Thomas Kleinert
Parker Palmer tells the story about an early-morning flight home. “Our departure was delayed,” he writes, “because the truck that brings coffee to the planes had broken down.” I didn’t know coffee was needed for planes to fly; I thought they ran on jet fuel. I was wrong.
After they had been sitting at the gate for a while, the pilot announced, “Good morning, folks, this is your captain speaking. I’m sorry, but we’re going to take off without the coffee. We want to get you to Detroit on time.” Immediately, the under-caffeinated passengers began griping, loudly and at length, about “incompetence,” “lousy service,” etc.
Once they got into the air, the lead flight attendant got on the intercom and said, with sunshine in her voice, “Good morning! We’re flying to Minneapolis today at an altitude of 30 feet…” A little levity might help reduce the tension, she must have thought. Then she continued, “Now that I have your attention… I know you’re upset about the coffee. Well, get over it! Here’s a thought: That bag of seven pretzels you got on your last flight and put in your pocket? Open it, pass it around. Got any gum or mints? Share them. That morning paper you brought? You can’t read all the sections at once. Offer them to each other!” As she went on in that vein, people relaxed and began doing what she had told them to do, laughing and chatting, and quickly a plane load of grumpy travelers turned into happy campers!
A moment later, as the attendant passed by his seat, Palmer signaled to her. “What you did was really amazing,” he said. “Where can I send a letter of commendation?”
“Thanks,” she said, “I’ll get you a form.” Then she leaned down and whispered, “Loaves and fishes, I tell you. Loaves and fishes.”[1]
The story of Jesus feeding a multitude is the only miracle story told in all four Gospels, and in Matthew and Mark, it’s even told twice. Clearly, it’s a favorite across many streams of early Christian tradition. Believers heard echoes of Israel’s wilderness journey with Moses and of the tales about Elisha, the man of God. Palmer writes,
As far as I’m concerned, that story doesn’t involve any magic. It’s about the miracle of sharing in community, an everyday miracle that anyone with some courage can pull off. [2]
That’s certainly one way to hear the story of the loaves and fishes. I agree that it doesn’t involve any magic, but reducing it to an everyday miracle that anyone with some courage can pull off rips out the heart of the story: Jesus. The first followers of Jesus who told and retold this story had little interest in introducing us to a man who orchestrated the miracle of sharing in community so that we may learn how it’s done. The writer of the fourth Gospel we know as John tells us about Jesus so that we may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing we may have life in his name.[3] He writes, because he wants us to come and see in Jesus what he has come to see, and to find the fullness of life he has found in the company of Jesus.
A crowd of five thousand, a boy’s lunch of five barley rolls and some fish, and all ate as much as they wanted until even the teenage boys in the crowd put their hands on their bellies and said, “I’m kinda full.” The disciples went around and picked up the broken pieces, and they filled twelve baskets. Go ahead, do the math. Five plus two, divided by 5,000 equals fullness for all and baskets of leftovers. That’s kingdom math.
Palmer is right, the story doesn’t involve magic, but that doesn’t mean it’s the first-century version of a how-to video. It’s the testimony of the first witnesses about Jesus in whom they encountered the living, life-giving, truth-speaking, grace-outpouring, fully embodied presence of God. The word of God in human flesh. Grace and truth as tangible as bread and fish, as delightful as wine at a wedding, and abundant beyond imagination.
Passover, the festival of liberation, was near, John tells us. Passover was very near indeed, and not just on the calendar. In today’s reading, echoes of manna in the wilderness and the crossing of the perilous sea touch on ancient promises, memories, and hopes of redemption. Passover was near in the person and proclamation of Jesus.
When he saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” John says it was a test, and that Jesus already knew what he was going to do. It was Jesus who talked about buying bread, and Philip quickly did the math he knew. “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little,” he said, no need to mention that none of them had that kind of cash. It was a test, but it wasn’t a math test. Andrew pointed to the boy’s lunch and shrugged, “What’s that among so many people?” Neither went out of his way to offer a solution to Jesus’ question. Neither could see the situation as placing the demands of hospitality on them. They could see themselves only on the edge of the scene, only as bystanders and observers, not at all as capable participants in the banquet of grace.
Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. He didn’t ask them if they were Gentile or Jew or Samaritan. He didn’t inquire if they were getting their second or third serving. They all ate - men, women, children, rich, poor, left, right, locals, strangers, queer, straight - the whole world; they all ate, as much as they wanted. Imagine the scene at any place you want, at any time - in a camp in Sudan, amid the ruins in Gaza, on a bridge in Paris, under a bridge in Nashville - they all ate, as much as they wanted.
What about the boy? What about Philip and Andrew? The focus has shifted away from them. Jesus did all the work. “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost,” he told the disciples, and from the fragments left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. Whereas before we may have identified with the boy, or with Philip or Andrew, or anyone in the crowd, now we’re invited to see ourselves holding baskets — not to-go boxes, but baskets full of bread: more than enough for the feast of life to continue.
In John’s story, the people who encountered Jesus and tasted life in abundance, began to draw their conclusions about him. Like any of us, in the framework of their experience, they tried to identify the place where Jesus fit it, and they called him the prophet. And when Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him to make him king, he withdrew. Why did he withdraw? Why wouldn’t he let them crown him? He healed people, so obviously he knew how to make healthcare affordable and accessible! He fed people, so clearly he knew a thing or two about the economy! His character was flawless; there was not even a hint of corruption. Wasn’t he the best man for the job? Why did he withdraw at the precise moment when he was about to be confirmed as king by public acclamation?
We know he is no king in the mold of the Roman emperors who distributed free grain in the capital to keep the people from rebelling. We know he doesn’t conform to our systems of power. We now he subverts our dreams of domination by giving life and the freedom to live as children of God to all. We know he is the healer, the prophet and the king, and that his life has redefined and transfigured all these terms. We know a lot. What we have a hard time remembering is that as those who’ve eaten at his table and have gathered up the fragments as he told us, we now are holding baskets full of bread in our hands. What we tend to forget is that now it’s all about practicing the radical hospitality of God we have encountered in Jesus.
During the bombing raids of World War II, thousands of children were orphaned and left to starve. The fortunate ones were rescued and placed in refugee camps where they received food and good care. But, many of these children who had lost so much could not sleep at night. They feared waking up to find themselves once again homeless and without food. Nothing seemed to reassure them. Finally, someone hit upon the idea of giving each child a piece of bread to hold at bedtime. Holding their bread, these children could finally sleep in peace. All through the night the bread reminded them, “Today I ate and I will eat again tomorrow.”[4]
I love that story. I love the way people responded to the trauma and the needs of these orphaned children with care and creativity. I love the reminder that pieces of bread tell stories of community and promise.
Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”[5] Just imagine, will you, a world where we don’t forget that we are holding baskets filled with bread in our hands, for all to eat.
[1] Based on Palmer’s post at https://onbeing.org/blog/loaves-and-fishes-are-not-dead/
[2] Ibid.
[3] John 20:31
[4] Dennis Linn, Sheila Fabricant Linn, Matthew Linn, Sleeping with Bread: Holding What Gives You Life (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1995), 1.
[5] John 6:35