Sermon 2 August

Saint Margaret’s Anglican Episcopal Church Budapest, Hungary Genesis 32:22-31; Psalm 17:1-7,16; Romans 9:1 5; Matthew 14:13-21 He ordered the crowds to sit down… The story of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, with varying details, is one of the few narratives from the life of our Lord which appears in all four Gospels, Matthew Mark, Luke, and John; emphasizing for us the story’s importance to the early Church and to the proclamation of the Gospel even today. Indeed, both Matthew and Mark have two such stories each of the feeding of a multitude. The event, in Matthew’s telling this morning, actually comes immediately after the account of John the Baptist’s assassination, a murder which itself takes place during Herod’s birthday banquet, likely by the standards of the day a lavish and rowdy affair attended by the rich and famous of the day, mainly, that is, the male ruling elite. It is in the course of this feast, if we can call it that, that John’s head is served up on a dinner platter to Herod’s wife and her daughter, the evil female protagonists of the story, about as gruesome a scene of death and mayhem as it is possible to imagine. Still, the event marks in a spiritual sense the end not only of the life of a great and holy prophetic figure, John the Baptist, but of an era as well, an era marked by the ascendancy of the this-worldly and mortal, an era of sin and depravity; an era soon to be replaced, in the telling of the Gospel, by a timeless age of salvation and redemption and the assurance of God’s abiding goodness and enduring abundance. And although John’s death amid the degeneracy of Herod’s court is not specifically mentioned in our Gospel account this morning of the feeding of the multitude, some scholars insist that these tales of two contrasting meals arranged by two contrasting kingly figures, Herod’s banquet and our Lord’s providential picnic on the grass, ought always to be read together. For, the one is in stark contrast to the other. So, here in Matthew’s words, is Herod’s banquet… Though Herod wanted to put John to death, he feared the crowd, because they regarded him as a prophet. But when Herod’s birthday came, the daughter of Herodias danced before the company, and she pleased Herod so much that he promised on oath to grant her whatever she might ask. Prompted by her mother, she said, “Give me the head of John the Baptist here on a platter.” The king was grieved, yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he commanded it to be given; he sent and had John beheaded in the prison. His head was brought on a platter and given to the girl, who brought it to her mother. It is news of Herod’s murderous meal which apparently prompts Jesus to seek out a quiet place by himself at the beginning of today’s narrative. But he is alas not to get the peace and quiet he is looking for. Throngs of local townspeople and villagers, hardly the exclusive company of Herod’s court, seek him out not in a royal banquet hall but in “a deserted place.” Jesus, as the text tells us, has compassion upon the people and heals their sick and no doubt offers them comfort and consolation as well. A far cry from Herod’s fear of the crowds and inner insecurity. And, as evening comes, Jesus feeds crowds, no questions asked; feeds the multitude, the men, women, and children all alike, five thousand of them and more, not with the rich fare of an exclusive banquet but rather with simple everyday provisions of bread and fish, foods familiar to us still to this day, foods hundreds of families are likely sharing this very minute at Balaton. All have their fill in Matthew’s telling, and there is plenty left over besides. Twelve baskets full, to be precise. What to make of it…? Commentators have pondered this tale and its meaning for centuries. Some presume to see in it a miraculous story of remarkable sharing. They assume that the abundance of food must have come somehow from the generosity of the people in the crowd opening their backpacks and contributing their share of provisions to the common need; sort of like a potluck or bring-and-share luncheon, I suppose. While a noble thought, there does not seem to be any hint of this in the text itself. Rather, most sages see in the narrative a simple yet profound metaphor, a parable if you will, of God’s abundant compassion and care for his people, a divine abundance of love and grace which literally knows no limit. God, at least in this scenario, may not be a Michelin star restaurateur, no gourmet fare for this lot, but on the other hand everyone is fed, not just the elite, and everyone partakes of the same dish. And no one goes hungry. No one starves. On God’s grassy meadow, everyone is indeed equal and at one, and there is always enough to go around and lots more besides. As God fed the people of Israel long before with manna in the desert, so Jesus here feeds them again, providing them sustenance for their journey home and beyond. Who Jesus is, what he and his Gospel are all about, is made abundantly clear. And who Jesus is becomes clear in the simple things, everyday food and nourishment. Where Herod serves up death and fear; Jesus serves up life and hope. Those who shared that evening meal on the meadow with Jesus and his disciples no doubt returned home that night or the next day to work and family chores, but they were also transformed. The old age of sin and death was coming to an end in their very midst. And as Jesus took the bread and fish, looked up to heaven, blessed them, and gave them to all to eat, so today is our Eucharist broken, blessed, and shared as a sign of the Lord’s abiding compassion and goodness. Our Lord continues to transform us, his people. He feeds us still. We now approach the Lord ’s Table in some sense as the villagers and townspeople of Mathew’s Gospel account, “not worthy,” as we sometimes pray, “to gather up the crumbs,” much less the twelve baskets left over. Yet from those fragments, from those baskets, Jesus invariably multiplies our portion. And though we, like the bread itself, may be broken or from time to time broken-hearted, we still find our strength in coming together in communion with Christ and with one another. Pope Francis once explained it this way. First, you pray for the hungry and starving, he said. And then you feed them. That, he went on to say, is how prayer and the Gospel work. After all, it is only in feeding others are we ourselves will ever be fed. Something to think about over tomorrow morning’s bread and kippers. Amen. The Revd Canon Dr Frank Hegedűs