Sermon of August 24

ECHOES OF LIGHT THAT SHINES LIKE STARS    

      AFTER THEY’RE GONE

      John 1:1-5

          Sermon presented on August 24, 2008

 

 

Rocker Robert Plant, of Led Zeppelin fame, and blue-grasser Allison Krauss, might seem an improbable singing duo.  But they collaborated last year, and the resulting CD Raising Sand was the remarkable result.  Rolling Stone rated it among the best CDs of the year.  In one of their more haunting and evocative selections, they sing about people who come into our lives, touch us in important ways, and then go-away; but who leave behind beauty and strength that remain with us always; what the song calls, “echoes of light/that shines like stars/after they’re gone.”  So that even when “strange things are happening everyday,” the lyric goes; even when darkness holds me “like a friend,” and hope has left; yet there remains, “echoes of light/that shines like stars/after they’re gone.”  And these echoes of light are what keep a person going.

 

            This metaphor of light that keeps shining even after the source of light is gone, occurs many times in scripture, most importantly in reference to Jesus Christ.

 

            The Book of John opens with words that are at once both familiar and puzzling.  It’s familiar because this passage is usually read on Christmas Eve, and people usually go to church on Christmas Eve.  But Christmas Eve worship isn’t really a good time for careful analysis of Bible texts.  For most people there are a lot of other things going-on.  So, we may hear these familiar words Christmas-after-Christmas – “ . . . in him was life/ and the life was the light of all people/the light shines in the darkness/and the darkness did not overcome it” – yet still be puzzled by them.  Bible scholar Francis Maloney calls the “first page of the Fourth Gospel one of the most dense passages in the New Testament . . . [and] the source of many scholarly problems.”  Yes, the fourth Sunday in August is a much better time than Christmas to delve into the intricacies of these things.

 

            It’s not all that complicated, really.  Three things may be said, by way of interpreting this passage.

 

            First:  in Jesus Christ, God broke into the world.  The purpose of Christ’s appearance – that is, the meaning of his life, death and resurrection — exceeds the range of ordinary human language and ordinary human understanding.  So Bible writers employ metaphors to try to get “at” the truth of it.  Jesus is described variously as the Word, as servant, as Bread of Life, Lamb of God, Son of Man, the Good Shepherd who calls the sheep by name, the Father who runs to welcome the prodigal home.  These are all poetic ways of describing the indescribable.  And chief among Biblical metaphors is that of light.  Jesus Christ “was the light of all people,” it is declared here in John, chapter 1, verse 4. 

 

            Here’s a second thing to be said about this passage:  “the darkness did not overcome [this light].”  That is:  although Jesus’ life aroused a hostile reception overall, and he was killed, so that it appeared that darkness had extinguished the light, and this sorry old world of ours’ would forever be a Good Friday world.  But that’s not the end of the story.   He arose.  The darkness did not overcome the light.  Our God is a God who is an expert at dealing with darkness.  Out of darkness God brought into being Light.

 

            And this moves us to the third declaration, in verse 5:  “The light shines in the darkness.”  Note the change in verb tense.  In verse 4, it is written:  Christ “was the light,” past tense.  Now in verse 5 there’s a change in the tense of the verb; it reads, “the light shines,” present tense.  In other words:  Jesus of Nazareth is gone, no longer present human form, he’s past tense.  But Jesus the Christ is here, in truth and in power.  He is present, his continuing love and mercy expressed in the present tense.  The light of Christ continues to shine; one might say, as “echoes of light/that shines like stars/after they’re gone.”

 

            There’s an old joke.  “How many Calvinists does it take the change a light bulb?”  The answer is:  “When God is pleased to change the light bulb God will do it, without your help or mine, and there’s no reason for us to worry about it.”  The joke pokes fun at our Calvinist high regard for the providence of God.  But it slyly lifts-up a great truth, as well:  that the light of God is in the world, and shines, by virtue of His holy will.  All thanks be to God, “in whose Light we see light,” as the ancient prayer puts it; and by whose light we discriminate between truth and falsehood.

 

            Scripture also teaches two other principles in regard to “light that shines like stars after they’re gone” – the illuminating influence of others on us, and the illuminating influence of our own faith and life on others.  In relation to the former, please ask yourself:  who once was in your life, touched you in important ways, and now is gone, but who left behind beauty and strength that remain with you always?  And in relation to the latter, please ask yourself:  to whom is God calling me to be as light now, such that after I’m gone, this little light of mine may continue to shine for good in the lives of others?

 

            Let’s consider these principles in reference on God’s Word.

 

            In the Book of Proverbs, chapter 4, we read of the illuminating influence of virtuous living, that the upright person lights-up this dark world, and inspires others.  “The path of righteousness is like the light of dawn/which shines brighter and brighter,” it is written, verse 18.   And in the Book of Philippians, chapter 2, it is promised that those who conduct their lives in holy, humble and kindly reliance on Jesus Christ, “without murmuring and arguing,” will “shine like stars in the world” (vs. 14-15). 

 

            The book Remembering C.S. Lewis:  Recollections of Those Who Knew Him contains several dozen essays, sketching peoples’ remembrances of the well-known scholar, author and defender of the faith.   Owen Barfield, a renowned philosopher and poet who taught with Lewis at Oxford, offers this glimpse of C.S. Lewis, which he thinks is the most remarkable character trait of all, especially in light of Lewis’ worldwide fame.  Barfield writes:

                        I never recall a single remark, a single word or silence,

                        a single look, the slightest flicker of an eyelid or . . .

                        alteration in the pitch of his voice, which would suggest

                        that he felt his opinion entitled to more respect than that

                        of [anyone else].

 

            For all of us who didn’t know C.S. Lewis, his light shines through his writings.  But for those blessed to have known him in-person, it’s this, his Christian character more than his books about Christ, that shines like stars after he’s gone.

 

            Albert Schweitzer said:  “Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown into flame by another human being.  Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light.”

 

            These are the challenges put forth by these texts:  first, to express our gratitude for those who have kindled and re-kindled the light of God’s love for us; and second, to renew our resolve to kindle and rekindle the light of God’s love for others.

 

            Peter Milne was a missionary to the people in the New Hebrides Islands, in the south Pacific.  Although originally from Scotland, Milne ministered under the auspices of the Presbyterian Church of New Zealand.  Beginning in 1870 Milne spent 55 years in the New Hebrides.  He was a pious and patient servant of Christ, not seeking to set records for conversions nor to build large mission enterprises, but rather to witness to the love of God in Jesus Christ in caring, authentic ways that island-people might find winsome, and so be drawn to Christ and decide to devote their lives to Christ.  Milne painstakingly learned the Nguna language, so that he was not dependent on translators but was able to speak with people one-on-one, heart-to-heart.  There is a portrait of Peter Milne in one of the churches there, and beneath the portrait there is this simple tribute:  “When he came there was no light.  When he died there was no darkness.”

 

             There stands the witness of one whose life reflects the light of God’s light, and whose light continues to “shine like stars in the world” after they’re gone.  Are we prepared for such a life?  For Christ asks nothing less.  “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” Jesus taught (Matt. 5:16).  Truly we are called to be people of the light.  This little light of mine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

           

 

           

 

Sermon from August 17, 2008

                            THE IMMEDIACY, THE SPONTANEITY, THE EXUBERANCE

                 OF THE RESURRECTION LIFE

                                Nehemiah 7:73b-8:12     I Thessalonians 2:17-20     Luke 24:50-53

                                                     Sermon presented August 17, 2008

 

 

One of my favorite places is Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, overlooking the Hudson River, in Tarrytown, New York, 50 miles or so north of New York City.  Washington Irving wasn’t America’s greatest writer, but he was America’s first great writer.  In The Sketch Book, which includes “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” he invented a distinctively American literary style and consciousness.  An interesting, and perhaps troubling, characteristic of Washington Irving was that he had little use for Presbyterians.  In fact, he was instrumental in creating a new cemetery in Tarrytown, because the only cemetery at the time was adjacent to the Presbyterian Church, and he didn’t even want to be buried among Presbyterians.  This sentiment was shaped in response to a dark, brooding, unhappy childhood, with a stern Scottish-immigrant Presbyterian father.  His father was so religious that he was known to all by the nickname Deacon Irving, but he possessed none of the warmth, kindness and compassion which sets-apart the office of Deacon in scripture, and with which we associate the wonderful care-giving Deacons in our own church.  In regard to his religious upbringing, Washington Irving wrote:  “I was tasked with it, thwarted with it, wearied with it, until I was disgusted with it . . . I was led to think that somehow or other everything that was pleasant was wicked” (quoted by Brian Jones, Washington Irving: An American Original, p. 3).  Perhaps nothing better reveals Washington Irving’s rejection of the austere religion of his childhood than his choosing to call his lovely home on the Hudson, Sunnyside.

                                      

            Washington Irving’s childhood experience of Christianity as joyless and harsh is so unlike my own childhood experience that it’s difficult for me to quite understand or appreciate it.  But I know this isn’t just something from 200 years ago.  There are people still who have been taught, and raised in, a kind of Christianity so solemn and severe that it tears-down and discourages rather than builds-up and encourages, transmits fear rather than hope, and is almost unrecognizable from what we see in scripture.

 

            And this pattern of joylessness may afflict all of us, if we’re not on-guard.  Eugene Peterson writes:

                        It’s a curious thing but not uncommon for Christians to begin

well and gradually get worse.  Instead of progressing like a

pilgrim from strength to strength, we regress.  Just think of the

Christians you really admire [he invites].  Aren’t most of them

recent converts?  Isn’t it exciting?  Then think of the Christians

that you’re just bored to death with.  Aren’t they people who

have been Christians for . . . years?  They are wearing

out . . . There are exceptions of course [he allows].  [But he

continues:] We lose our vitality. We become dull.  We continue

to go through these life-affirming, Christ-honoring motions, but our

hearts are no longer in it.  The regression is rarely dramatic.  It’s not

sudden . . . It is so casual at first that we hardly notice . . . Before

we know it, we are regressing . . . [And he concludes]  We lose the immediacy, spontaneity, and exuberance of resurrection life.

                                    (Living the Resurrection, pgs, 57-58)

           

We have before us today three passages from scripture, each of which puts-forth a different source of joy, a reason why Biblical faith, rightly understood, keeps one on the sunny side of life.

 

First: there’s the Old Testament reading, from the Book of Nehemiah, which teaches that one sure source of joy’s immediacy, spontaneity and exuberance is the Word of God itself.  “Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength,” Ezra declares.  This word of joy was declared to the people of God returning to Jerusalem after decades of exile in Babylon.  In exile they’d been separated from their homeland, of course, but more than that, their confidence in God and reliance on His Word had eroded, as well.  Now, gathered together in the city square, in one of the most emotionally-charged scenes in all of scripture, Ezra stepped on a wooden platform, and held-up the scroll of the Book of Moses – that is, the Torah, the first five books of the Old Testament – so that it could be seen by all.  He opened it.  Then he read from it, read from the Word of God.  Others then took turns, reading and interpreting God’s Word so that all could understand it, because without regular worship and study the peoples’ knowledge had lessened.  According to the passage, many in the crowd that day wept.  There were tears of elation, tears of nostalgia, tears of sadness for what they’d lost, tears of delight for what’s now being regained, tears that arose from places of the heart which the people themselves may not have known.  To this crowd, suffused with deep feeling, Ezra declared:  “Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”

 

The Bible may seem to us more burden than blessing, in some ways, anyway.  It’s long.  It’s obscure and complicated in places, and hard to understand.  We may feel like we ought to read it more, or ought to know it better, and so then we may then feel guilty or inadequate as Christians.  But the resounding truth is this:  that the Word of God not only counsels and commends joy, but is itself, by its very existence, cause for joy.  God chooses not to be hidden.  God chooses not to be an impenetrable force beyond human knowing or telling.  God chooses not to be a speculative concept, idea or abstraction.  God chooses instead to disclose Himself in a book, accessible to all.  What finer reason can there be for a joyful heart!

 

Peter Gomes, Dean of the Chapel of Harvard, writes:  “The Bible lets us know that we are neither alone in our despair or our anxiety, nor are we alone in our search, and we certainly are not alone in the joys and the hopes that await us and that are ours’ already.”  All thanks be to God for this inexpressibly joy-transmitting gift, the gift of His Word.

 

            So, that’s one cause for a life that’s suffused with immediacy, spontaneity and exuberance – the gift of scripture. 

 

Here’s another cause:  the gift of one another, in the church. 

Let’s turn our attention to the second reading of the day, from the New Testament book of 1 Thessalonians, chapter 2, verses 17-20.  This letter was written by the Apostle Paul to new Christians in the city of Thessalonica, where he had visited previously.  He’s striving here to explain how fervently he’s been trying to get-back to visit them.  His language exudes love.  “We were made orphans by being separated from you,” he writes.  I’ve longed “with great eagerness” to see you “in person, not [just] in heart.”  I’ve tried “again and again” to come to you.  Only “Satan blocked our way,” he tells them.  No mere human obstacle or inconvenience could keep them apart, only the work of the devil himself.  Paul concludes with the stirring declaration:  “Yes, you are our glory and joy!”

 

            The church is easily criticized,  both from within and without:  that it’s too worldly or not worldly enough, too modern or not modern enough,  too demanding or not demanding enough, too rich or not rich enough,  too entertaining or not entertaining enough, too friendly (so that it feels like a mere social club) or not friendly enough (exclusive and off-putting).  In her excellent book Dear Church:  Letters from a Disillusioned Generation, Sarah Cunningham writes:

                        It’s frighteningly easy to criticize everything about the church.

                        It’s admittedly even a bit fun . . . But eventually [she adds], if

                        we are to mature we must move beyond disillusionment and

                        engage the mission of the church.

           

            This mature faith is what we hear in I Thessalonians.  The Apostle Paul certainly wasn’t naïve about the shortcomings of the church.  Always in scripture he calls the community of faith to greater faithfulness, integrity, holiness and service.  But he never permits his thoughtful critique of particular faults to diminish his larger conviction that God uses the church to demonstrate the immensity of His goodness.  That’s the way St. Bonaventure put it, 800 years ago, and it holds true today.  The immensity of God’s goodness becomes particular in the church, as people model and mentor faithfulness, come together to understand God’s Word, bear each others’ burdens, and partner-up for acts of service in the world.  Thus, the Apostle Paul could say to the Thessalonians, that whatever day-to-day faults and flaws they may have, nonetheless, “you are my glory and joy.”  Yes, you are my glory and joy.

 

            So we have noted two sources of irrepressible gratitude, wonder and gladness:  the Word of God, and the character of the church.  There are many others, as well.  But in the interest of time I’ll put-forth just one more today.  

 

Another reason for a life of immediacy, spontaneity and exuberance is the resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ.

 

            In the Gospel of Luke, the final verses of chapter 24, there’s a brief account of the Ascension of Christ.  It is written that the disciples “returned to Jerusalem with great joy.”  And their joy wasn’t a mere momentary or passing thing.  The passage goes to report that, “they were continually in the temple, blessing God.”  Their lives had been transformed.  They would never be the same again.  That Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven, exposes the world’s powerlessness to defeat or destroy us, or to extinguish the joy that is in us.

           

In the new Woody Allen film, Vicky Christina Barcelona the characters Juan Antonio and Christina are walking around an art museum.  They stop before a sculpture of the crucifixion.  She notices that he’s moved by it. 

“Are you a religious person?” she asks. 

“No,” he says.  “I think the point is to love life.”

 

This attitude is typical, I think:  that to love life requires one nto reject a religious

point-of-view.  Perhaps the church historically has no one to blame but itself for this attitude, with its sometimes brooding character, the suggestion that “everything that’s pleasant is wicked,” the message young Washington Irving picked-up.  But this isn’t true Christianity.  To know the power of the resurrection is to infuse life with immediacy, spontaneity and exuberance; with passion and commitment, with abiding hope and abounding joy.

 

            Olympic marathon runner Ryan Hall, whose event comes-up next Saturday, reports that for most of his life, his sense of worth and joy “was totally dependent on how I ran.”  He found joy in running, but not joy in living.  “The result was frustration, worry, depression and discontentment with life,” he confesses.  Hall decided to follow Jesus Christ.  Now, he says:  “There’s a contentment and satisfaction that my life is far greater and longer-enduring than any good race ever run.”  What will he do when he finishes at Stanford next year?  “I plan to hold the future with open hands,” Ryan Hall says, “so God can use me however he desires.  I just want to do whatever the Lord has for my life.”

 

            At a young age Ryan Hall has come to know what many never come to know:  that though the world can award its medals and shower its praise for one thing or another, (and genuine achievement is always a thing to be valued, of course), yet in the end true joy comes to those whose lives are given-over wholly to God, from whose love in Jesus Christ nothing can separate us in life or in death.

 

Sermon from August 10, 2008

WHEN THERE’S NOT A SOUL OUT THERE TO HEAR MY PRAYER

    Matthew 14:22-33

                                   Sermon presented on August 10, 2008

 

The theme of this morning’s sermon is, “When There’s Not a Soul Out There to Hear My Prayer.”  You may recognize the lyric, from the ABBA song, “I Have a Dream.”  America is in the throes of ABBA-mania this summer.  The film version of Mama Mia! was released on July 18, and has enjoyed the largest opening run of any musical in movie history.   ABBA’s music sounds irrepressibly playful and bubbly; it’s nothing if not over-the-top, silly, and utterly cheerful.  But I propose that their songs are more nuanced than they might appear at first, that the lyrics in some cases are actually dark and brooding.  For example: the ABBA song, “The Winner Takes It All,” though strangely buoyant musically, in fact puts-forth a bleakly pessimistic take on the human predicament.  And the song with the upbeat title “I Have a Dream” in fact proposes that dreams are futile, or at least they’re all we’re left-with in this harsh world of bitter betrayals.

                        Autumn winds

                        Blowing outside my window as I look around the room

                        And it makes me so depressed to see the gloom

                        There’s not a soul out there

                        No one to hear my prayer . . .

                        I open my window and I gaze into the night

                        But there’s nothing out there to see, no one in sight –

                        There’s not a soul out there

                        No one to hear my prayer.

 

            We have, all of us (I think), known this experience:  when there’s not a soul out there to hear our prayer, or so it seems.  It’s this common human experience of hopelessness, fear and despair which the passage before us today addresses.  And the text is Matthew, Chapter 14, verse 27:  “But immediately Jesus spoke to them, and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid’.”

 

            The disciples were in a boat, as you recall, on the Sea of Galilee.  It is written that the boat was “battered by waves . . . far from land . . . [and] wind [was] against them.”  This may be intended merely as three different ways of saying the same thing, but I think each detail lifts-up a slightly different aspect of our lives.   To be “battered by the waves” is to make very little progress in our life’s journey, it’s to start-out with a purpose in mind, a goal, a destination, but to be so tossed-about by the turbulence that comes up suddenly, so as to be thrown off-course.  To be “far from land” suggests being stuck out in the middle of the sea; you can’t see the shore to which you’re going, can’t see the shore from which you came, you’re out there in the middle of the storm, just hanging-on.  And to have “the wind against” us invites us to call to mind the awesome challenge of faithfulness in this world, to hold firm to God’s Word as the winds of culture keep beating against us, trying to push us in another direction.

 

            Now, here’s the good news.  Maybe a person has to be out there in the boat for awhile – battered by waves, far from land, with the wind blowing – to appreciate that our only sure deliverance is in Jesus Christ.  There’s no help or hope to be found within the boat.

 

            Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn died this week.  He was a hero of mine.  The Western world has never known quite what to make of Solzhenitsyn.  His courageous resistance to tyranny, his penetrating intellect, and his masterful writing attracted admiration at first, culminating in his being awarded a Nobel Prize.  But as it became clearer that his thinking was grounded in the Russian Orthodox faith, that he refused to abandon religion, as intellectuals are expected to do these days; and as he increasingly came to critique the West in general, and America in particular, as decadent and superficial, and doomed to collapse without a religious foundation, well, he became less endearing and more isolated.  But his is a voice of first importance for church and culture.  Solzhenitsyn wrote that it wasn’t until he was a prisoner in the gulags of the former Soviet Union, suffering torture, beatings, brutal winter weather and starvation, that he began to come to terms with his own soul’s journey and his own relationship with God.  “It was only when I lay on the rotting prison straw,” he wrote, “that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good . . . and that is why I turn back to the years of my imprisonment and say, sometimes to the astonishment of those about me, ‘thank you, prison, for having been in my life’.”

 

            Might we call to mind times in our lives, when we were at our lowest, when all was doom and gloom, so we were anxious and afraid, and as best we could tell, there was no one out there to hear our prayer?  And then, precisely at that moment, in the midst of the misery, Christ came, and we sensed within ourselves the first stirrings of faith and hope?

 

            That’s what happened with the disciples, recall.  Huddled in the boat, miserable and anxious, they “saw Jesus walking [toward them] on the sea.”  They were afraid, thinking the figure was a ghost.  Their response is typical, isn’t it?  We cry-out to God for help, but when help comes, we don’t believe it or trust it.

 

            It is written, next:  “Immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid’.”  All thanks be to God!  Mama Mia!  We’re not abandoned here, without help and hope.  There’s deliverance from the storms of life.  Christ is present.  He cares.  He hears our prayers.

 

            Now, this might make a suitable end of the story, right here.  But the passage continues a bit longer, directing our attention next to Peter.  Always the most adventurous of the disciples – (Peter’s the one who probably drove his Fourth Grade teacher nuts!) – Peter “got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came to Jesus.”  He began to sink, of course, as you know.  And although he sank, yet Peter’s often praised for the audacity of his faith, and held-up as a role model for bold discipleship.  Fair enough.  I agree with that.  Peter is presented, not only here, but elsewhere in scripture, as well, as impulsive, decisive, daring, robust and passionate . . . good things, all, in regard to faith.

           

           The character Yolanda in the play Crowns, which was mounted brilliantly this summer at the Circle Theater, says of herself:  “Don’t want to be/boxed-in/by some dead or dying traditions/and I don’t know how to be one of them.”  This might have been said by Peter, as well.  He didn’t want to be boxed-in.  He didn’t even know how to just go-along with the others, “to one of them.”  Peter asserted his own rebellious spirit –  sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

 

            But this story isn’t principally about the character of Peter.  It’s about the character of God.  We see that character displayed in the moment when Jesus “reached out his hand and caught” Peter.  Once Peter was rescued, Jesus took the opportunity to teach him a thing or two about faith and life.  But Christ’s act of service preceded his teaching about it.

 

            This to the same model of Christ-like presence in the world we saw and heard presented today by our Senior Highers, in their report of their trip to Milwaukee.   They didn’t go there intending first to talk about Jesus Christ.  They went to reach-out in loving concern for others, and then as situations presented themselves they talked about Jesus.  The outstretched hand always comes first, the embrace, the act of service.

 

            Here’s a brief essay I recently read, which I’d like to read to you now, because it’s an up-to-date illustration of this great truth.  It goes like this.

           

                        One morning I stood on a train platform, waiting for the train

                        and watching families returning from church in their Sunday

                        best.

 

                        Through the crowd came a very tall woman in a big yellow hat.

                        She was holding the hand of a man who appeared to be her son.

                        She looked to be in her 60s and he in his 30s.  The man appeared

                        to be developmentally disabled, and they walked slowly.

 

                        Suddenly, the man began to have an attack of some kind.  He was

                        convulsing and yelling.  People began to stare and step away.

 

                        With not a moment’s pause, the woman calmly took in a long,

                        deep breath and, pulling her son’s head to her chest, began to

                        sing the most beautiful gospel song.  As she swayed back and

                        forth, her son was comforted and became quiet.

 

                        The crowd gathered until she was done, and applause broke

                        out at the end.  I will never forget the moment, her incredible

                        voice and the inspiring way to turn an upsetting moment

                        completely around. (New York Times, July 28, 2008, p. A19)

 

            Life may be convulsive and confused, at times — like this man’s, like Peter’s, like our own — but Christ comes to us in the midst of the tumult, reaching-out to us, holding us close, turning our upsetting moments completely around. 

August 3, 2008

THEY DIDN’T PANIC.  THEY WAITED.

                    Matthew 14:13-21

      Sermon presented on August 3, 2008

 

            The story of Jesus’ Feeding the 5000 is the only one of his miracles that’s reported in all four Gospels.  Clearly the Bible regards this as an event of first importance.  What might be the real miracle here, though, isn’t the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, as such.  Rather, what’s most miraculous is the peoples’ trust that Jesus will do exactly what he says he’ll do:  provide them something to eat.  Virginia Stem Owens, in Looking for Jesus, writes:  “This story chronicles an actual instance when, at least once in this world’s history, people took Jesus at his word.  They didn’t panic.  They waited.”

 

            Maybe that’s because there’s food involved.  There’s always been a close relationship between Christians and food.   USA Today on Monday reported the latest college rankings.  Did you see that article?  They’re rather subjective, of course, but still fun.  Categories included the best party school – University of Florida, which I’m glad to see, because for years my college got that ranking, which was always a little embarrassing.   Florida is welcome to it.  Among the other rankings were:  most beautiful campus – Princeton; best professors – Middlebury; the “greenest,” that is, most friendly to the environment – Arizona State.  Here’s the category that caught my eye:  best food – Wheaton.  Wheaton is an evangelical Christian college, just outside Chicago.  Let other institutions seek greatness in regard to other things.  When it comes to food – it’s the Christian college that can boast, “We’re Number One!  We’re Number One!”

 

            There are a variety of positions and postures which might be imagined as characteristic of the Christian faith:  bowing to pray, reaching-out to another, singing in praise.  But perhaps the most characteristic of all places for Christians to be is at table.  Over-and-over again in scripture God’s provision of food is seen as an example in-miniature of His gracious providence more broadly.  There’s God’s supplying the exodus-people with manna from heaven, day-by-day.  There’s Isaiah’s bold declaration – “Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters/and you that have no money/come, buy and eat . . ./delight yourselves in rich foods.”  Recall, as well, Jesus’ decision to spend his final hours of his earthly life sharing a meal with friends.  And there’s the remarkable occurrence following the resurrection, when the disciples did not recognize the risen Christ, until he broke bread and shared it with them, and at that moment their eyes were opened and they knew who he was.  Story-after-story in scripture places food at its center, not merely as the setting, but as an integral element in God’s saving work.

 

            The New Testament passage before us today may be counted as one of those stories.  You know how it goes, of course.  A great crowd had followed Jesus out into the countryside, where he taught and healed.  As evening drew near the disciples advised him to wrap things up, so people would have time to return to their villages for dinner.  “Jesus said to them, ‘They need not go away; you give them something to eat’.”     But they had among them a mere five loaves and two fish, inadequate provisions for a great crowd.  Jesus “ordered the crowd to sit down on the grass.”   Then, it is written:  “taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave it to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds.  And all ate and were filled . . .”

 

From scarcity Christ brought abundance; from shortage, provision; from loss, gain; from the impossible, possibility.  All thanks be to God for His great love, which we see declared and demonstrated in this great story.  In any language we may respond to God’s abundant goodness with the glad chorus:  “Fairest Lord Jesus/Ruler of all nature/Thee will I cherish/Thee will I honor/Thou, my soul’s glory, joy and crown!”  Or, as we used to pray before meals at summer church camp:  “Rub-a-dub-dub/thanks for the grub/Yay, God!”  Yay, God, indeed!

 

But let’s return to this idea that the miracle of God’s provision is not the only, and may not even be the most remarkable, of the miracles at-play here.  What’s astonishing, as well, is that noticeable lack of anxiety among the people in the crowd.

 

As dinner time approaches we might expect to observe some fretting and fussing.  People respond to anxiety differently, of course.  We might expect some in the crowd to start acting angry.  “You coaxed us all the way out here, Jesus.  Then you talked on . . . and on . . . and on . . . all afternoon.  Here’s an idea, Jesus:  maybe you should use an outline.  I’m hungry.  The kids are hungry.  What are we supposed to do now?”   Or, people being people, we might expect others to act, not angry, but cynical.  “I think I’ve seen all I ever want to see of this Jesus-fellow, thank you, Jesus and his little team of fishermen-helpers.  Please.  Supposedly they want followers, but then they show no regard for those who do follow.”  Others might be feeling duped, or exasperated, or just plain hungry, with whatever anxieties hunger provokes.  Seneca wrote:  “A hungry person listens not to reason, nor cares for justice, nor is bent by any prayer.”  Such are some of the frettings and fussings we might have expected from the crowd that day.

 

But, no, there was none of this, nothing like it.  Jesus’ teachings, what they’d heard him say that day, and his healing touch, what they’d seen him do, these things seem to have had an effect on them.  There was no grumbling.  In this story only the disciples seem anxious.  When Jesus gave instructions for everyone to sit down, they did.  They didn’t panic.  They waited.  They didn’t know all there was to know about Jesus, of course.  And, lest we get carried-away with fanciful notions of the faithful crowd, let’s not forget that a crowd later turned its collective hostility against Jesus and provoked officials to crucify him.  But in this story, anyway, at this one moment in time, these people knew (or perhaps sensed more than knew) that they were in good hands, that somehow in the presence of Jesus they felt part of something larger, and greater, and holier, and more wonderful by far, than their own mere material existence. 

 

When we come to the table, may we be graced with this awareness, as well.  To the scarcity of our lives, Christ brings abundance.  To our shortage, Christ brings provision.  When we are at a loss, Christ brings gain.  And when are facing the impossible, Christ opens-up new possibilities.  There is no need to be worried and anxious about a great many things, not to panic.  Let us wait on the Lord.