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Worrying Over Miracles
Matthew 14:13-21
August 03, 2008
Now when Jesus heard about [the death of John the Baptist], he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard of it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus went ashore he saw another great crowd; and he had compassion for them and he 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 Jesus said, “Bring them here to me.” Then 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. And all ate and all were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, 12 baskets full! And those who ate were about 5,000 men, besides the women and all children. This is the Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
Drawn to the Disciples
This is a story many of us have heard before. This Feeding of the Five Thousand as its traditionally called is found in all four gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. So whether we’re reading through lectionary year A, B, or C, we’re going to hit this one each year. As I looked back over my old sermons (not that I would ever preach an old sermon!) I noticed that each year I was intrigued by a different set of characters.
One year I imagined being part of that great crowd, watching wide eyed as Jesus held the bread to the sky and broke it miraculously into thousands of loaves. Another year I tried to walk in Jesus’ shoes as he hears the heart breaking news of John the Baptist’s death, and noting the compassion with which he heals the crowds who had followed him into the wilderness. But this year as we read again this familiar tale, I’m noticing a particular set of faces and hearing a particular set of voices. For many reasons I’m sure, in 2008 I’m drawn to the Disciples.
I imagine how difficult this day must have been for them. Like Jesus, the disciples also heard the gruesome news of John the Baptist, how at the banquet table of power and intimidation his head was served, literally, on a platter. That’s a gory story. We would be naïve if we didn’t expect that those disciples at some level were wondering: if that happened to John the Baptist, Jesus’ own prophet, what in the world might happen to me, Jesus’ disciple? Of course they were worrying over thoughts like that.
And there was no time, you see, to sit down and have a chat with Jesus like they used to. Now they seemed to be busy all the time. They were all a bit worn down. In fact Jesus had left the towns and wandered off in the wilderness by himself for some peace and quiet. But when the crowds got wind of it, off they walked in droves, tracking down Jesus and as it turned out, his disciples too. Ideally they needed some old fashioned R and R, but the responsibilities kept coming. Caretaking for a crowd of who knows how many thousand adults and children was not something they necessarily signed on for. I think they just managed to squeak by.
The text says that the crowds followed Jesus there and he cured their sick, and then the next words are “When it was evening.” So evidently there were no problems big enough—think crowd control, port-o-potties busting, lost preschoolers--nope, no issue so big that it made its way into the text. Until dinnertime.
And that’s when the disciples began to really Worry. Jesus, we’re here in the middle of nowhere, and the hour is late. Send the people away so they can go get dinner! You can hear their anxiety escalate when Jesus pauses, and says, “No, they don’t need to go away. You give them something to eat.”
Us? What? And the worry sets in.
Jesus you’ve got to be kidding us—there’s just not enough! There’s not enough Time to run into town and get take-out for 20,000 people! There’s not enough of us to do what we’re already doing! Not enough energy left! There’s not enough money, Jesus. And by God, there’s not enough food! All we have here is two fish and five loaves. What you’re asking, Jesus, is impossible.
Worry. It’s not the work they worried over. It was feeling responsible for something they knew they couldn’t do alone. So their response is Worry.
There’s Not Enough!
And who here has never felt that before? I found myself in shoes a bit like theirs last Sunday, when I heard a tipoff that Kyle and Sedona and I should be at the new house around 7:30, because it might just be that some folks from the church may stop by to see it.
Well I considered our then-very-much-still-a-construction-site of a house and I imagined what I wanted the house to look like for guests—you know, some vision from Home and Gardens-- finished, with furniture, manicured lawn, graveled drive. But like feeding 20,000 people with two fish that was an impossible task. There was no way to fix it up—certainly not in time for Sunday evening. So considering this impossible construction, like my friends the disciples in that great field of hungry people, my response was their response. We worried. And worried and worried and worried.
Until Jesus speaks again in verse 18. Jesus looks at his disciples, and hears the worry in their voices.
“We have nothing here, but five loaves and two fish. Not enough, Jesus, not enough. And with a sigh, Jesus sees they’ve misunderstood him yet again.
Jesus says, Bring them to me. And like children the disciples obediently hand over their morsels. Without wasting a minute Jesus instructs the crowds to sit. Taking the five loaves and 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 all were filled.
What those disciples witnessed, along with thousands of people, was pure miracle. Two fish, five loaves, food for all! No matter how they worked or fretted or worried, that’s a miracle those disciples never could have done on their own. For that’s a miracle they were never supposed to do on their own.
Miracles, it seems, belong to the Holy One, the One who walks on water and heals the sick, the One who challenges the Powers and defeats death. Miracles are the stuff of God, not us.
Like the disciples carrying bottomless baskets of bread and fish like waiters, often our job it seems is just to do what God tells us, to stop worrying, and to stay out of the way, because God is doing something great. And God is still doing something great.
When we hear this Bible story and imagine the crowds gathered around Jesus,
it’s easy to call that Holy, even to call what happened back then and there Communion. But I suspect those holy communion moments happen still, even here and even now.
Last week I witnessed a modern day mini-miracle. Maybe you did too, even if you wouldn’t call it that. At about 7:30 pm last Sunday pop-up picnic tables sprung up in my yard with bright colored tablecloths and baskets of fresh cut flowers. And suddenly, though I had worried so, you didn’t even see the sawdust and weeds so much. Without my planning a thing, unending platters of fresh baked cookies were pulled out of minivans and the smells wafted in the air, covering up the lingering odors of lumber and drywall. Lemonade poured by the gallon into paper Dixie cups. And then, within about ten minutes, the house went from empty to virtually packed, with faces and voices and laughter and brightly wrapped perfectly pound-sized gifts.
You came from all over friends, carpooling in vans and cars—and you thought you were coming to a Pound the Pastor Party, but I think what you came to was a communion. For that is what happens when we gather together with one another, even over cookies and lemonade, in the spirit of Jesus Christ. Mighty things happen—in miraculous ways.
When you came, you arrived at our worry-filled-not-nearly-finished-house. When you departed, you left our not-quite-completed-Home.
Having you, our church family there, with your love and ideas and encouragement (and patience as my daughter drug most of you through a 3-year-old old tour of the house), turned that building into a home. No amount of worrying or work could have done that. Only God and the mysterious working of God through everyday people like you and me.
Worrying at the Table
I know that many of us are worried today. Even as we come here to this holy place, we bring with us the worries of our week. Oftentimes our worry stems from feeling that there’s not enough. Not enough time, perhaps, or not enough money. Not enough strength, or not enough comfort. Not enough forgiveness, not enough fresh starts. I know about worry. We all do. Even the disciples of Jesus worried sometimes!
But I want to share with you what a wise person told me yesterday when—thinking again about my house of all things— I asked him “What should I do?” His response?
Stop worrying….because Worrying is the opposite of Prayer.
Ever have someone tell you exactly what you don’t want to hear, and precisely what you most need to hear? That was it for me!
So friends, my prayer for us this week is that we stop worrying. Not because the things that worry our lives will disappear. Of course they won’t. Those disciples had to carry around basket after basket of bread and smelly fish all evening long. My family still has to plug away at this house until it’s finally done. And you still have to do the work and carry the responsibilities of your lives.
But we don’t need to worry anymore about making miracles. Miracles belong to God, not us.
Maybe this week, like the disciples, our job is to do the tasks that God gives us (things like figuring out how to love our neighbors), to stop worrying, and to get out of the way, because even now God is doing something great.
Just for a moment, right here and right now as we see the bread broken and the wine poured, may we try to trust that in Christ Jesus, for me and for you and for us together, by God’s miracle there really is enough. Amen.
Copyright 2008 Rev. Shelaine R. Bird