"Something to Eat..."

I drew on my 2011 sermon on this Lectionary reading for the beginning parts of this sermon.

Matthew 14:13-21

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 he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. 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.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he 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. 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.

This is the Word of the Lord.

Jesus had just heard horrible news – the kind of news that hits like a slap to the face; gut-wrenching, mind-numbing, incapacitating news. His cousin: a man he’d grown up with and loved, a man whose willingness to baptize changed Jesus’ whole life – was dead. Killed at the hands of the despicable King Herod.

Most, if not all of us, have been in this place. Reeling from shock, confused, unable to think… of course his first thought was that he needed to be alone, to get away from the noise of the crowd, their neediness, the challenges of the scribes and the Pharisees, the pressure of proclaiming the Kingdom, if only for a little while.

So he got in a boat and set off across the lake. I can’t say if the disciples were in the boat with him; I suspect they watched him float away, looked at each other, shrugged and decided to walk around the lake to meet him.

As they trudged off for the long journey to the other side, word was spreading about what had happened. As the disciples passed through the villages, people laid aside what they were doing, tied on their sandals, and joined the trek. First, a dozen, then a few hundred, then, several thousand men, women and children, joining as one in a somber pilgrimage to meet Jesus.

Have you ever wondered why? Why would so many, already desperately poor, already teetering on the edge of starvation, drop everything, leave the paltry security they had, and with no thought of where they were going or what they would do to survive when they got there, just fall in line behind these disciples?

I mean, yeah, there's the standard response of “Well, they wanted to see Jesus, wanted to get healed, yada yada,” but I believe there is something more at work here.

John the Baptist had been many things: prophet, preacher, and perhaps above all, a reminder to these people in bondage that God was not done with them yet. And when Herod had forced his brother Phillip to divorce his wife, Herodias, so Herod could marry her, it was John who said what everybody was thinking: it was a shameful, disgusting thing, improper for a Jew (even one as nominally Jewish as Herod).

The word was that Herod had been pushed in to arresting John by Herodias, but no matter who made who do what, John was arrested, and with that it seemed some of the light had been stolen from the sky. Once again, the powerful exercised their will on the weak, and no one could do anything about it.

For a while there was hope. John's disciples made sure he had food, and brought back news that he was still alive, that Herod didn't want to kill him because he feared an uprising, even that Herod snuck down to the filthy dungeon at night to have conversations with the prophet.

Now, village after Galilean village learned the terrible news. John was dead, murdered as entertainment for a drunken banquet, his head displayed on a serving platter. So they walked. They walked to share their grief, they walked to try and figure out what to do next, maybe they walked because the one thing people need more than food or shelter in order to keep on living another day is hope, and they were fresh out and needed more – anything, something – to keep them going.

And I don't know this but maybe some, maybe all of them, knew who John had been to Jesus. Maybe they wanted to tell Jesus how sorry they were that his cousin was dead, to offer some kind of comfort in his grief.

I imagine Jesus there, alone, in the boat, probably paying very little attention to things like setting the sail properly, or rowing, or whatever it is one needed to do to get that particular watercraft from one side of the lake to another. It was a time to grieve and a time to cry. Yes, I’m sure there was prayer; probably along the lines of asking “why?” as his thoughts turned inward, ever inward…

Jesus was, of course, God-made-flesh. But how easily we forget that God-made-flesh was, well, a human being. Jesus was on a life journey, a journey where he learned and experienced and dealt with everything every other human being has ever had to do – potty training and learning to use a fork and learning to walk and read and talk, and, yes, to feel the crushing grief of losing someone we love to Death.

Who knows how long that boat took to cross the lake? Who knows how deep Jesus fell into that well of loss, of sorrow, of grief? Perhaps, at last, the rocking of the boat coaxed him into a fitful sleep…

…a sleep interrupted by the sound of voices. Lots of them. Thousands! A low murmer, bereft of shouts or laughter, just there. Jesus wiped the sleep from his eyes and peered over the railing toward the slowly approaching shore…

…and something happened to Jesus. Our New Revised Standard Version translation puts it mildly enough, it says that Jesus saw a great crowd and had compassion for them. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? But I want to suggest this morning that something far deeper, more seminal happened right then. You see, the Greek word for what happened in that moment, splagchnizomai, is derived from a word in the Greek translation of the Old Testament which described the removal of an animal’s innards during ritual sacrifice. It’s a much more decisive, visceral, even violent word, than what we understand “compassion” to be. Eugene Peterson’s “Message” translation of this Scripture says that Jesus’ heart went out to them, and that’s closer, but it’s much more like Jesus’ love for that crowd – his desire to help them, to heal them – that compassion was so great that it was as if his very heart was ripped from his chest.

And the miracles began. Jesus did what Jesus does – he loved them, he healed their sicknesses. And healed, and healed some more. For hours and hours.

I wasn't there, obviously, and I have no way of knowing this, but I imagine that this gathering was different from the one before, where the crowd had been so huge and pressing in so uncontrollably to see Jesus that he had to jump in a boat to keep from being crushed. I think the sorrow and the grief pressed down on the people so much that they just stood there. And Jesus walked among them, whispering, touching, maybe weeping with them, who knows? Who knows what was said, who was touched, what sicknesses were healed?

And you know what? I think that, as Jesus walked around from group to group, friends and families clustered together in little knots of grief, not only was he giving the people what they needed, he was getting what he needed as well.

After all, Zig Ziglar said, “you can't sprinkle the perfume of happiness without getting a few drops on yourself,” and that is so cheesy it sets my teeth on edge but it is true. In moving through that crowd, comforting, healing, loving, Jesus was receiving the comfort and healing and love that he himself needed in his grief.

I don't think I am straying off the theological reservation when I suggest that all of us – even Jesus – need hope, especially in times of loss and grief. That's what he went looking for when he got in the boat, and though it didn't look like what Jesus was expecting, it's what he got.

So he touched more, he healed more, he comforted more, hour after hour.

As the shadows grew long, his disciples finally came up to Jesus. Maybe it was Peter who whispered, “Master, it’s getting late, and these folks need to go find a village and get some dinner.”

Jesus never missed a beat, didn't even look up, going from person to person, touching, blessing, healing. “Nah, they don’t need to go anywhere. You give them some supper.”

“Um, Jesus, not to argue with you or anything, but we’re not exactly McDonald’s here. Five loaves, a couple of fish, that’s our inventory.”

And I know that the Gospels don’t record it this way, but I can see Jesus looking up, smiling, and saying, “Perfect! Give ‘em here. That’s plenty. Watch…”

I suppose the disciples could have held back: “What are you, crazy? This is my lunch! I give this up, then I have nothing! Go get your own loaves and fishes, man!” – but they gave them over to Jesus, and the miracles began anew.

Thousands upon thousands of people sat on the cool grass as Jesus blessed and broke the bread and the fish, and passed them over to the disciples to begin handing out.

The disciples must have thought their Rabbi had lost his ever-loving mind. But they dutifully did as they were told, and walked out among the people with these meager fragments, passing out food. And passing out food. And passing out food.

There wasn’t “too little” after all. In fact, there wasn’t “just enough.” There was an abundance! Way more than they needed!

I have heard and read many, many explanations from theologians of all stripes of how and why the miracle of the loaves and fishes happened. Many point to Elijah and the miracle of the widow's oil, or of Elisha feeding a hundred people with a few barley loaves. Others suggest that what happened was a “miracle of sharing,” where people responded to the disciples' faithfulness by pulling out their own food and sharing it.

Look, it was a miracle, and I don't really care how it happened. Sorry. I think it's a waste of time to try and explain it, I think it misses the point.

And I really think it misses the point to make this a Prosperity Gospel reading, focusing on the fact that, because they were faithful in giving up the little that they had, they gathered up far more than they themselves needed. This isn't about giving money to a TV preacher so God will give you a Cadillac.

I mean, yes, this is an example of what Paul meant when he wrote in Phillippians, “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” And we know this – we give glory to God for our successes, and lean on God when we are in need.

At the same time, in this nation where there is an abundance of food and clothing, where houses stand empty, something like fifteen point nine children – twenty percent of the child population of the United States – live in homes where they aren't sure where their next meal is coming from. Talk all you like about school lunch programs, I have spoken to many educators who tell me that, for far too many kids, that free lunch is the only food they can depend on.

In a nation of iPhones and Androids and fifty-two inch plasma TV screens, with a Wal-Mart and a Whataburger on ever corner, we worry that children surrendering at our Southern border to escape certain death might tax our resources as a nation.

Jesus isn't looking to us for a political solution. If we have learned anything over the past few decades in American politics, it is that Christians cannot depend on legislators to do the right thing, to act in ways that are moral without regard to the political cost. Without removing our responsibility as people of faith to always speak truth to power, Jesus looks to us.

After all, Jesus moves and acts in this nation and in this world through you and I, we are Christ's hands and feet. Jesus looks to us and says, “you give them something to eat.”

“You give them something to eat.”

What does that look like? Does it mean we pack up everything and start going around the country, feeding hungry people? Maybe.

And maybe it means we start right here, doing what we can with what we have. Is there a person in need? “You give them something to eat.” Someone needs comfort, reassurance, hope? “You give them something to eat.”

Anne Frank wrote, “No one has ever become poor by giving.”

Do we dare? Do we dare test that theory, giving ourselves over to the gut-wrenching compassion that compels us to do whatever we can to feed that hungry child, that grieving adult, that homeless family?

“You give them something to eat.”

The Dad and The Thief

I'm indebted to the writing of Emerson Powery ("Gospel" tab) and (big surprise) Kathryn Matthews Huey for insights and guidance in the following sermon.

Mark 5:21-43

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, "My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live." So he went with him.

And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, "If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well." Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, "Who touched my clothes?" And his disciples said to him, "You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, 'Who touched me?'" He looked all around to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease."

While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader's house to say, "Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?" But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, "Do not fear, only believe." He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, "Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping." And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child's father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha cum," which means, "Little girl, get up!" And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.

This is the Word of the Lord.

This is, in part, the story of a thief.

We’ve spoken before about how, in first-century Judea, as well as in most of the cultures of the day, women had no real legal or religious standing. In this patriarchal culture, women – and, truth be told, children – were often possessions of men, dependent upon husbands or fathers for their daily needs, with no prospects of being much more than child-bearers and caregivers their entire lives.

There were exceptions, of course, but that’s for another day. Today, our Gospel reading focuses on two people, both in deed of healing and restoration, both untouchable and beyond hope, but who stubbornly refused to give up hope, boldly pursued whatever avenues – including stealing – to get what they needed.

Jairus was used to having authority. Now, he doesn’t strike me as one of those people who got drunk on power, who saw his position in the synagogue as a birthright, and demanded others kiss his feet. But when things needed to be done, Jairus was the man who got them done.

At least, until the day his daughter got sick. After that, he wasn’t much use to anyone.

He was obsessed – going here and there, consulting physicians and rabbis, spending money like there was no tomorrow, because in his heart, if his daughter couldn’t recover, if she died, there was no tomorrow.

Yet no matter what he did, no matter how he prayed or which physician he paid, his twelve-year-old daughter, once so full of joy and energy, grew weaker and sicker.

Even in his panicked state, Jairus had heard about the rabbi, the man who had supposedly healed paralytics and lepers, and even driven out demons simply by telling them to go away. And now, his stomach in a knot and his beard wet with tears as he stood over his daughter, listening to the breath rattle in her throat, Jairus knew that there was one hope. Jesus of Nazareth.

It wasn’t hard to know that Jesus was back from the other side of the lake – the house fairly shook as the whole town seemed to stampede to the lakeshore at the news. So Jairus kissed his daughters ashen forehead and joined the rush.

Being a man of power had perks, and one of those was that when Jairus told people to move out of his way, they did. In short order, he stood before the healing rabbi.

Or rather, he knelt. He couldn’t have explained why, but the desperation in his heart was so heavy, his terror so unbearable, that this dignified, powerful man, this teacher of the Law and expert on proper worship and conduct, fell to his knees and begged.

And Jesus said yes. Without hesitation, he lifted Jairus to his feet and told him to lead the way, no small feat with the entire population of the town crowded in.

The thief was there, too. Like Jairus’ daughter, we aren’t told her name, just that the desperation she felt – and the absolute conviction that there was just one hope – was as deep as Jairus’.

Like the leader of the synagogue, she had searched and spent and hired and consulted, trying anything and everything to be cured. Like Jairus, she had found no help, no relief. For a dozen years, she had felt her life’s blood draining slowly from her, every day bringing another false hope, another failed cure, every day finding her degree weaker in body and spirit.

I can’t tell you why this woman didn’t have anyone to speak to Jesus on her behalf. Perhaps the nature of her disease, or maybe she was a widow who was self-sufficient. Really, it’s anyone’s guess. But she had no one to make her case before the healing rabbi. So she took matters into her own hands.

Like Jairus, like everyone in the region, she’d heard about Jesus, about the healings and exorcisms and miracles, and the more she heard, the more convinced she became that if she could see Jesus, if she could be touched by Jesus, she would be healed.

Her problem was more complex than Jairus’, though. As a woman in that culture, it was highly irregular to speak directly to a man, and to confess aloud what her condition was would have been disastrous – she would be labeled unclean, and shut out from worship and from interacting directly with anyone interested in attending worship in the synagogue.

Day after day, though, as she got sicker and sicker and spent every dime she had on ineffective cures, she thought about that touch from Jesus. It had to happen!

When she heard the commotion outside her door, the crowd clamoring to get to the lakeshore, she decided that, even if it meant embarrassment and exile, she would plead her case. Enough was enough, she had one hope left, and it was Jesus of Nazareth.

And there was the crush of the crowd, the mad noise of hundreds of people pressing in to see the miracle man, an impossible wall of humanity – she couldn’t reach the lakeshore, and though she could see Jesus between the wall of shoulders and backs, she just couldn’t push through to him!

He was talking to Jairus, she saw… poor Jairus was a mess… now they were moving, and coming toward her!

She said it aloud, though the words were lost in the noise of the crowd, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.”

And she pushed against the crowd, she reached as far as she could through arms and legs and elbows and bodies, and as Jesus passed by, she caught just the hem of his robe with the barest of brushes of her middle finger on her right hand…

And in that instant, the woman became a thief.

You see, it was one thing for Jesus to reach out, and by an act of his will provide that power which heals. This was his choice, a function of the mission his Father had sent him on, a way of proving who he was and why he came.

Yet as the hem brushed by, though Jesus didn’t touch her, that touch of the corner of his hem, that slightest wisp of contact was enough. She knew it! She knew she was healed! Her heart burst with joy! At last, she was free!

Ahead of where the woman had reached through the crowd, Jairus and the disciples were pushing through the crowd, trying to make a path for Jesus. They’d push, look back to make sure Jesus was near, then push again, a maddeningly slow process.

And now Jesus had stopped dead, and was looking around… no, he was glaring, searching the faces in the crowd! What had happened?

The crowd fell silent. Jesus spoke at last, loudly: “Who touched my clothes?” It was perhaps the strangest question the disciples had ever heard.

Peter cleared his throat. “Um, Teacher, with all due respect, um, I think everybody touched your clothes…”

But the woman, the thief, she knew what Jesus meant. As joyous as she had been at her healing, terror now gripped her heart. Shaking, she knelt in the dirt and, through sobs, told him everything. Everything.

Then a long silence, and, finally, Jesus touched her… lifted her to her feet… and gave her what she had stolen. “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

No longer a thief, no longer sick, the woman melted into the silent crowd.

Jesus turned to see the already-pale Jairus nearing collapse. He’d just heard the news, the words no one ever wants to hear.

Jesus stepped up to the ashen, broken Jairus, looked deep into his eyes and said, softly, but with steel in his voice, “Don’t fear. Believe.” He looked to Peter, James and John, said, “Come with me,” and they were off.

Jairus’ house was already full of mourners – the professional kind, mixed in with the folks there for gossip and casseroles. Jesus walked into the middle of the wailing crowd and asked, “Why are you crying? The girl’s just sleeping.”

Their laughter was as loud as their crying had been. When Jesus next spoke, Peter, James and John heard the tone he used against the storm on the lake: “Get. Out.” Needless to say, the mourners found someplace else they needed to be. Quickly.

And Jesus took that tiny, cold hand, and spoke again, softly: “Hop up, little girl.”

What does it mean to have faith, to believe? Can we package it all up neatly in statements or doctrines, mental and verbal assertions that do little more than specify who’s “in” and who’s “out?” Jairus’ colleagues, the Scribes and Pharisees and Temple elite would certainly have thought so; though they approached the worship of the one, true Living God sincerely, in an effort to obtain perfection in worship they had instead arrived at something antiseptic and predictable. At best, their religion was a formula that treated the Almighty like a cosmic vending machine and, at worst, a malevolent and oppressive system which robbed the poor and marginalized of even the slightest hope.

Today we met two people who, in desperation, latched on to a faith that is wild, unpredictable, headstrong. The hemorrhaging woman threw out convention and propriety, taking what she needed by force – there’s really no other way to put it. Jairus looked utter despair – looked death itself – in the face, and boldly refused it.

And none of these people – the woman, the child, the terrified father – were outside of Jesus’ concern.

We who are sometimes needy, sometimes desperate, sometimes weak and drained of resources and direction, are not outside of Jesus’ concern.

And we who are the hands and feet of this healing rabbi, this crucified and risen Savior, must realize that no one who is needy, desperate, weak and drained of resources can be outside of our concern.

Jesus chooses not to leave people in the conditions in which he finds them.  And he has the power to alter that condition.

Do we? Can the Christian community alter the conditions of people's lives?  Can the Body of Christ, too, bring healing into troubled circumstances?  Must we not also cross boundaries –  whether they are related to ethnicity, gender, race, orientation, politics or anything else that divides our society – and advocate life-giving meaning and change?  May God grant us the courage to do so!