Mark 6:32-44
And they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves. Now many saw them going and recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arrived ahead of them. As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them many things. When it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now very late; send them away so that they may go into the surrounding country and villages and buy something for themselves to eat.” But he answered them, “You give them something to eat.” They said to him, “Are we to go and buy two hundred denarii worth of bread and give it to them to eat?” And he said to them, “How many loaves have you? Go and see.” When they had found out, they said, “Five, and two fish.” Then he ordered them to get all the people to sit down in groups on the green grass. So they sat down in groups of hundreds and of fifties. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to his disciples to set before the people, and he divided the two fish among them all. And all ate and were filled, and they took up twelve baskets full of broken pieces and of the fish. Those who had eaten the loaves numbered five thousand men.
The disciples rowed the boat ashore. Hallelujah. The retreat could finally begin. Just one
verse earlier Jesus had spoken words that would one day be stitched onto pillows in church gift shops: “Come away with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” By yourselves. No crowds. No desperate people. No lines of hungry faces. Just lavender candles, bathrobes and the sound of pan pipes.
But before the boat even scraped the shore, they heard splashing feet and crowd noise, bleating and baaing like sheep. And before the disciples could push them back with an oar, Jesus was already among them, teaching.
The sun was sinking in the sky and their spirits were sinking with it. “Send them away,” the disciples said. Someone mentioned the budget. Someone mentioned boundaries. But Jesus said, “You give them something to eat.”
Ruffled, they began to search. Jesus asked, “How many loaves do you have? Go and see.” They went on that last kind of mission when you try to try, when you march forward martyring hard, “I will stop at nothing to help these people!” while secretly hoping that stopping at nothing might mean doing nothing.
They came back shrugging with apology. Five loaves. Two fish. Which is to say: almost nothing. Empty pockets flapping like white flags of surrender.
The disciples looked at the crowd and saw a problem. Jesus looked at the crowd and saw a table. The disciples said, “Send them away.” Jesus said, “You give them something to eat.” The disciples said, “We don’t have enough.” And Jesus says what he always seems to say when the world looks impossible: You have what you need.
Then Jesus does something strange. He leads them to sit down on the green grass.
He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and shares it. If that sounds like Psalm 23 and communion at the same time, good. Mark wants us to hear both.
And suddenly everyone eats. Everyone. Twelve baskets of broken leftovers remain. And
fish. And a metaphor for all time. This is a MacGyver miracle for exhausted people starving for hope.
When they tried to count the crowd, they estimated five thousand men. Since this story is
not called The Screaming of the 500 Toddlers or The Angering of the 5,000 Wives, we can safely assume they were there too. Let’s call it what it really was: The Feeding of the Multitudes.
But here is something many people miss. This was actually the second feast in Mark chapter six. Just a few verses earlier there was another banquet – at the palace of King Herod.
There the wine flowed. The powerful flattered each other. Herod made a foolish promise. “Ask me for whatever you want.”
And the request came back: The head of John the Baptist on a platter. Herod knew it was wrong. The text even says it was not in his interests. But he was afraid of looking weak in front of his guests and he wanted to appease his partner. So the banquet continued.
And on a silver tray they served horror. Humanity at its very worst.
And it was this very event that brought the disciples back from their mission field. They
had come to bury their friend. No wonder they wanted a retreat. No wonder the crowds were desperate for hope. They were living in a moment when the world felt impossible. World leaders dancing their way toward destruction. Violence served up like a course in a banquet.
And right in the middle of that world, Jesus sets another table. Not in a palace. In the grass. Violence can be contagious. But even more contagious is faith. Generosity. Compassion. Do not discount it. It starts to sound like the lyrics from A Mighty Fortress is Our God:
And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us, we will not fear, for God has willed his truth to triumph through us.
It reminds me of an old children’s story called Stone Soup. A traveler arrives in a village
during a hard winter. Everyone insists they have nothing. Nothing to share. Nothing to spare. So the traveler fills a pot with water and drops in a stone. “Stone soup,” he says. “Though it would be better with a carrot.” Someone finds a carrot. “Well,” he says, “it really comes alive with a potato.” Someone else brings a potato. Soon cabbage appears. Then onions. Then herbs. And what everyone thought was not enough becomes a feast. The miracle is not the stone. The miracle is someone daring the village to see: You have what you need.
And the church takes that message much further. We claim that the love of God, the grace of Christ, and the generosity of the Holy Spirit, those are the greatest multipliers in the world.
My friend Stina is an associate pastor in Minneapolis. This winter churches there began delivering groceries to neighbors who are afraid to leave their homes because of immigration raids. Some are citizens. Some are legal residents. But fear keeps people inside. So Sunday school classes deliver bags of food. Churches across the country send money to fund it. Volunteers knock on doors with groceries and prayers. Five loaves. Two fish. Groceries on a doorstep. And suddenly fear loosens its grip. Because food is only part of the miracle. The bigger miracle is love casting out fear. And a bunch of Lutherans discovering that the church should probably stop believing its own sad-trombone empty-pews story. And a whole state realizing its compassion was its superpower. Some outlets have called what is happening in Minnesota: Neighborism. To us, it tastes like potluck faith. And it has always been more powerful than division and violence.
Five loaves. Two fish. A church. A table. Add a little baptismal water. Stir in some
courage. Pour in a generous glug of compassion. Add a willingness to sit down together on the green grass. And suddenly the impossible begins to loosen. And everyone counts.
Now I don’t know what feels impossible in your life right now. Maybe your son is struggling. Maybe your freezer is full of lasagna but your beloved spouse is still gone. Maybe the world – with devils filled – is threatening to undo your faith. This story was told for times like these. Because there is nothing in this world stronger than the love of God working through ordinary people. Say it again with me. There is nothing in this world stronger than the love of God working through ordinary people.
John Wesley once put it like this: Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you
can, As long as ever you can. And the Gospel adds one more line. By the grace of Christ, that is enough.