reflect, to pray.
I suppose the crowds followed him when they heard the news, because they wanted to see his reaction, to find out what was going to happen now. The first blow had seemingly been struck in this great cultural/cosmic war some believed was imminent, and now it was time to see how the leader would retaliate. Or maybe they wanted to know what to do now that this was all getting real for them too. After all, John’s execution would have also sent a message to anyone in that corner of the empire that Herod was willing to do whatever it took to silence his enemies. Perhaps the folks in the crowds were frightened and unsure of where this rabbi from Nazareth was leading them. Whatever was at the heart of their actions, scripture simply says, “when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.” They left their homes and followed Jesus into the deserted place.
It’s with all that weight, that emotional, spiritual, anxiety-ridden weight, that Jesus “…he went ashore…saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick.” If I’m honest with you, if it had been me, I wouldn’t’ have done it. Really, I’m afraid I would have just got back in the boat and rowed out to the middle of the lake and stayed there until they all went back home. Who wants a bunch of folks around them when they’ve got some real thinking to do, some honest grieving and spiritual wrestling to do? No, if it had been me, I might have had a little compassion for them, but there’s no way I would have jumped right back in to the thick of it, curing the sick folks especially (after all, sick people can be so demanding sometimes). I just don’t think I’d have done it that way, but as he so often does in the gospels, Jesus models for us the proper response to those in need, those who are sick, frightened, and hungry, and as they so often do in the gospels, the disciples model for us the response too many of us have to those in need.
In verse 15 we read, “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.’” In other words, “It’s getting late; we’re tired; there’s nothing out here, so just send these folks home so they can get themselves something to eat, and we’ll deal with them tomorrow.” The disciples want the crowds to take care of themselves, to leave them alone for now. They had been around long enough, had their chance to get close to Jesus, and now it’s time to go back to whatever it was they were doing, to go back home or at least to the nearest village and “fend for themselves.” In that same “deserted place” Jesus saw the opportunity to cure the sick, whereas the disciples only see the inconvenience of too many folks in too isolated a location.
You know, I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve thought of a situation as an inconvenience, as non-ideal, but Jesus would have had me see opportunity. I can’t help but wonder how many times I’ve sighed in exasperation, groaned in aggravation, or ignored something out of frustration that Christ would have had me see otherwise as an opportunity for the reality of God’s kingdom to break into this world just a bit more. I wonder how many times I’ve made excuses when God has brought me to a place I can only see as “deserted” but God has filled with possibilities. I wonder how many times someone has been in need, and God has equipped me to fill that need, yet all I could think was how that person ought to take care of him or herself. I really can’t help but wonder how many times those things have happened, how many times I’ve missed an opportunity to bring God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, and when I even look back on the ones I know I’ve missed, I can’t help but wonder why God hasn’t just given up on me to find someone better suited for this life of faith and commitment to Christ.
Because the truth is, if it had been me—if I had been in Jesus’ sandals when the disciples came telling him to shoo the crowds away, to send them into the villages to fend for themselves, I might have lost it. I mean, remember, John’s death is still fresh on Jesus’ mind: John died because of his convictions about this movement Jesus was heading, this kingdom of God. John had paid the ultimate sacrifice for even so much as being affiliated with this movement and its beliefs, yet here are Jesus’ own disciples, and they don’t even want to be bothered to help feed folks?! Friends, I’m telling you, if it had been me, I’d have fired them all on the spot or at least given them some lengthy lecture about the cost of discipleship and how John had paid with his life. But again, Jesus doesn’t do that. Instead, he simply, directly tells them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat." “They aren’t going anywhere; it’s your job now to feed them.”
Boy, that’s the last thing we want to hear Jesus say sometimes, isn’t it? “Lord, I wish you’d do something about all these homeless folks we’ve got around here,” and the Lord says, “Why don’t you welcome them into your home?” “Jesus, I sure wish you could do something about that old trashy trailer in our community, like send your Holy Spirit to convict those folks to live cleaner,” and Jesus says, “Do you know their names? Maybe you should stop by and offer to help them out.” “God, I’ve about had it with all these folks looking for handouts; they need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get a job!” And the voice of God whispers in your ear, “What have you done to help them, the least of these, my family?”
The disciples see scarcity in a deserted place where Jesus saw the opportunity for healing, and here they see scarcity in a deserted place where Jesus sees the opportunity to show the abundance of God’s kingdom. After all, most of you know the rest of the story: “[The disciples] replied, ‘We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.’” Have you ever noticed how they say that? It’s like they’re pessimistic about what they do have, like they believe what they already have isn’t enough; you can almost hear it in the words, that tendency so many of us have of wanting to hoard for ourselves, to hold back what we have because we’re afraid somebody else might actually want it, use it, need it, and we won’t get it back. You ever noticed that? “And [Jesus] said, ‘Bring them here to me.’” Now, I’m sure that’s not what they wanted to hear. “Bring them to me?...Why? What are you going to do with them? You’re not going to give it to them are you? It’s not our fault they didn’t pack supper; it’s not our fault they don’t have enough; it’s not our fault they’re in the shape they’re in. If they want to eat, let them work; make them get their own. That’s what’s fair; not taking ours and giving it to them!”
That’s the lie of scarcity that causes us to react that way. We’ve bought into this lie for years—centuries really, but perhaps never more than we have these days. It’s not exactly like we can help it either; we’ve almost been programmed to believe there isn’t enough to go around, that there isn’t enough for everyone to have plenty. We’ve been told to save, hoard, hide, and store up our treasures on this earth because there’s always someone out to get us, to bamboozle us, to take us for a ride, to take advantage of our kindness and Christian sensibilities. We’ve been trained to be defensive, suspicious, overly-cautious of every request for assistance, of every person on the side of life’s road, of every “sob story” and person who’s just “down on their luck.” We run the imagined scenarios over and over in our heads, telling ourselves how it’d be different if it was us, how we’d find a way to put food on the table and a roof over our head, never once thinking of the disadvantages (societal, cultural, and otherwise) of others or of our own unnoticed privileges (societal, cultural, and otherwise). It’s all a part of the same lie the disciples believed too when they told Jesus to send the crowds away, when they handed over their loaves and fish and said, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” But Jesus demonstrates the truth of God’s kingdom, the truth of God’s abundance that reveals the lie of scarcity for what it is.
In verse 19, Jesus “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...” Did you notice that? To tell the truth, I think I’ve always overlooked it, took it for granted, but did you notice it? Jesus doesn’t bless and break the bread and hand it out himself—he gives it to the disciples to give to the crowds. They have a role to play in all of this—WE have a role to play in this in-breaking of God’s abundant kingdom. I suppose many Christians these days are under the impression that all we good Christian folks have to do is make our public profession of faith (maybe get baptized), join a church, and then keep our heads down and our noses (relatively) clean until Jesus comes back and sets everything back right. It seems a lot of folks who call themselves Christians these days are convinced that a life of faith is little more than a life of waiting, where the most important thing you can do is argue with people who disagree with you in the hopes that they or others will agree with you. But Jesus breaks the bread of God’s kingdom—the bread of abundance, the bread of plenty, the bread of enough-for-everybody-and-then-some, the bread of justice, the bread of righteousness, the bread of freedom, equality, faith, hope, and love—Jesus breaks that bread and then gives it to us to give to the crowds.
Isn’t that something? Jesus has given us the kingdom, the Bread of Life, and he’s given it to us to share—not to hoard to ourselves, not to distribute to those we deem suitable, not to hand out as if we’re rationing a short supply, not to greedily keep as if by giving it away it somehow diminishes its worth. No! In fact, the more we give it away the more there is! I think that’s part of the miracle of this story, because in verses 20 and 21 it says, “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.”
See, this isn’t (just) a story about the miraculous power of Jesus to magically manipulate matter. This isn’t a story that’s meant to somehow prove the divinity of Jesus by this incredible act of dinner division. No, no…it’s more than that. It’s a story about our obliviousness to opportunities placed in our paths by God. It’s a story about how this world’s lies about scarcity are overcome by the overwhelming abundance of God’s kingdom. Perhaps above all else, it’s a story about how Jesus still calls us and trusts us to be a part in sharing that abundance with everyone, how we are called to feed the hungry because there’s enough food for us all to share, how we’re called to heal the sick because there’s enough care and medicine to go around, how we’re called to forgive because there’s enough pain, blame, hurt, and anger in this world and God’s forgiveness is more than enough to cover it, how we’re called to love our neighbor—all people—as we love God and ourselves because there is certainly an eternity’s worth of love that will forever outweigh the wickedness, the sinfulness, the hatred, lust, envy, greed, and selfishness that seeks to trap us all in the lie that there just isn’t enough for everybody.
This old, familiar story to so many of us is a call to let go of thinking there isn’t enough to go around, that what we have is ours and if others want it they’ll have to get it themselves, that we’ve got to keep our guard up or else we might be taken advantage of. Friends, you know what I say to that? You know what this table says to that? You know what Jesus says to that? So what! Let them take advantage, and if they do, keep giving it away, because the truth is—the grand, wonderful truth of God’s kingdom is this: there’s always enough. There’s always enough when you give what you been given away. There’s always enough at the table. Amen.
This old, familiar story to so many of us is a call to let go of thinking there isn’t enough to go around, that what we have is ours and if others want it they’ll have to get it themselves, that we’ve got to keep our guard up or else we might be taken advantage of. Friends, you know what I say to that? You know what this table says to that? You know what Jesus says to that? So what! Let them take advantage, and if they do, keep giving it away, because the truth is—the grand, wonderful truth of God’s kingdom is this: there’s always enough. There’s always enough when you give what you been given away. There’s always enough at the table. Amen.
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