The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

August 3, 2008 Proper 13A

St. Peter’s Church in the Great Valley

The Rev. Nancy Webb Stroud

Genesis 32:22-31; Matthew 14:13-21

For the last three weeks, our Gospel lessons have presented Jesus’ parables of the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God is like this; the kingdom of God is like that. . . . Jesus wants us to know that the kingdom of God is a present reality: whatever else the political landscape looks like—whether we are living under harsh Roman oppression in the first century or gearing up for a peaceful change of government in the twenty-first century—either way, our lives are lived in the constant presence of God.

Jacob found this out the hard way. In our lesson from Genesis, Jacob is returning to his homeland after years away. He left after cheating his brother out of his birthright—and years later, after making a new life, and taking a couple of wives and having a lot of children, the Lord told him that it was time to return home.

Our lesson begins the night before he gets there. On that last night of exile, Jacob remembers how he cheated Esau and how reasonable it would be for his brother to want revenge. Jacob is justifiably afraid for his life. Will Esau allow him to return home? Will he accept the gifts of camels and cows and goats and donkeys that Jacob has sent on ahead of him? Or will he kill Jacob’s servants and then come to find Jacob and his wives and children? That is what Jacob is worried about on that night when he could not sleep, when he sent his wives and maids and children on ahead of him. Jacob tries to be alone to wonder and worry about what the next day will bring.

In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus wants to be alone, too. He has taken a small boat out onto the Sea of Galilee. He has much to think about. In Matthew’s Gospel just before the portion that we have today, Jesus goes back to his hometown and begins to teach in the synagogue there. For the first time, his stories don’t get a good response. People know him there—they know his mother and his siblings, they remember him as a boy in the carpenter’s shop with Joseph. The people in Jesus’ hometown are harder to impress than the crowds in the countryside.

Just as he realizes that his ministry is not going so well among his friends and family, Jesus gets some bad news. His cousin, John the Baptist, has been executed by the king. All of this time that Jesus has spent teaching about the true kingdom, the kingdom of God, John has been in prison. Herod, a minor monarch of the region, and a collaborator with the Roman oppressors, this Herod has John the Baptist beheaded after a wild evening of drinking and lewd dancing. The whole sorry story—Herodias and Salome and John’s head on a platter is all there in the beginning of chapter 14 of Matthew’s Gospel.

Now when Jesus heard this, Matthew tells us, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. Discouraged by his family and friends, and grieving over the loss of his first partner in ministry, Jesus just wants to be alone. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.

The tradition of the Church is that Jesus is both fully human and fully divine. You and I, each one of us here in this room—we are fully human. We are born, we will die, and in between those two events we live lives that are often fairly predictable. But Jesus? He was born of a woman, it is true, and he walked and talked on earth, just like the rest of us. But, he is always doing amazingly wonderful things, or being followed around by angels. It is pretty easy to believe that Jesus is God what with the star of Bethlehem shining over the manger, or his feeding all those people with just a few loaves and a couple of fish.

But when I read about Jesus getting into that small boat all by himself, because he needs to be alone, I see a very clear picture of a very human person. Tired, discouraged, and sad, Jesus just wants to be alone.

Jacob could have told the grieving Jesus that we are never really alone. God came to him in his dark night of struggle with fear and shame, when he tried to be alone. It turned out that even though he had caused a lot of grief and trouble for himself by stealing his father’s blessing away from his brother, it turned out that the blessing that really mattered to him was God’s blessing. Jacob struggled all night with God. Would God—this God that his grandfather Abraham picked out above all the minor deities—above all the rocks, and streams, and idols that the people worshipped, would this God finally be faithful? Would this God finally be something beyond a hope and a dream? Jacob could not let go. And so he struggled all night, and finally, God gave him his blessing. And because God does nothing in a small measure, he gave him a new name—Israel. And we know that in that renaming, God was naming a special relationship. Israel and all of Israel’s descendants would belong to God. But just in case Israel missed the symbolism of the naming, God put his hip out of joint. Ever after, you could tell Israel by his limp. Ever after in his long life, Israel knew the present reality of God. He knew it by his limp.

Jesus knew about Israel, of course, but even more than he knew the ancient formative stories of his people, Jesus knew the present reality of God. And so, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. And there he might have taken the time to pray had not the crowds found him. Here were more people who wanted to learn about the kingdom of God. Here were more people looking for the present reality, who followed him on foot, Matthew tells us. Some of them were running, no doubt, to keep up with his boat as he sailed along, and I’m guessing that some of them were limping, too.

And Jesus realized that for him, the constant presence of God was something that would always draw him back to the people. The quiet refreshment of prayer was a worthy thing. Withdrawing into the presence of God was not just a sign of his human need for quiet and comfort; it was for Jesus a sign of his present reality. That is, when Jesus withdrew for silence and prayer, he showed us what God looks like even in his very human need.

But the people followed him, running and walking and even limping. And they needed him. They came for healing, Matthew tells us, and so Jesus healed them. And as the day wore on, the disciples got worried. Talk of the present reality of God was well and good. And healing the sick was compassionate and powerful. But the day was lengthening, and there were a lot of people here. And as the day wore on, everyone was getting hungry.

The disciples begged Jesus to let the people go, so that they could get back to their villages to take care of themselves. But remember that Jesus wants us to know that the kingdom of heaven is right here and right now. Jesus said to them, "They need not go away; you give them something to eat."

And we all know the miracle. The disciples had nothing but their own dinner: some loaves of bread, and a couple of fish. It was an adequate picnic for thirteen men, but it was nothing for the five thousand who were in front of them, besides the women and children, who seemed at least as hungry as their husbands and fathers. And Jesus took the loaves and fish, and he thanked God for them, and then there was enough for everyone to eat. It was quite a show. It is one of the few stories about Jesus that is told in every Gospel: Jesus took almost nothing and fed an entire crowd. Jesus did more than just teach about a kingdom of heaven that changed lives; he actually changed lives right before their eyes. Sick people were healed and hungry people were fed. The presence of God was a present reality.

But all these centuries later what are we to make of this story? We, who come here Sunday by Sunday, and acknowledge the present reality of God—what does this miracle of Jesus mean to us?

There are plenty of hungry people today. Half the people of the world live on less than $2 a day. Half the people of the world couldn’t by a loaf of bread and a whole fish in a month, much less for a single meal. Why isn’t Jesus making the same miracle for them?

We usually say that the miracle of this story is that the loaves and the fishes were multiplied. Five loaves and two fish were not enough to feed them, and yet everyone had enough to eat. Something happened that could not happen, and that is a miracle.

. The tradition of the Church is that Jesus is fully human and also fully divine—it stands to reason that he could make any kind of a miracle that he wanted to make. If all that Jesus wanted was for the crowd that day to have a nourishing meal, wouldn’t he just have multiplied enough bread and enough fish to go around? Why did he make more than they needed?

The multiplication of the loaves and the fishes is a sign of the presence of God on that day and in that place, to be sure. But Jacob learned about the presence of God early on, and we have known about it, too, for as long as Jacob has had a limp. Maybe the miracle in this story is not that God is present. The presence of God is just the reality. Maybe the miracle in this story is the opportunity that God’s presence gave the disciples. Maybe the miracle is the opportunity that God’s presence gives all of us.

Before the food is distributed, Jesus looks at his disciples and says, you give them something to eat. Later, Matthew tells us, . . . all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full.

Twelve baskets full of leftovers: twelve like the twelve tribes of Israel. That is, there were enough leftovers for everyone to have enough. Twelve baskets of leftovers: twelve like the twelve disciples. That is, there were enough baskets so that everyone had the opportunity to feed the hungry, even the ones who were not nearby. You give them something to eat.

Sunday by Sunday, we come to this place, and we are nourished by Jesus, the bread of heaven. Sunday by Sunday, we know the present reality of God. And Sunday by Sunday we are filled, and we find that there is more than enough. We find that we have what we need and more besides. And we know that the miracle is the astonishing abundance of God—that we are full and there is more to nourish others. And more, we know that the miracle is the amazing generosity of God who allows us to participate in the feeding. As we take what we have been given and share it with the ones that God loves, we know the miracle.

Amen.