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More Than Enough

Psalm 14; John 6:1-21

Bethel 7/30/06

Rev Marc Sherrod, ThD

I would observe, upon reading this text, that this crowd, just maybe, had overstayed their welcome. Jesus had crossed over to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, but, the text says, they “kept following him.” He went up to a mountain, to spend a little quality time with his 12 disciples, but the crowd found him again. Why? Jesus has been making the sick whole, and one gets the feeling that the crowd is in something of a mob-like frenzy, trying to stay close, wanting to be impressed by something else he can do that they can’t. It’s hard to know if they are curious and have nothing better to do or if they really are so taken by his message that they can’t resist following him. But, regardless, they keep coming.

Jesus, on the other hand, seems a bit weary and put off by all the attention -- he seems overtaxed by this constant company. Among my memorable children’s sermons was one on a Sunday, a day or two after Christmas. We had been entertaining out-of-town family for the holiday. I asked the children, including several of my own who came forward, what special things had happened in their homes. My five year old daughter replied in her best imitation of a strong-voiced preacher: “we had company . . . but they stayed too long.” The “company” sitting just a few pews behind, laughed with everyone else, but I could see just enough of them to detect a hint of nervous embarrassment flash across their faces. We say it only behind the backs of our guests, but we think the quip of Ben Franklin is basically correct: fish and company both begin to stink after a few days.

No one had planned for this. 5000 people. And they won’t leave. And on top of that, it’s now late in the day, and on top of that, they’re hungry. Such needy guests can test the patience of even the most gracious host. If such a thing happened here, I can see the church hospitality committee huddled in the kitchen, bewildered and wondering, “what now?” And more than one befuddled host, muttering, turning with wild-eyed anxiety to yours truly, “did you invite all these people?” Or, “this is potluck night. Why didn’t they bring their own food?”

I don’t know about your take on this story, but Jesus comes across, to me, as a bit cynical and jaded, or at least, he’s weary enough of dealing with other people’s problems that he sounds testy when he says to Phillip, one of the twelve: “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” It’s a question from one whose resources seem near depletion, whose patience seems to be wearing thin.

Now, of course, let it be said that the text says, almost as a parenthetical justification, “Jesus knew what he was going to do,” but in the frustration of the moment, maybe his factious query to Phillip was a glimpse of his honest to God humanity. He’s trying to get away, but they just keep coming at him with hardly a care about their own welfare. And he is approaching the breaking point.

Depending, of course, on how you turn the story, an anonymous little boy becomes the savior figure – or if that language is too strong, the moment of the meal’s excess and abundance hinges on this meager meal of a lad who, suddenly, stands center stage with every light in the house turned on his bag of food. . . . and whatever bag of tricks Jesus will pull out from under his own hat.

Granted, we don’t know if the boy’s loaves and fish were freely volunteered, coerced from him, or meant only as an example of just how much scarcity there really was on the day in question. We don’t know if, like manna in the wilderness, the food suddenly grew, like dew in the morning; we don’t know if several disciples had dashed off the mountain to stock up when it grew late and they saw the people coming from a distance; we don’t know if the people really had food hidden beneath their cloaks and suddenly, upon seeing the generosity of this boy, offered theirs for sharing, and thus the real miracle became the changed hearts of people who might have kept food hidden only for themselves, instead of giving it to Jesus so that he could feed everyone.

We don’t know.

But, somehow, a boy’s bagged lunch started something. . . and changed everything. As far as we know, he did not protest, complain, whine, or otherwise resist the opportunity to give what he had. The contrast with the adult disciples is quite revealing. What was Phillip’s answer to the crisis? He basically said: “uh, we’re done for, Jesus. Half a year’s salary wouldn’t be enough to feed all these people!” No way can we fix this problem. It’s just too big. Phillip reminds me of the church financial officer who warns, “we can’t afford to help these people who keep stopping by for handouts. Somebody has got to just say no.”

But a little boy with a few loaves and fish said, “yes.”

Much of the time, our faith mirrors that of Philip and Andrew, who could not see past the six months wages or the lad’s meager lunch. We tend to base our living on our own scarcity or even our own fears of insufficiency. So we hoard and save and worry and end up living life in small and safe measures. We pull back when we should push forward. We give in to our fear of a shortfall rather than exercising faith in God’s abundance. But Christians are constantly on call to go places where we have never been, to do things that we have never attempted and to be things we have never envisioned (Living by the Word, CC, 7/25/06).

It’s tempting to try and live by faith in a Gospel of scarcity instead of a gospel of abundance. We see the half-filled glass of water, and remark that it is half empty instead of half full. But Jesus makes food for all. He breaks open a bagged lunch, blesses it, and distributes it to the crowd. And, at the end, there’s even a whole bunch of leftovers

Abundance is a key theme in John’s Gospel – whether it’s water into wine at a wedding in Cana, living water overflowing to the Samaritan woman at the well, or the many mansions in heaven awaiting believers . . . and, here, picnic baskets, once empty, now full.

This story of the boy’s bagged lunch is the only miracle recorded in all four gospels, although John’s account is the only one of the four which sets the miraculous feeding at the time of the Passover, a reminder that it is God who feeds and saves, with this meal as a sign of God’s justice and mercy and compassion.

For whoever it was who first heard this story and recorded it, it was likely remembered as a story about grace overflowing, a story that recalled the history of Israel, and that time when, between exodus and promise, the people, hungry and feeling abandoned, received the food of angels in the desert and water from a rock. God provided food in the wilderness just as he provided a way to escape Pharoah through the sea.

John’s story about the barley loaves and two fish declares that God still feeds the people, not only with bread, but with the BREAD of life. And, as with the incident of Jesus walking on the water to the disciples in their boat out on the sea of Galilee, God still controls the forces of nature and makes them do what the Lord commands them to do.

All of that we know and can trust.

But I can’t help but wonder, “how did this miracle food happen to change that little boy’s life? Did his moment of sharing his lunch alter his character and the way he lived his life as an adult? In later years, did it seem like a dream, and did he wonder if it were true, if it had really happened?

Whichever of the four gospel writers (Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John) was the one I liked to read the most when I was a youngster, I can’t now remember, but I will always remember really liking this story about this boy and that incredible detail about the miraculous multiplication of his five loaves of bread and two fish . . . I felt a sense of solidarity with this boy who gave up everything to help Jesus feed the multitude. He not only made a difference, but can you imagine how proud he felt with all eyes fixed upon him that day? And, as word got around, how proud his family and home village must have felt, too?

But, as an adult, I realize that faith can’t rest on its laurels, anymore than that crowd could expect to be fed that way everyday. There’s always work to be done, lives to be lived, things that need doing, people who need loving and caring.

Like the boy on the day in question, we can’t stay frozen in time – we all have to grow up and change and adapt to new circumstances, and do the best we can to rectify both the mistakes we make and to make the most of life’s possibilities which yet lie up ahead.

I recall, growing up in a rural area, spending time alone in the woods, down by the creek. One particular memory stands out: rock hopping along the creek. I loved to cross the water by stepping from one projecting rock to another. Nature placed the rocks so they were not spaced conveniently for easy or assured stepping. As I started across, stepping from one to the next to the next, often, I wasn’t sure I’d make it. But I couldn’t go back because I would lose my balance if I tried to turn around. If I hesitated, I fell into the water. I learned to continue forward even though I wasn’t sure of my footing, or my ability to span the distance to the next rock. With one leg swinging forward into midair, I would leap out. Sometimes I would land on the next rock and sometimes I would simply fall in the water. No matter how wet, I would climb back on the rock and try again. When I finally stood on the opposite bank, I felt a sense of adventure, bravery, and satisfaction for a trip well taken.

I would hope for that boy, that faith provided, not the ability to walk on water like Jesus, but the ability to stand on the banks of the many rivers of his life and to rock hop his way across, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, but always willing to keep trying. And always remembering that Jesus took time for him he was a boy, and Jesus took what meager gifts he had and used them to help others see God.

There’s an old Jewish proverb the rabbis like to tell.

“When I was a young man,” the rabbi said, “I was on fire. I wanted to grab everyone by the shoulders, shake them, and convince them that I had the truth. I prayed to God that I would have the wisdom and strength to change the world.”

“When I reached mid-life I looked back and realized I had changed no one. The world was still the same. So I prayed to God that I would be given the wisdom and strength to change those around me who need to see the truth.”

“Ah, but now I am old and my prayer is much simpler. “God,” I pray, “at least give me the wisdom and strength to change myself.”

In the moment of truth, this boy surrendered his lunch to Jesus, and through his exemplary life, giving what he had for others, who knows, by changing himself, he just may have changed the lives of many people on that day long ago.

Amen.