The Mayberry Preacher

SIGNS AND WONDERS: WHOSE THE BLIND ONE NOW?

John 9: 1-41; Psalm 146: 1-10
Steve Lindsley
March 25, 2012

Listen to Sermon

As I was working on this sermon this past week, continuing our journey in the gospel of John and the “signs” that point us closer to Jesus, I thought about – and I know this is going to sound strange, but humor me, okay? – I thought about an old Elton John album: Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only The Piano Player.  I always found that a tad odd and, as a piano player, a little troubling; because, really, why would anyone shoot the piano player?  Unless, of course, they were playing a song you didn’t like; and given that “Crocodile Rock” is on that album, maybe that’s what they’re talking about.  Although personally, I like the song.

But seriously, we know what that title means, right?  We know it’s just a play on the whole “don’t shoot the messenger” thing.  Hey listen, there’s something you need to know, something I’ve got to tell you: but you’re not going to like it, but hey, it’s for your own good, so don’t blame me!

I was thinking about that Elton John album as I was working on the sermon, because part of me feels like I need to say to you, as I get ready to preach this thing, Don’t shoot me, I’m only the preacher!  Alright?  Don’t blame me!  I’m just saying what’s in here, folks! 

Because the sixth sign in the gospel of John, this sixth miracle of Jesus, is categorically different from all preceding it.  This story of a man who was healed of his blindness, is not a feel-good miracle.  It’s not all cut-and-dry, where empty wines jars get filled, or empty stomachs get food, or a broken body is healed.  This miracle does not travel from point A to point B in a straight line; it goes up and down and all over the place.  And just when you think it’s starting to wrap up, just when you think it’s reaching its conclusion, you find it keeps going – like that that bunny in the Eveready battery commercial, it keeps going and going and going…... 

So: consider yourself warned, First Presbyterian: this miracle is going to take us somewhere we may not want to go.  And when that time comes, remember: I’m just the preacher….

I mean, it starts off innocently enough, as Catherine read earlier.  It starts off like any typical miracle, if there is such a thing.  There’s a guy who has been blind from birth.  There’s this interesting side conversation the disciples have with Jesus; whether this man’s blindness was caused by his sin or the sin of his parents.  It was a common understanding in the ancient world that things like blindness and leprosy and other ailments were the result of sin or something amiss in the family tree. 

But Jesus refutes this thinking outright, because sometimes there’s no explanation for the unexplainable. Instead, Jesus says, this man’s blindness is an opportunity to show God’s light to the world.  So we have more than a miracle of practicality here; more than wine for the wedding or food for the hungry or saving someone from drowning in the waves.  We have here a miracle to prove a point.

And it’s kind of gross, the way Jesus goes about it, you know?  Spitting on the ground and making a little mud pie and then rubbing in the blind man’s eyes.  This is the kind of thing that gets a kid in-school suspension for a week!  But Jesus does it, and tells the man to go and wash his eyes in a nearby pool.  And it’s at that moment, in this bizarre act, that the man’s eyes are opened in a way they’d never been before; and they are able to take in, for the first time in his life, all the brilliant light, the colors, the shapes and textures and dimensions of a world he had only known through hearing and touch and taste. 

And it’d be so much simpler for us if this story ended here – all nice and neat at verse 7.  Wouldn’t it be just great if the last image we had was of some formerly blind guy jumping for joy in that pool, splashing water all over the place; and then running around, hugging everyone, eyes wide open, soaking in the pure brilliance of this brand new world he’d been welcomed in to?  Wouldn’t that be the best way to end this little miracle story? 

But, it doesn’t end there.  And that’s the thing – it keeps going.  It keeps going because the story is not over yet; and John still has something to tell us in the remaining 34 verses. And while the focus at the beginning was on the one man, the real story, it appears, is yet to come.

I mean, isn’t it the greatest of ironies that in a miracle story where a blind man gets his sight, everyone else suddenly loses theirs?  His family and friends are first.  They start arguing about whether this guy really is their friend, or someone who just looks like him.  They’re all concerned with the “how” of the miracle, because spit and mud and pool water aren’t usually the tools of eyesight restoration.  And the whole time, that man keeps telling them, Listen, all I know is that I was blind, and now I see!

So they take him to the Pharisees, which adds a whole other dynamic.  The Pharisees, you will recall, were not particular fans of Jesus.  They didn’t like him all that much because his talk about loving enemies and turning the other cheek and walking an extra mile kind of undermined the tenuous balance of power the religious authorities had with the Roman empire.  They also didn’t care much for the fact that Jesus didn’t share their same fanatical obsession with all 613 laws of the covenant.  In fact, he just broke one by healing this guy on the Sabbath, because you weren’t supposed to do much of anything on the Sabbath.  So they surround this formerly blind man and ask him how Jesus gave him sight.  The man repeats the formula: spit, mud, pool water.  They ask him how Jesus could have done this, being a sinner and all.  And the man hasn’t a clue.  He just keeps telling them – he’s practically singing Amazing Grace here: I once was blind, but now I see!

He’s made his point, hasn’t he?  But wouldn’t you know, those Pharisees, God bless them, they go running off to find the guy’s parents.  His parents!  Like a Sunday school teacher unable to deal with a trouble child, they go find his parents!  They knock on their door and fire questions at Mom and Dad: Was he born blind?  I mean, really born blind??  How did Jesus heal him exactly?  And the parents, aside from being elated at the news that their son who was blind all his life can now see, the parents are caught totally off-guard by this unexpected inquisition.  Their only response – and a legitimate one – is that their son is a grown man and fully capable of speaking for himself, so perhaps they go should talk to him.

But the Pharisees already have, so they don’t need to, right?  Wrong!  It keeps going, this story!  And by now, our formerly blind friend is getting a little peeved.  He just wants to celebrate, and these guys keep crashing his party.  They ask him all kinds of stuff about Jesus; and the man wonders out loud if they might be secret admirers.  They get angrier, and accuse him of a misplaced faith.  And the man has had enough.  The NRSV has him saying, “Here is an astonishing thing!”  That a little too stilted for me.  I kind of think it was more like, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”  And for a moment, at least, the tables are turned; the student becomes the teacher, one guy schools the whole flock of Pharisees.  The man who now has sight, showing the others just how blind they are.

Is that what this miracle is about?  You know, it’s interesting; Jesus kind of comes back into the story – he’s sort of been offstage this whole time, a little hiatus.  He comes back and says this – and you can bet he’s not just talking to one man here:

I came into the world to bring everything into the clear light of day, making all the distinctions clear, so that those who have never seen will see, and those who have made a great pretense of seeing will be exposed as blind.

This miracle is not really about eyesight, is it?  It’s not about one man’s newfound vision.  This miracle is about “those who have made a great pretense of seeing.”  They think they see clearly.  They think they know it all and have all the answers and can explain everything.  But they don’t.  And they’re only fooling themselves if they think they do.  They’re sure not fooling God.

You know, one of the hardest things about reading the Bible, I think; about reading stories like this, is figuring out who we’re supposed to be in the story – whose story is our story.  Because who we are determines the message we get, right?  I mean, if we’re the Prodigal Son in the parable by the same name, we’re at a party that God has thrown for us because we’ve repented of our sins and are welcomed home – yay us!  But if we’re the older brother, we’re out stewing in the fields because God has extended grace to someone we flat-out don’t think deserves it.  If we’re the sheep in Matthew’s famous “Sheep and Goats” passage, we’re welcomed into the heavenly embrace because we’ve helped people and, bonus, helped Jesus too!  But if we’re the goats, we’re reminded of all the times we didn’t help Jesus because we didn’t reach out to someone in need. 

It would be so easy, First Presbyterian, so easy and so satisfying to see ourselves as the blind man here, wouldn’t it? I once was blind, but now I see!  My blindness is a thing of the past – now I see God and see Jesus clearly!  But here’s the thing: if that’s how John wanted us to read this, if that’s who John wanted us to identify with, then why did he spend just seven verses talking about one man’s vision and 34 talking about everyone else’s blindness? 

Which brings us to the inevitable question we can only avoid for so long: are we the blind man who gets our sight?  Or are we the Pharisees and everyone else, who are lost in our blindness?  You see now why I issued that little disclaimer at the beginning of the sermon, don’t you?  Don’t blame me! 

This miracle is a convicting miracle, folks.  It is an uncomfortable miracle.  It’s a miracle that should make us squirm a little bit in our pew or our cushy Koinonia Room chairs.  But it is still a miracle, very much a miracle; just a different kind of miracle.  Because sometimes, people, it takes an act of God to cut through our pretense, our pride, our hard-headedness; and show us that, while we may be seeing a little here and there, while we may not be totally blind, we’re still a long way from following Jesus with 20-20 vision.

So many things, right in front of us, clear as day, that we just don’t see.  A child who wants nothing more that for us to tell them that we love them.  A homebound church member, one of our brothers or sisters in Christ, who would be absolutely overjoyed if we dialed just seven digits and talked to them for a little while.  An estranged relative who, whether they would admit it or not, needs to hear us say to them the words, “I forgive you.”  A church that needs our participation and involvement and support, because every part of the body of Christ is irreplaceable and important. Someone – anyone – we may have ridiculed or ostracized because they don’t dress like us, don’t come from the right family like us, don’t fit into our preconceived notion of what a “real man” or a “real woman” or a “real Christian” looks like. 

It was Helen Keller, of all people, who said that, “The saddest thing in the world is people who can see but have no vision.”  But here’s the good news, my friend.  Here’s why you should not shoot the messenger.  This God who reveals our blindness to us is also the same God who can help us see things clearly.  If the Bible story – the whole story – is about anything, it’s about a God who helps us fill wine jars, feed the hungry, heal brokenness; love the unlovable, reach out to the needy, forgive any wrongs, embrace all people – because, through Jesus Christ, God has already done those things.

What we’ve got to do, my friends, what we absolutely must do, is make sure that we don’t get so enamored with the little vision we have that we forget how blind we are when we fail to let Jesus lead the way.  When we fail to let Jesus heal us – not with spit and mud and pool water, but with conviction and repentance and transformation and grace and love.  And then – and only then – can we truly sing the hymn as if it’s our story: I once was lost, but now am found / Was blind but now I see.  In the name of the Father and Son and Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN. 

SIGNS AND WONDERS: A "LIQUID MOUNTAINEERING" FAIL

John 6: 16-21; Matthew 14: 22-33
Steve Lindsley
March 18, 2012

Listen to Sermon

The voice was ringing in my ear, a blistering whisper, the kind that would be yelling if it could.  Steve!  What are you doing?!  it said.  Get out there!  But I couldn’t “get out there.”  My feet felt glued to the backstage floor.  Steve!  the voice called again.  I was Steve at that moment; but seconds before I had been someone else.  I had been Professor Harold Hill, strolling the high school auditorium stage under the bright lights of our spring musical, “The Music Man.”  It’s a tale about a slick salesman who finds his way to River City, Iowa to con yet another town, only to wind up falling in love with the local librarian.  When they chose me for the part, they said they needed someone who talked a lot and talked way too fast.  And can you believe they chose me!

Steve!  Get back on stage!  the voice said again.  I’d been out there just moments before.  It was Act 1, Scene 10, page 41 in the script; and Mrs. Paroo, the librarian’s mother, had just said her line, “Professor, I do hope you’ll excuse Marian.”  And I was to respond with, “Please, don’t worry about a thing!”  Six simple words.  I rehearsed that line dozens of times in practice after practice; I said it to myself over and over again in my living room for months.  I said that line with no problem the night before on Opening Night, and I would say it just as easily in the two nights to follow.

But on this night, for reasons I’ll never know, that line was nowhere to be found in here.  Nowhere.  And not only that, but in the seconds that followed, seconds that felt as if time literally stopped, I could feel not just that line slip from my grasp, but my line after it, and the one after that, and the one after that; like a ship pulling out of port and disappearing into the distance.  And this ship wasn’t coming back. 

So what did you do, Steve?  What did you do with Mrs. Paroo standing there, her shocked and helpless look mirroring your own?  Did you finally conjure up the missing line?  Did you play it off with some clever diversion?  No, I’ll tell you exactly what I did, First Presbyterian: I turned around and walked right off that stage.  Right off the stage in the middle of the show!  Like that Italian cruise liner captain, this ship was running aground and I was abandoning ship!  I left poor old Mrs. Paroo out there by herself under those lights, waffling in the wind like an apron fluttering on a backyard clothesline on a blustery March day. 

And it was only by the grace of God, people, only by grace that my high school classmate was able to mentally jump a half-page ahead in the script and pick up with another line and get that grounded ship moving again.  And God bless her for that!  We’re talking about miracles this Lent – trust me, this was a miracle! The voice backstage that had been whispering screams in my ear subsided.  And when the next scene began I jumped right back into things; and the rest of the night went on without a hitch. Although my mental collapse would not go unrecognized.  Our director, speaking later that night to the cast, chose to adapt a well-known saying in my honor: When the going gets tough, he said, the tough get the heck off stage!  Except he didn’t say “heck!”

Failure.  Man, that was a fail.  An epic fail!  I dropped the ball, I messed things up; I let people down.  No one, including your pastor, likes to fail. You study hard for that chemistry test, only to earn a grade with a number that begins with a “6.”  Failure.  You had a brutal week at the office, and in a moment of weakness you yell at your son or daughter, thereby making you the worst parent on the planet.  Failure.  You think you’re all hip running a Wednesday night Bible study with your laptop and DVD and speakers and remote, and in a perfect example of Murphy’s Law, none of them work.  Failure. (That last one, by the way, was my most recent foray into the world of failure, which some of you got to witness first-hand the other week.  I’m real sorry that you did!) 

The thing is, failure is more than just making a mistake.  Failure is more than doing something wrong, or leaving something undone.  Failure leads you to question yourself at some very deep and unsettling levels: Am I good enough?  Am I really up to this?  Should I even bother?  Why am I even here?

Do you think the disciples were asking themselves some of those questions; asking them as they sat in that boat out on the sea, with the wind and the waves tossing them all over the place, their lives hanging in the balance?  Do you think?  Do you think Peter, in the parallel story in the gospel of Matthew, do you think he asked himself those questions, as he slipped deeper and deeper into the waves, just trying to walk on water to get to Jesus?  Was he, were they good enough?  Should they have even bothered? 

It’s an interesting fifth sign we come upon in the gospel of John today, because unlike the previous four – changing water into wine, healing a centurion’s son, healing a crippled man, feeding the 5000 – unlike those, there’s not much to this fifth miracle, as far as the story itself goes.  It’s pretty straightforward: the disciples get in a boat, they went out to sea, a strong wind comes, Jesus walks on water, and they’re scared.  And that’s it.  In fact, were it not for the other accounts in Mark and Matthew, who tell the same story in greater detail, it’s possible this whole “Jesus-walking-on-water” thing wouldn’t have gotten much attention.  But it has – and not just in just Christian circles, either.

This past week, a church member who knew I was preaching on this story today shared a YouTube clip with me.  It’s a three-minute “documentary” about the newest craze to supposedly hit Europe: “liquid mountaineering.”  Or, as you and I know it, walking on water.  Speaking in cool European accents, these four young guys throw around some nifty scientific terms and claim that, like a stone skipping across the water, the human body can do the same sort of thing with the right speed, the right angle, and – you guessed it – the right shoes.  And they have the video to prove it!  It’s quite a sight to see these fellas run ten, twelve yards off the shore onto the water of some lake in Portugal before they fall face-first into the water.

Now – before you get too excited, it turns out this is nothing more than a very clever advertisement for these water repellent shoes the guys are wearing – so clever, in fact, that you don’t realize at first what they’re selling you.  Because for an instance, at least, you’re tempted to think that what they’re selling you is the way to do something Jesus did; something a disciples of his tried to do, and sort of did, but eventually failed.

Which brings us to Peter.  Peter, Peter, Peter.  I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the guy.  I kind of envision him as of those “act first/think later” types, you know?  You know people like that?  When I think of Peter, and I find myself thinking about him a lot, I think of someone who exuded a strong ego; who liked to hear himself talk a lot, and talk very fast.  Kind of like Professor Harold Hill, without the bowtie. 

The thing is, though, underneath that strong ego and all that talk was a very insecure and uncertain guy.  I think that’s what modern psychologists would say; I think that’s what his Myers-Briggs type would show.  After all, Peter was a fisherman.  He was only as good as his last catch.  Such tremendous highs when the boat was full; such devastating lows when the nets came up empty.  I wonder if failure, and the guilt and regret and self-loathing that comes with it, I wonder if those things were some of Peter’s closest companions.  Which kind of makes me think that the whole reason he followed Jesus in the first place was because he sensed in him someone who could fill that void and lead him to discover the child of God within.  Someone who could help him answer those questions that had festered in the back of his mind for years, like a cancer: Am I good enough?  Am I really up to this?  Should I even bother?  Why am I even here?

And so even though it defied common sense, even though every cell in his body told him not to do it, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that Peter stepped out of that boat.  And it wasn’t about copying Jesus, like a child mimicking their older sibling.  It wasn’t about one-upping the other disciples, vaulting past them in the pecking order.  No, I believe Peter stepped out of that boat and started walking on water for one and one reason only: to get to Jesus.  To get to the man who had filled his cracked and chipped jar with a new wine that was better than before.  To get to the man who made a habit of healing people’s brokenness and feeding thousands of the hungry.  And can you blame him for that?  If Jesus meant as much to you and me as he did to Peter, wouldn’t we have stepped out of the boat, too?

You know, so much is made of the fact that Peter didn’t make it all the way to Jesus.  I don’t know what we think was supposed to happen.  What, was Peter going to get a gold medal or something?  Jesus raising Peter’s arm in the air, the victor?  So much is made of what Jesus said to Peter as he reached down and pulled him to safety: O ye of little faith, why did you doubt?  Because if he had believed, we say – if he had really believed – he could’ve walked on water just like Jesus.  So close, Peter.  So close….

So much is made of the fact that Peter failed.  And see, I think that’s the best part!  It’s true: Peter was a failure.  We all are failures.  And in some form or fashion, each and every one of us steps out of that boat, even when everything and everyone around us says not to.  And more often than not, we start sinking.  We forget our line and run off stage.  We flunk the test.  We yell at our kids; we goof up a Bible study.  We total the car, we botch the sale, we can’t make a marriage work, we overcook the turkey, we let someone down, we forget to pay the bills, we turn right when we should’ve turned left.  We fail.

And that’s when Jesus comes to us, and grabs our hand, and pulls us up; pulls us through the wind and the waves that swirl around, threatening to undo us.  And as he pulls us up, Jesus says to us: My child, I love you, completely and unconditionally.  I will always be here to help you up when you fall.  Because you will never be defined by your failures.  You will never be held captive by your guilt.  You will never drown in the winds of self-condemnation or the waves of regret.  One day you will see yourself the way I see you – a beautiful child of God.  And you will truly live like one, because you will realize that’s the only thing that matters.  The only thing.  But until then, I’ll always be there to help you up.

See, that’s what I think Jesus meant to tell Peter.  I’m not accusing Jesus of forgetting his line; I’m just saying that’s what I think “O ye of little faith, why did you doubt” really means.  Not doubting himself, but doubting Jesus.  Doubting that Jesus would be there for him to help him up when he failed. 

And that’s why I believe the real miracle here, ironically, has little to do with Jesus or Peter or anyone walking on water – as amazing as that whole “liquid mountaineering” thing is.  No, I believe the real miracle, the real “sign” John points us to, is that Jesus came to those disciples, came to Peter, comes to us, in the wind and the waves, in the center of our failures; and takes us by the hand and tells us who we are and whose we are, so that our failures and our shortcomings never define us.  So our guilt and self-condemnation – of which we are plenty good at holding on to, by the way – so those things never have the last word.  So God’s love and God’s grace do.

Quite surprisingly, it was Debbie who showed that to me.  I got to talk with her at my 25th high school reunion last fall.  Debbie was the one who played Mrs. Paroo in “The Music Man” all those years before; the one I left high and dry on the stage.  Remember?  It occurred to me I never apologized for that.  And you know what?  She had totally forgotten it.  Like I totally forgot my line!  My failure didn’t even register with her anymore.

I like to think God does the same sort of thing with us: forgetting our failures and recognizing us as children of God, even when we struggle mightily to do the same ourselves.  To me, that’s love. That’s grace.  That’s a miracle!  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

SIGNS AND WONDERS: LOOK WHAT YOUR LOAVES AND YOUR FISH CAN DO!

John 6: 1-15
Steve Lindsley
March 11, 2012

Listen to Sermon

 
Today’s passage from the sixth chapter of John – the gospel we’re focusing on during Lent – today’s passage begins with a crowd.  A huge crowd.  Now we don’t get many crowds here in Mount Airy, unless it’s a weekend in September or October when Mayberry enthusiasts or festival fans flock to our downtown streets. But two weeks ago, I was immersed in a pretty big crowd.  I was in Chicago completing work on my Certification in Environmental Ministry and Leadership at McCormick Seminary.  2.7 million people call Chicago home.  That’s a crowd, y’all!  I was in crowds the moment I got off the plane at O’Hare, and then getting on the train that takes people to a thousand different destinations.  I was in crowds in restaurants and coffee shops that lined entire blocks of Hyde Park, where the seminary was.  I was even in crowds I couldn’t see, staying with the Manfredi family, former First Pres folks, in their four-story condo, surrounded by condo after condo after condo after condo with even more people in them.

I was thinking about those crowds when I read today’s passage.  It’s a much smaller crowd that’s being talked about here, but it’s still a crowd.  5000 people – half the population of our little town. That’s how many people were following after Jesus that day; following him from the moment he crossed the Sea of Galilee. 

It had gotten to that point; there were always crowds around Jesus now.  Word was getting out. It’s the fourth miracle we read about today; the fourth “sign,” as John called them.  And people were hearing all about Jesus; what he did at that wedding in Cana; what he did with that soldier’s kid and the crippled man.  And so they all came to see what Jesus would do next, what marvelous “sign” he would perform that, as we talked about two weeks ago, were not about astounding or “wowing” the crowds but about pointing them closer and closer to who Jesus was. 

And so the crowd followed Jesus that day, followed him all the way outside the city, all the way to the “boonies,” as we might call it.  And they stayed with him there all day long.  Which eventually became a problem.  Because the hour was getting late, you see; it was around suppertime now and stomachs started growling.  And there wasn’t a restaurant or coffee shop nearby; no concession stand or snack machine in sight. This crowd was out in the middle of nowhere at the end of the day, and they were hungry.

Now it’s one thing if you’re in a crowd and you’re the only hungry one.  Your irritability is easily masked by everyone else’s contentment.  But when everyone around you is also hungry, a company dinner or family holiday; and something’s happened; the caterer was late showing up, the oven stopped working with the Thanksgiving turkey in it; when everyone is hungry together, there’s this unease that settles in, isn’t there?  People don’t talk much, like they’re conserving energy or something.  People get impatient or irritable.  It’s not a good vibe.

We are told that Jesus noticed this in the crowd that was with him that day.  So he turns to Philip and asks, “Where can we buy bread for all these people?”  And this is one of those wonderful “Jesus” moments where you’re not sure what he’s up to.  Because Jesus knew full well that there was no place nearby to get food – and even if the largest bakery in town happened to be right there in the middle of nowhere, they’d never have enough bread on hand to feed this crowd.  It’s a silly question, Philip thinks, even a little snarky.

But as is the case with John’s Jesus, there is a deeper meaning to the words that come out of his mouth.  Jesus is not asking for directions to the nearest Food Lion.  Jesus is telling Philip, telling us: get ready.  Get ready!  Another sign is coming.

And really, could there have been any greater sign?  Five thousand people, half our town’s population, leaving that place at the end of the day with their bellies full, the pangs of hunger left in the desert dust.  And not just that, but five thousand souls nourished, because once again Jesus had revealed who he was, who he was becoming, who he always would be. 
This miracle, this sign, it was all about Jesus!

Or was it?  Was this all about Jesus?

We’re tempted to think that, of course, because hey, it’s a gospel about Jesus!  It’s a miracle story about Jesus!  It’s all about Jesus.  Except we are told that, in the crowd that day, in that mass of 5000 people, there was this little boy.  Ten years old, perhaps.  Why would you even mention a ten-year old boy if it’s all about Jesus?  We’re not sure why he’s in the crowd.  Maybe he came along out of sheer curiosity.  And apparently it had been a caring mother who refused to send him out that morning without a lunch box, so that whatever his day might bring, he would at least have food to eat, growing boy that he was. 

This boy had almost forgotten about the lunch box in his pack until the sun started its descent; and he felt the pangs of a stomach that needed to be filled.  And he sensed and heard the same thing from all those around him in the crowd; many who did not have packs, who did not have a mother who refused to send them out without a lunch box.

The little boy reached in and opened it: five loaves of barley bread and two fish.  It’s what his mother always packed.  It was enough for him, though: just for him.  He lifted the bread to his lips, discreetly.  And that’s when he heard the stranger’s voice rising from somewhere in the mass: Where can we buy food to feed these people?  He paused, holding that bread, looking at it, studying it; something he realized he rarely did before stuffing it in his mouth.  Bread for him.  But not just for him.  The bread of life, for everyone.

It seemed silly, even as he did it – as he carried that bread and fish toward the voice.  It made no sense at all, even as he handed it to a man with thick beard and sun-dried skin and well-worn sandals, and said simply, “I hope this helps.” And as he turned to walk away, heading home to what he knew would be a tongue-lashing from his mother, it seemed so foolish what he’d done, par for the course for a ten-year old.

And then it happened, right as he reached the edge of the crowd: the sounds of laughter and joy, sounds not becoming of a hungry people.  It got louder and louder, so much that he had to cover his ears.  And along with that wave of sound, something else: his bread and his fish.  But not just his.  Bread for everyone!  Fish for everyone!  And it kept coming – more than could have possibly come out of his lunch pail.  A man next to him, taking a loaf and breaking it, joyfully giving him half.  Someone else, smiling, handing him a fish.  All were fed, the boy and the whole crowd.  All ate their fill; and there was even some left over.  Filling baskets full!

It is a miracle indeed!  But for us, in this place and this time, the question we have to ask ourselves here is “What was the miracle?”  What was the miracle?  Because, see, we don’t get an explanation of how this feeding of the 5000 actually happened.  We don’t get the play-by-play.  And that’s not John’s style, anyway.  That’s not what he’s interested in – the mechanics of it all.  Could Jesus have created bread and fish out of thin air?  Or, for that matter, caviar and roasted duck and a French merlot and crème brulee?  Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Jesus could’ve snapped his fingers for a four-course smorgasbord. 

But that’s not what we’re told here, y’all.  That’s not what we’re told.  The only thing we’re told, the only “explanation” we get, is that a ten-year old boy gave Jesus his bread and his fish, and everyone got enough to eat.

My friends, miracles do not have to always be mysterious anomalies that defy the natural order.  Sometimes, miracles are the very thing that makes the most sense.  I remember back on Consecration Sunday, the Reverend Lee Zehmer preaching on this same story, and offering an interesting “what if” – what if, he said, it all started with the boy?  What if someone saw him give Jesus his bread and fish, and it moved them to give their lunch as well, because my gosh, if a ten-year old kid can do it, I guess I can.  And what if someone else followed suit, and another, and another, and another.  I’ve got some bread and fish as well.  It’s not much, Jesus; but maybe it’s enough.  I have some fruit I packed, Jesus. Gosh, it’s hardly anything; but maybe it’s enough.  I have some cakes – just a snack, really.  But here it is if you want it, Jesus.  Maybe it’s enough.  There’s some meat in my pack.  I brought it just for me.  But Jesus, you can have it.  Maybe it’s enough.

What if this miracle happened like that – would that make it any less of a miracle?  Would that make it any less of a sign of Gods’ glory revealed in Jesus Christ?  If the signs of John’s gospel are about showing the presence of God in Jesus – a presence that has the power to change the world and transform lives – what would be more transforming than everyone sharing what they have to feed everyone else?   

There’s this Sesame Street book I remember reading to my boys when there were little.  Bert has spilled some milk on the kitchen floor and sends Ernie out to find a mop to clean it up. But in the process, signals get crossed and things get over-complicated.  Someone hears that Bert needs a map.  Another thinks he needs a mat.  Or a mitt.  Or a mitten.  Or a kitten!  And when you get to the end of the story, Bert is there in his kitchen with all his Sesame Street friends, with a dozen things that will do absolutely nothing to help clean up the mess on his kitchen floor.   

You know, First Presbyterian, sometimes I wonder if we get our signals crossed too; if we over-complicate things.  Because we spend a whole lot of energy coming up with these grand theological explanations about Jesus’ miracles.  We talk about the metaphorical meaning of the feeding of the 5000; about how Jesus feeds us spiritually, which he certainly does. 

But I wonder if the message of John’s fourth sign is something much simpler, much more basic, much more obvious: that Jesus wants us to feed hungry people.  That Jesus wants us to literally give food to people who don’t have enough to eat! 

Now you don’t need me to tell you the cold hard facts about hunger, but I’m going to anyway.  You don’t need me to tell you that in 2009, nearly 44 million people on this planet lived at the poverty level – that’s almost 15% of the world’s population, and that was three years ago.  You don’t need me to tell you that one in six Americans do not have access to enough food – one in six!  Look down your pew this morning and count the people there.  Do the math.  You don’t need me to tell you that, in our own community, 70% of the students at Tharrington School are on free or reduced lunch, which means that’s the only meal they get every day.  What do they do on the weekends?  What indeed.

Now in many ways I recognize – I’m preaching to the choir here!  You all have demonstrated an unwavering passion and conviction to confronting hunger head-on.  It is one of the many things I love about being your pastor.  You’re the ones who fill our Cents-A-Bility jars and food baskets on Hunger & Hope Offering days like last week – and if you missed it, you can always turn it in later.  You’re the ones who rush to sign up for Friends Feeding Friends when its first posted; you’re the reason First Baptist asked us to take on a second night each month.  You’re the ones who overwhelmed one of our county elementary schools with funds for their Backpack program.  If anyone knows the seriousness of hunger in our world and wants to do something about it, it is you.

So all I want to say to you, and what I believe this miracle of the feeding of the 5000 is saying to us, is this: never underestimate the power of the little you have.  Never!  Your loaves and your fish can do incredible things – especially when placed in the hands of a God who makes a habit of performing miracles in our midst.  Signs that point us closer and closer to Jesus; and to a world – one day – when no one will go hungry.  Signs that reveal God’s glory, shining in a brilliant light.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.