First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
May 3, 1996
Scripture: John 6:1-14
Have you ever noticed that some things taste better the second day? Which is why God, in an act of infinite wisdom, created leftovers….or allowed us to do so. Picture the holiday meals of your childhood. There you are, at grandmother’s house. Everybody has eaten their fill. Now everyone is being loaded up with leftovers to take home. In days to come, there will be turkey and gravy, turkey sandwiches and turkey hash. And if you had a grandmother who cooked like mine, there will be dressing, vegetables and a whole lot of other things as well.
Eating out in restaurants, however, means fewer leftovers. Fortunately, some of the better dining establishments have rectified this problem by offering doggie bags. Just when you can’t eat another bite, the waitress will say those four golden words: “Shall I wrap this?” You feign indifference, creating the impression that taking food home is the very last thing on your mind. Then you mutter, with mock indifference: “Oh, what the heck. Wrap it up and I’ll take it to my dog.” Fat chance (as concerns the likelihood of the dog ever seeing the remains of your veal Oscar). We even have a restaurant in our neck of the woods that wraps your leftovers in the form of a tinfoil swan. We’re talking true class.
This afternoon’s story from John’s gospel is about biblical leftovers. You may never have thought of it that way. But it is. Our story often goes by the title “The Multiplication of Loaves and Fishes.” From other pulpits it is referred to as “The Feeding of the Five Thousand.” Whatever the title, it is the only miracle performed by Jesus that is recorded in all four Gospels. The details differ in the retelling. Sometimes there are four thousand….other times, five thousand. In some accounts there are seven loaves….in other accounts, five. Are these the same miracle story, or did Jesus do this on more than one occasion? Most scholars assume that this is one narrative, flavored differently by a variety of authors.
In reality, there is biblical precedent for this narrative. You can find it in II Kings 4:42-44. The multiple feeding is presided over by Elisha (in his early years). The miracle is more modest. There are twenty barley loaves. There are no fish. And only a hundred men are fed. But Elisha brags that there will be “leftovers.” Which there are. The implication being that God’s chosen leaders are capable of feeding people. Occasionally, lots of people. With ample to share.
But let’s return to John’s version of the story. Jesus and the disciples feel a need to get away. But a crowd follows, creating the potential for disaster. Suppertime is coming. And hunger, not far behind. So Jesus turns to Philip and says: “Where shall we buy food to feed these folk?” Philip doesn’t answer the “where” question. Instead, Philip turns it into a “how” question, which he answers by saying that it can’t be done. Even if there were a bakery nearby, it would take six months’ wages to buy a sufficient amount of bread to feed a crowd. And even six months’ wages would only purchase enough bread so that each person could have a bite-size morsel. But, as Philip explains, the issue is academic. There is no bakery. And the disciples don’t have six months’ wages.
In other versions of the story, the disciples fish around in their knapsacks to see what food supplies they may be carrying. But in John’s version, a kid comes to the rescue. Suddenly Andrew’s voice is heard above the crowd. “Over here, Lord….Andrew, on microphone three. I’ve got a kid with a lunch. It’s worth checking out.”
But before Andrew opens the kid’s lunch….or before Jesus distributes it….allow me a personal digression. I find myself wondering where the kid got his lunch. And I find myself contemplating the possibility that his father made it. It has a nice ring to it. And it brings back memories.
Some years ago, when Kris was away for a couple of days, I was left in charge of getting Julie ready for school. I did a great job with breakfast. I opened the cereal box. I found a carton of milk. Then I got out the toaster and handled that little chore….quite nicely. Figuring I was on a roll, I even sectioned an orange. Then I sat back and waited for Emeril Lagasse to sweep into my kitchen and put a gold star on my forehead. Which was when five terse words from Julie interrupted one of the great moments in father-daughter history. “Dad, I need a lunch,” was what she said.
So I made a lunch. I made it quick. I made it good. I whipped up some tuna fish….from scratch. Not really from scratch, but you know what I mean. Then I spread the tuna fish on a sandwich, removed the crusts, and cut the sandwich into triangles. Adding a banana, I wrote Julie’s name on the outside of the sack and sent her off to school. At the end of the school day, I inquired: “How was your lunch?” “Fine,” she said. Which should have been enough for me, but I was secretly hoping for “wonderful.” So I asked: “Was it wonderful?” “Sure, Dad, it was wonderful,” she answered. But unable to leave well enough alone, I pressed on, saying: “I bet all your friends wished they had a lunch like yours.” To which Julie answered: “Dad, don’t be dumb.”
But let’s get back to our story. There’s a crowd following Jesus. People’s stomachs are growling. Andrew finds a kid with a lunch. Which his father probably packed. The kid is persuaded to part with it. And, when opened, the lunch bag contains five loaves and two fish. Take a moment to notice that these are not five ordinary loaves, but five barley loaves. It’s an important detail. Barley loaves are small loaves. Poor people eat barley loaves. Scholars tell us that it takes three barley loaves to make a half-decent meal. And I doubt that the kid’s fish are king salmon, either.
If the situation sounds ridiculous, it’s meant to. The author of the story wants us to see how impossible things seem on the surface. We have one small boy….a seventh grader from Tiberius Middle School. He brings a lunch with five loaves and two fish. Jesus has five thousand people sit down on the grass. Grace is said. Food is passed. Everyone eats as much as they want. People eat beyond saturation, to the point of satisfaction (“No, thank you….everything was wonderful, but I couldn’t eat another bite.”).
How can this be? ‘Tis hard to say. Over the years, I have heard preachers suggest any number of theories. They can be categorized as follows:
- Stretching! A small amount of food is “stretched” to feed a large number of people. It’s not unlike “watering the soup” when more people show up than expected. Maybe Jesus cuts the bread in very small pieces. Maybe the five thousand people have very small appetites. Or maybe the company is so splendid that nobody notices the meagerness of the proportions.
- Multiplying! Ironically, even though this story is commonly referred to as “The Multiplication of Loaves and Fishes,” the word “multiply” appears nowhere in the text. But the common assumption is that any miracle performed must involve a multiplication (or a significant expansion) of ingredients. As to whether there were any magic words involved….or any magic dust….the text doesn’t say.
2.Sharing! This it the most common explanation, given that it is the only way the miracle can be rationalized. I have heard more sermons advance this alternative than any other. In this theory, the boy shares his lunch….which either shames or inspires others into similar acts of generosity. Someone else says: “I have some oranges in my tunic.” Whereupon a second individual produces a kielbasa from his briefcase. And three or four others chime in with the information that they are carrying some pita in their pockets. Everybody shares. Everybody eats. Which, when you come to think of it, is quite a miracle in itself.
The fact of the matter is, the story doesn’t tell us how the people get fed. So I can’t tell you, either. I simply don’t know. If you came to worship this afternoon thinking I would know the answer, you are going to go away unhappy. I don’t. I am homiletically challenged. So your curiosity will have to go hungry.
But I would redirect your attention to this matter of the “leftovers.” You will remember that when everybody has eaten their fill, there are a lot of food fragments left over. Jesus tells somebody to collect them. So somebody does. And when all the fragments are gathered, there are twelve full baskets. Which ought to suggest something to you. Twelve baskets of fragments. Twelve disciples. One basket per disciple. That has to be more than coincidental.
The message is given to all would-be disciples: “You can feed people. You have food. Always have had. Always will have. There are no Mother Hubbards among you. No bare cupboards. You do not come (to a hungry world) empty-handed.”
Which is a message the original disciples needed to hear. For they think they are unequipped….or under-equipped. Every time we turn a page in the gospels, we find the disciples moaning about something that they either “don’t get” or “can’t do.”
Which may be our problem, too. The other day I got on a hospital elevator. There was but one other traveling companion on my ride to the top floor. He had a bushy beard, along with a couple of visible tattoos. A pack of cigarettes was rolled up in one of his sleeves and a motorcycle helmet was cradled in his other arm. His sweatshirt carried a most interesting message: “I’ve got what it takes. But nobody’s taking what I’ve got.” Which I found interesting, given that I meet far too many people who are not even sure they’ve “got what it takes.” Like, maybe, some of you.
From time to time, when talking with preachers and preacher wannabes, I share my personal version of “the unpreparedness dream.” Everybody understands the unpreparedness dream. The classic version usually involves high school and the fact that it’s final exam day and you haven’t studied the material….don’t have a pencil….or can’t even remember where the class meets. But my take on the dream usually has to do with preaching and my lack of readiness to do it. In one version, I am improperly dressed. It is time to preach, but I am in a sweatshirt. Or barefoot. Or tieless. In another version, I have the right clothes on my back, but no sermon in my hands. Either I didn’t write it, or I can’t find it. Perhaps it existed once. But it doesn’t exist now. And in the third version, I can’t find the church. I have the right clothes. I have the right pages. But I am lost. Either I can’t find the building or I can’t find the sanctuary. Sometimes I can hear the organ playing, but I can’t find the door that leads to the pulpit. Or the door is locked. The ironic thing about the dream is the fact that I have never been able to put it completely behind me. In fact, I had “the dream” last night.
Or someone dies and the word comes to me by telephone. Will I come? Of course. Immediately? You betcha. So I get in the car. I find the house. I ring the doorbell. Somebody opens the door, greeting me with obvious relief. All the rooms of the house are filled with family members and friends. Suddenly I hear the person in the doorway turn to everybody else and say: “Call everybody into the family room. The minister’s here and he’s got something important to say to us.” I am the minister. But I don’t have the faintest idea what I am supposed to say to them.
Or consider my pastoral role as chairperson of the Nominating Committee. There’s a job that needs doing at the church. I figure you’d be a good person to do it. So I call you up, explaining what I have in mind. You listen to me. You fidget in the distance. I can tell that you are wrestling with my request. And then you say: “Gee, Bill, in a church as big as yours (at such moments, it’s always “my church”), surely there must be somebody better than me.” Somebody with more time. Somebody with more talent. Somebody with more treasure. Just like the disciples, most of us think we are less-than-adequately-equipped to do what is needed.
Which is why this parable is told for you. Sure your baskets differ. Not all of you are carrying the same thing. Some of you have a basket of lobster. Others of you, chunk tuna. And some of you are carrying nothing but crackers and carp. But each of you has a basket. And your basket is far from empty.
So you need to be alert….aware….awake. For you never know when Jesus….or one of his friends….
will need your basket,
will need your lunch,
will need you.
