In Psalm 78 we read these words:
They railed against God and said,
"Can God set a table in the wilderness? True, he struck the rock, the waters gushed out, and the gullies overflowed; *
But is he able to give bread
or to provide meat for his people?"
The answer in the gospel for this morning seems to be yes, God provided for them food enough. The reading this morning opens with Jesus withdrawing in a boat to a deserted place by himself. What our reading does not tell us is that his retreat is precipitated by the news of the beheading of John the Baptist. It was a gruesome death brought about by an open-ended promise made by Herod at his own birthday party. And when Jesus heard about it, he withdrew in a boat to a lonely place by himself.
It is a natural response to sorrow and pain. To want to withdraw--to be left alone to sort it all out perhaps. But as is so often the case with Jesus when he went ashore, he saw the crowd that had grown to over 5,000. And he had compassion for them and jumped right back into the swing of things—teaching and healing them. There he stayed until late in the day, until stomachs started rumbling from hunger.
Now the disciples suggested that the crowds be sent away to villages where they could get some food. But Jesus said that wasn't necessary; the disciples could give them something to eat with what they had. There was no reason to send these people away. You give them something to eat Jesus says. To apply the apostle Paul's words from our second reading this morning: Nothing needed to separate these people from the love of God in Christ Jesus. God can set a table in the wilderness. God is able to give bread and provide meat for the people. And, indeed, God provided for them food enough. With much left over.
What strikes me in our gospel reading this morning--is that Jesus broke bread with the people on his heart. Jesus' own sorrow led him to greater compassion and understanding toward those who suffer. And from his own suffering and grief, he then took time to help the needy--to relieve their suffering. Jesus took time to break bread with the people on his heart.
When I think of the suffering in the world--especially the gruesome, brutal suffering from injustice and oppressive attitudes and behavior--my tendency is to want to "get away" from it for a time in order to reflect on it and deal with it within my soul. And that seems like a natural response. And so by the time I go ashore, if you will, it is as if my pain, anger, confusion, sorrow--whatever thoughts and emotions I have been dealing with--all motivate me to take some sort of action--to make a positive difference--because of the suffering. For isn't it true that when you and I (as individuals or as a community of faith) come from our own solitude of grief and prayerful reflection of suffering and wrong--isn't it true that at those times we find ourselves empowered through it all to take positive action so that others will not suffer or be wronged in the same way? And I wonder, wasn't this what Jesus was doing? Wasn't this what Jesus was doing when he broke bread that day with the people on his heart?
Jesus did something that evening that has become so familiar to us--He took, blessed, broke and gave to his disciples. This image is at the heart of our Christian worship—taking, blessing, breaking, and giving are at the heart of our eucharistic worship. And they are at the heart of our eucharistic life--a life of compassion and abundance.
Our society and our world is largely one of separations--people being separated out and turned away because of trouble, hard times, hatred, hunger, homelessness, bullying threats, and backstabbing, to repeat the one's Paul mentions. And the list does not stop there. But the compassionate Jesus says, "no" to this separation. In the midst of the wilderness of these difficulties God did not--and does not--send anyone away.
In a recent of The Christian Century--there's a brief report of a lecture given by the Dalai Lama. In the question and answer period following, someone asked the holy man if he had any recommendations to offer regarding the alleviation of world hunger. As the audience settled in for what they expected to be a long and complex response, the Dalai paused, and replied...."Sharing."
The feeding of the 5,000 was at a time in past, but in the present we receive this report from Nyakatsapa, Zimbabwe, a place of suffering, seemingly at the end of the earth, and yet in this place – the portrait of paradox ... so many children, 300 or so ...living in an orphanage because their families have been wiped out by HIV/AIDS, the small children run toward the feeding place, excitement and laughter bursting from their small bodies. It seems children always do things in fast motion, at least when they are well fed. I suspect with these children, there have been times when they did not move so fast. You can see hints of it in their minuscule frames, pencil stick arms and legs, and knees that protrude like some large bulging knot – grapefruit knees, except there was no succulence of citrus here, only the emaciated frames of children who rarely get enough to eat. Yet, the deficiency of their physicality seemed not to touch their souls, for their demeanor, their zeal for this moment, their joy in this one second of their being, expresses the reality of life ... right now. Life, not in some maybe-one-day existence, but in the ISness of this instant. The older youth do not move so fast, but instead, flow with the reserved skepticism of standing in too many long lines with shouting and pushing children who had not worn pain for so long and so close to their hearts. The famine in Southern Africa has changed their already marginalized lives. Isness. Soon all are gathered before the steaming pot of porridge, its creamy surface undulating with the constant explosion of bubbles birthed by the burning limbs pushed beneath its black iron bottom. The smell of the porridge and the burning brands gave up a rich aroma that only seemed to further animate the hungry children. The cooks and teachers quickly gathered the wide bowls and began placing them in the small hands as child after child slowly moved toward the pot. One of the strangers, a blond-haired man who had once flown military helicopters, dipped a metal cup into the steaming mass and poured the thick mixture of grain, salt, and sugar into bowl after bowl. Hands once given to the killing of the enemy, now offered life in this sacramental dance of bread. Hands that once so often shakily gripped a bottle, its contents used to douse his own pain, now held onto warm cups containing that which would end the pain of empty stomachs. It was a movement of worship, the feeding of the 300. It isn’t a story like the feeding of the multitude ... it is feeding of the multitude, a miracle where nothing had existed before but now, out of love, out of the presence of Christ, and out of a few bags of meal, hungry and forgotten children ate.
As each child filed past, as each moved into the blond man’s space, there would be a smile, a greeting, a word of hope. As each stepped into his presence, his love flowed out to them, enveloping them, washing over them, telling them that they were not alone. Before the line of young lives had ended their promenade, the pot was emptied. It seemed to happen too quickly, another brutal punctuation underlying a reality of constant deprivation. It seemed as if destiny itself was speaking, "Sorry kid, nothing more for you except more hunger, more pain, and the absolute assurance that all you will ever receive in abundance is lack."
The line, like some ragged rope being pushed from the end, stopped moving, the teenagers in the rear slowly pressing into those in the front who now stood still, hungrily eying the barren void of the depleted pot. No words were spoken. No sound was made, but on their faces was the look of the beaten, a giving over to another defeat, another small point of pain into a lifetime of despair.
The blond-haired man stood before the gaping chasm of the empty pot with the small group of hungry faces before him. The empty cup dangled from his fingers and he shared the same look of despair as the children ... but only for a moment, for he and his companions quickly moved to their van that sat a few meters away. Delving into its interior, they hurriedly produced crackers and cookies and fruit. As they began passing the food out to the hungry children, the cooks produced a large container of a thick nutritional drink. Immediately, the young people were wrestling with the wrappers and sampling new treats. In their faces, tentative smiles were soon followed by laughter and joy and exuberant exclamation. The blond-haired man looked on, touched deeply by this connection, this movement of life that could have so easily become just another story of death, touched deeply because what could have been here might just as easily have been the story of his very own soul.
Where is the banquet, you ask. Here it is, in this world of hunger, this space of brokenness, where Zimbabwean children at Matshiloni Primary School in the province of Beit Bridge line up with their bowls. And the dollars and gifts St. Matthew’s members and friends donated through Stand with Africa go to pay for the care of these children. It is Holy Communion, broken, shared, and poured out seemingly at the very end of the earth. This is the same meal, the miracle, through the life of the One born to be broken…which makes each of us whole. Amen.