A Sermon for the 8th Sunday after Pentecost, 2009

SCARCITY OR ABUNDANCE? OF NEED? OF LOVE?

II Kings 4:42-44 Ephesians 3:14-21 John 6:1-21

For the first seven Sundays after Pentecost, we have been sailing down the interstate, so to speak, in the Gospel according to St. Mark. But if Mark is the 70 mile per hour highway, today we ease back and enter the scenic route of the Gospel according to St. John. For five weeks, the RCL will follow the twists and turns of the 6th Chapter of John.

John’s Gospel, for its use of language that seems to make it more accessible to our hearing and thought than the synoptics, is in fact, deeply attentive to details. The Gospel of John presents us with signs. Signs point us to something greater than the sign. If you watch, when you point to something, a small child or a dog will look, not to where you are pointing but to the pointing finger. That is (just can’t resist) missing the point. Seriously, John’s signs point us to the truth of Jesus, the Christ— God with us.

I have a small cross which I frequently wear. It is early— very early— James Avery. I have had it for many years, dating to the beginning of my renewed Christian walk in the early 1960s. I was relearning what it means to wear the name Christian, to live as a little Christ. The cross portrays five loaves and two fishes. It is named, most appropriately, the “Compassion Cross.”

That cross had great meaning for me then— and now. I suspect it both reflected and reinforced my formation as a disciple. That is, of course, one of the effects of a sign— it points the way and gives direction though it doesn’t force anyone to comply. A sign points the way and gives direction though it doesn’t force anyone to comply.

A couple of years ago, we at St. James, Eureka Springs, sensed a need to offer bread made by human hands in at least one of our Sunday Eucharistic feasts. At the time, we were celebrating in three services and the Sunday evening service lent itself to the feeling of being at table together as family, sharing the meal. As is so often the case, a call to ministry weighs most heavily on the one to whom the vision comes. In other words, I went into the kitchen and offered my hands and heart as I prayerfully prepared a Communion loaf. Over time, the sense of gift associated with that has grown rather than diminished and I have contemplated the preparation of that bread in ways that might never have otherwise occurred to me.

The ingredients of finely ground wheat and pure water are mixed with small amounts of oil, honey, molasses, and a bit of ground barley. I came on the idea of adding barley rather late. The “theology” of Communion bread suggests it is an important element. Barley is the grain ground for the common daily bread in ancient Israel.

II Kings records stories of Elisha, the great prophet who followed in Elijah’s footsteps. In the midst of famine in the land, a time of scarcity, he was faced with the challenge of feeding a hundred people with only twenty loves of barley and a few fresh ears of corn. He ordered them set before the people with a prophecy that it would suffice and be more than enough. Indeed, they were all fed and there was an abundance of leftovers— and keep in mind that these barley loaves would be close to the size of a tortilla or pita. Elisha’s miracle sets the stage for the sign of Jesus feeding the five thousand— not with twenty loaves but five and two small fish. Not only does the amount suffice but scarcity in human hands is revealed as abundance in God’s. There are twelve basketsful of fragments gathered after all have eaten.

And that brings us to today’s gospel lesson. John, not wasting anything in shaping his telling of the signs of Jesus’ role as the Word dwelling among us, as the light shining into our darkness, is quick to fill his tales with potent images and symbols. Allegory can pack powerful ideas into compact packages but is also subject to misuse and abuse— we tread carefully here. The five loaves are the Torah— the five books of Moses. The two fish may be understood as the law and the prophets or as gospel and epistle. Certainly the twelve basketsful of leftovers represent the teaching given to the apostles. As allegory, this sign points to Jesus as fulfillment of the law and the prophets; as ushering in the New Covenant of his body and blood to complete the Old Covenant of Torah.

In the larger context we see Jesus, tired in body, attacked by religious leaders and those whose god is the status quo, bereaved of his cousin John— the one who seemed to have a grasp of his mission, and beset by the hungry and needy multitude while trying to escape the crowds and find a quiet space for rest and restoration. Yet, the neediness of those around him evokes his love— Matthew calls it compassion— literally to feel with, to be filled with empathy— and he offers them the love of God. Hence the Compassion Cross. Hence the barley in the Communion loaf— truly Christ is bread for the hungry and we are called to eat and to give; to be fed and to feed— with compassion.

For several years, I worked in a hospital as a staff chaplain. As a second job, most of my shifts were overnight or on weekends. It was not unusual for me to pull an overnight shift and then have to meet classes next day starting at 8 AM. While we had a sleep room for the chaplain, ours was a regional trauma center and we were located just off I-35 so wrecks, shootings, stabbings, the general mayhem that we humans so adept at bringing about usually made for long and busy evenings. And when, in the wee-est of wee hours, things would slow in the ER and ICU, I would go and stroll the oncology floor. So often patients who have just learned of their cancers and those whose prognosis has worsened lie awake at night and even a brief visit from another human can be a gift to lighten the load. What seemed remarkable to me was that when my shift ended and in spite of little or no rest through the night, my energy level would be renewed. What so often seems scarce in human hands becomes abundance in the hands of God.

Fr. Ben Helmer used a phrase in his sermon last week that hit home for me. To paraphrase, he said that we are not just to show people that God loves them, but to show them how much. Somehow, that thought, for me, moved the call to show God’s love from the academic to the real word, from the house of prayer to the street, from head to heart.

What prevents us from showing— people to people, eye to eye, hand to hand, how much God loves them? Too tired, afraid we won’t have enough for ourselves and our families, afraid they will misuse or abuse? Excuses— God is a God of abundance, not scarcity. Where can we find bread to feed so many?

The French priest, Michal Quoist wrote this in a book of prayer poems published in 1963:

Lord, why did you tell me to love all men, my brothers?
I have tried, but I come back to you, frightened.

Lord, I was so peaceful at home, I was so comfortably settled.
It was well-furnished, and I felt cozy.
I was alone, I was at peace,
Sheltered from the wind and the rain, kept clean.
I would have stayed unsullied in my ivory tower.

But, Lord, you have discovered a breach in my defenses.
You have forced me to open my door.
Like a squall of rain in the face, the cry of men has awakened me;
Like a gale of wind a friendship has shaken me,
Stealing in like a shaft of light, your grace has disturbed me.
Rashly enough, I left my door ajar. Now, Lord, I am lost!
Outside, men were lying in wait for me.
I did not know they were so near;
in this house, in this street, in this office;
my neighbors, my colleague, my friend.
As soon as I started to open the door I saw them,
with outstretched hands, anxious eyes, longing hearts,
like beggars on church steps.

The first came in, Lord. There was, after all, a bit of space in my heart.
I welcomed them. I would have cared for them and fondled them,
my very own little lambs, my little flock.
You would have been pleased, Lord; I would have served
and honored you in a proper, respectable way.
Until then, it was sensible...
But the next ones, Lord, the other men— I had not seen them;
they were hidden behind the first ones.
There were more of them. They were wretched;
they overpowered me without warning.
We had to crowd in, I had to find room for them.

Now they have come from all over in successive waves, pushing
one another, jostling one another.
They have come from all over town, from all parts of the country,
of the world; numberless, inexhaustible.
They don’t come alone any longer but in groups, bound one to another.
They come bending under heavy loads;
loads of injustice, of resentment and hate, of suffering and sin...
They drag the world behind them, with everything rusted,
twisted, badly adjusted.

Lord, they hurt me! They are in the way, they are all over.
They are too hungry; they are consuming me!
I can’t do anything any more; as they come in,
they push the door, and the door opens wider...

Ah, Lord! My door is wide open!
I can’t stand it any more! It’s too much! It’s no kind of a life!
What about my job?
My family?
My peace?
My liberty?
And me?

Ah, Lord! I have lost everything;
I don’t belong to myself any longer;
There’s no more room for me at home.
*
Don’t worry, God says, you have gained all,
While men came in to you,
I, your Father,
I, your God,
Slipped in among them.

-- Michel Quoist, Prayers, Sheed and Ward, New York 1963

I, your God, slipped in among them...