More than We Can Ask or Imagine

A sermon for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 13
August 7, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Isaiah 55:1-5; Psalm 145: 8-9, 15-22; Romans 9:1-5; Matthew 14:13-21

“And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.” That’s how St. Matthew puts it, and we call the story the Feeding of the 5,000. But there were a lot more than 5,000. If there was one woman and one child per man, we’re talking about the Feeding of the 15,000. Or a couple children and one woman per man, the Feeding of the 20,000. In short, there were a lot of people, and old Matthew seems to sell Jesus short with his 5,000 count. The gospels were just using the prevailing custom of the time of only counting male heads of households. But I prefer to imagine that the old tax collector’s mind was so blown at the miraculous nature of it all that he lost his wits–his intellectual senses were dulled, so great was his wonder. All this is more than he can ask or imagine, he can scarcely describe it. Have you ever been that amazed? 

Matthew tells us a familiar story today. A familiar and an important story. This is one of the few stories recorded in all four gospels. In fact, the Feeding of the 5,000 is the only miracle story shared by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. There’s a reason for that. All of the gospellers want us to pay attention to it. They want us to see the importance of feeding to Jesus’s ministry, and they want us to make connections to the Last Supper, the Holy Eucharist, where the people of God are fed. 

The passage begins with Jesus withdrawing to a place by himself. He is withdrawing because he is grieving, or maybe he is worried. John the Baptist has just been executed by King Herod. Jesus might need time away. Jesus might need to lay low. Both are reasonable, and human, explanations of why Jesus withdraws. But it doesn’t work. The people follow him there on foot. They need to be cured by Jesus. They need what he has to offer, his healing touch, his comforting word. They follow Jesus through the desert because they know that in him is life–and they need life. They feel beat down and run over, forgotten and ignored. But not by Jesus. The gospel tells us Jesus has compassion for them. He is moved in his inner being. He cannot help but act. Compassion means, literally, to suffer with. Jesus does more than see their pain; he experiences it, and he enters into their lives with healing grace. 

But then he goes a step further. In a time of hunger, Jesus takes the meager meal he’s given–a few loaves and fish–and he feeds them. He feeds them all. This is not a miracle about sharing. Sometimes that’s how this passage is interpreted by those shy about God’s power. Maybe they began to pass the loaves around and people contributed what they had. Maybe the people in the crowd saw how little there was and were moved to share what they had brought along. Maybe that’s the miracle–sharing. Or so the interpretation goes. 

No. Such an interpretation ignores the basic fact that Jesus lived in a time of intense hunger. The people were hungry because they didn’t have food. I’m sure they would have shared if they could, but they didn’t have any. No, let us not be shy about God’s power. This is not a miracle about sharing; this miracle is a dramatic demonstration of God’s power into the world, multiplying what is given until it is more than enough. More than the people can ask or imagine. It is a fulfillment of God’s invitation through Isaiah to come and eat without money. God will provide even when we’re on empty—more than we can ask or imagine. No wonder Matthew was so amazed that he lost count. 

And did you notice the pattern? Matthew says, “Taking the five loaves and the two fish, Jesus looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds.” Take, bless, break, give–and that’s where the followers of Jesus come in. They distribute the miracle to the hungry. If this pattern sounds familiar, it should. It will be what Jesus does at the Last Supper: “While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, ‘Take, eat; this is my body.’” And that–that is certainly more than we can ask or imagine. 

I have seen it time and time again. Someone shows up on empty. They do not know what the future holds; they are barely holding it together. They are like the crowds in the gospel, seeking shelter and healing and blessing–seeking Jesus. I have been there; so have you. I recently saw this in a young man, maybe 22 years old, who was passing through town. He attends college in another state, and he’s been searching for something this summer. He has been traveling from place to place. He tells everyone it’s in search of adventure, and his Instagram feed suggests as much. His friends say how jealous they are that he can do this–how happy he seems. But if you had a five-minute conversation with the guy, you would see there is something deeper there. He is looking for something–for that thing we are all seeking. He is looking for healing, for wholeness, for grace in the wilderness of the world where true food is rare. He is looking for God; his soul is restless.

He came to St. Luke’s and sat toward the back. You may have seen him. He didn’t pick up a prayer book or a hymnal. But when he knelt at the altar rail, there were tears in his eyes. A wafer placed in his hand: The Body of Christ. A sip of wine: The Blood of Christ. And I wondered if he realized that this healing, this grace he had been searching for, was right here? 

Like the five loaves and two fish, a small wafer and a sip of wine seem meager. But friends, look closer: this is a feast for the soul. It is the life of God being poured out. It is the love of Christ on offer. It is mercy and grace, forgiveness and blessing. It is all that and more. And if it hadn’t been offered, we would not dare ask, would we? We would not dare to presume that we could share in God’s life, we who are broken and flawed, hungry in the desert. But the invitation has been issued, and it is issued again today: The gifts of God for the people of God. And amazed, in wonder, senses dulled, we realize God is talking to us. “This is my Body, my Blood, given for you.” It’s a feast in the wilderness of this world. It’s a miracle. It is more than we could ever ask or imagine.