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All Saints, Margaret Street, London, W1W 8JG, UK

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A SERMON PREACHED BY THE VICAR AT HIGH MASS
ON TRINITY 10, 2005

Readings: Isaiah 55.1-5, Romans 9.1-5, Matthew 14.13-21

When he hears of the death of John the Baptist Jesus goes off in a boat to an isolated place. At one level, this might just have been the sensible thing to do - to get out of town, keep his head below the parapet, until things have calmed down.

But while Matthew does not spell it out, from all that we know of Jesus, we can guess that there is more to it. John’s death casts a shadow over Jesus. He needs time alone with God to absorb its spiritual import, to prepare himself for what is to come.

But such is his reputation that he cannot escape from the demands of the people, who follow him on foot. Another teacher might well have got back in the boat and gone off somewhere else; jealously guarding this time of retreat. But Matthew tells us that, seeing the crowds, “he had compassion for them and cured their sick” The word used for compassion speaks not of a superficial fleeting sympathy but of being moved in the depths of his being - literally in his guts.

The crowds are so great, and the healing work goes on so long, that the disciples become alarmed, concerned for the people’s well-being. They advise Jesus to send them off to the local villages to buy food. He is the only one they will listen to.

Jesus’ reply to them must have been the last thing they expected: “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”
Their response is one of common sense realism:
“We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” As good as nothing given the size of the gathering.

“Bring them here to me”, says Jesus to the disciples. Then he instructs the crowds to sit down on the grass. What follows is something out of the ordinary, something supernatural; something more than an encouragement to others who have brought picnics to share them with those who have not.

This is the only miracle which appears in all four gospels. The evangelists clearly see it as saying something vital to the Church about Jesus. It is not just an isolated story. It is one full of echoes of the past and hints of the future.
• The “lonely place” recalls the wilderness in which God feeds the people of Israel with manna, bread from heaven.
• The people are instructed to “sit down on the grass”. It is spring-time in Palestine - the season of Passover the sacred meal in which Israel remembers its liberation from slavery in Egypt.
• It recalls other miraculous feedings in the Old Testament by the prophets Elijah and Elisha.

To Christians in Matthew’s time, and ever since, the actions of Jesus are familiar to us from every celebration of the Eucharist.

• As Jesus takes the bread which the disciples bring, so the priest takes the bread and wine brought to the altar, the Lord’s table, at the offertory.
• Jesus looks up to heaven and blesses God, that is he gives thanks to God as the priest will give thanks on behalf of the congregation in the Eucharistic Prayer - the prayer of thanksgiving.
• Jesus breaks the bread so that the disciples might distribute it among the people, as the priest will break the host so that Holy Communion might be administered; the bread which has become the food of eternal life, the wine which has become the cup of salvation.

All this points to Jesus as the Messiah, the one in whom God’s kingdom is present. The banquet in which all eat and are satisfied, and yet there is still food left over, is one of the great biblical symbols of heaven: “Blessed are those who are called to the marriage supper of the Lamb.”

At another time it might have been possible to preach a pious sermon on the importance of Holy Communion in the life of the Christian; on how Jesus takes our daily bread and makes of it the bread of eternal life. Nothing I say should be taken as denying that. But on this Sunday we hear this gospel of the Feeding of the Five Thousand not just against the backcloth of Scripture and the Church’s tradition of worship, but in the context of the daily news.

TV cameras have taken us to another lonely place, a desert place, to Niger, a country on the edge of the Sahara of which most of us were only just aware from half-forgotten geography lessons. We have seen people crowded together at makeshift hospitals and feeding stations. There is no grass for them to sit down on; locusts and drought have destroyed both grass and crops and cattle. There is no food to be bought in the villages.

Which of us watching some suffering starving child and its distraught mother has not felt in the depths of our being something of that compassion which Jesus felt for the crowds? If we do not feel something of that gut-wrenching, heart-rending, tear-starting, compassion, how can we call ourselves Christians?

Like the disciples, we want something to be done; we want God to do something. Just as then, Jesus says to us:
“You give them something to eat.”

And we say with the disciples, “We have only five loaves and two fish. What are they among so many?” What can we do? Sometimes we ask this question in a spirit of weary resignation; “compassion fatigue” as it is known. Sometimes we ask it in genuine bafflement and frustration. What difference can we make?

Jesus took the tiny amount of food, the hopelessly inadequate resources, the disciples had, and did something extraordinary with it. God continues to take what seem inadequate resources and works with them.

He takes the compassionate response of those who respond to emergency appeals by Christian Aid and the other agencies; the seemingly small amounts of money which add up to a great deal and are able to buy life-saving food and medicine.

Perhaps, too, he is able to take the small things of these occasional responses, and build them into something more; a deep-seated and sustained commitment to make things different. The small beginnings of the Jubilee Debt and the End Poverty Now campaigns which got onto the agenda of the G8 meeting amidst the opulent splendour of the Gleneagles Hotel. The idea of Jubilee, the cancelling of debts, comes not from so secular ideology, but straight from the pages of the Bible. In an age when we are deeply cynical about politicians and their motives, perhaps we should give thanks that at least some of them are not totally motivated by self-interest. We should certainly not use that cynicism as an excuse for doing nothing ourselves.

We know that these issues are complicated; that there are no easy answers, no quick fixes. We know perhaps, in our heart of hearts, that it is not just a matter of changing things in Africa but of changing things here. We know that we are part of a society which wastes food and resources on a profligate scale. The Common Agricultural Policy or farm subsidies in the United States are wrong not just because they waste our hard-earned taxes on President Chirac’s farmers or US agribusiness, but because, much worse, they drive people in the developing world ever deeper into poverty. We can see the corruption of a Mugabe and preach the need for the rooting out a culture that connives at it, but we forget the Enrons and WorldComs of our supposedly honest and law-abiding society.

Matthew places this story in which no one goes hungry, just after Herod’s banquet with its debauchery and drunken boasting, which ends in murder on the whim of drunken monarch and the wiles of his scheming and vindictive wife. It is a deliberate study in contrasts. Long ago, St. Paul upbraided the Corinthian Christians because the wealthy among them are not sharing their food with the poor at the common meal in which the Eucharist was set. They thought they were receiving the body of Christ, but they are only eating condemnation on themselves, because they failed to recognise the body of Christ, his presence, in their neighbours. That moral dimension of the Sacrament has not gone away, even if it is sometimes concealed by an excessive concern for the ritual of High Mass, or the superficially jolly bonhomie of the suburban Parish Communion, or the me and my God devotion of the early service.

The bread which we bring to the altar is the symbol of God’s bountiful provision for his children. It is also the symbol of the inequalities and divisions we have made in the production and distribution of that bounty. The wine we offer is the symbol of joy and celebration, but it is also the sign of suffering and degradation; our abuse of the gifts which God has given us.

	ALL SAINTS MARGARET STREET
	All Saints, Margaret Street, London, W1W 8JG, UK
Welcome Worship and visitor information Diary dates History and architecture Music The life of the church Sermons Support All Saints Get in touch	A SERMON PREACHED BY THE VICAR AT HIGH MASS ON TRINITY 10, 2005 Readings: Isaiah 55.1-5, Romans 9.1-5, Matthew 14.13-21 When he hears of the death of John the Baptist Jesus goes off in a boat to an isolated place. At one level, this might just have been the sensible thing to do - to get out of town, keep his head below the parapet, until things have calmed down. But while Matthew does not spell it out, from all that we know of Jesus, we can guess that there is more to it. John’s death casts a shadow over Jesus. He needs time alone with God to absorb its spiritual import, to prepare himself for what is to come. But such is his reputation that he cannot escape from the demands of the people, who follow him on foot. Another teacher might well have got back in the boat and gone off somewhere else; jealously guarding this time of retreat. But Matthew tells us that, seeing the crowds, “he had compassion for them and cured their sick” The word used for compassion speaks not of a superficial fleeting sympathy but of being moved in the depths of his being - literally in his guts. The crowds are so great, and the healing work goes on so long, that the disciples become alarmed, concerned for the people’s well-being. They advise Jesus to send them off to the local villages to buy food. He is the only one they will listen to. Jesus’ reply to them must have been the last thing they expected: “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” Their response is one of common sense realism: “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” As good as nothing given the size of the gathering. “Bring them here to me”, says Jesus to the disciples. Then he instructs the crowds to sit down on the grass. What follows is something out of the ordinary, something supernatural; something more than an encouragement to others who have brought picnics to share them with those who have not. This is the only miracle which appears in all four gospels. The evangelists clearly see it as saying something vital to the Church about Jesus. It is not just an isolated story. It is one full of echoes of the past and hints of the future. • The “lonely place” recalls the wilderness in which God feeds the people of Israel with manna, bread from heaven. • The people are instructed to “sit down on the grass”. It is spring-time in Palestine - the season of Passover the sacred meal in which Israel remembers its liberation from slavery in Egypt. • It recalls other miraculous feedings in the Old Testament by the prophets Elijah and Elisha. To Christians in Matthew’s time, and ever since, the actions of Jesus are familiar to us from every celebration of the Eucharist. • As Jesus takes the bread which the disciples bring, so the priest takes the bread and wine brought to the altar, the Lord’s table, at the offertory. • Jesus looks up to heaven and blesses God, that is he gives thanks to God as the priest will give thanks on behalf of the congregation in the Eucharistic Prayer - the prayer of thanksgiving. • Jesus breaks the bread so that the disciples might distribute it among the people, as the priest will break the host so that Holy Communion might be administered; the bread which has become the food of eternal life, the wine which has become the cup of salvation. All this points to Jesus as the Messiah, the one in whom God’s kingdom is present. The banquet in which all eat and are satisfied, and yet there is still food left over, is one of the great biblical symbols of heaven: “Blessed are those who are called to the marriage supper of the Lamb.” At another time it might have been possible to preach a pious sermon on the importance of Holy Communion in the life of the Christian; on how Jesus takes our daily bread and makes of it the bread of eternal life. Nothing I say should be taken as denying that. But on this Sunday we hear this gospel of the Feeding of the Five Thousand not just against the backcloth of Scripture and the Church’s tradition of worship, but in the context of the daily news. TV cameras have taken us to another lonely place, a desert place, to Niger, a country on the edge of the Sahara of which most of us were only just aware from half-forgotten geography lessons. We have seen people crowded together at makeshift hospitals and feeding stations. There is no grass for them to sit down on; locusts and drought have destroyed both grass and crops and cattle. There is no food to be bought in the villages. Which of us watching some suffering starving child and its distraught mother has not felt in the depths of our being something of that compassion which Jesus felt for the crowds? If we do not feel something of that gut-wrenching, heart-rending, tear-starting, compassion, how can we call ourselves Christians? Like the disciples, we want something to be done; we want God to do something. Just as then, Jesus says to us: “You give them something to eat.” And we say with the disciples, “We have only five loaves and two fish. What are they among so many?” What can we do? Sometimes we ask this question in a spirit of weary resignation; “compassion fatigue” as it is known. Sometimes we ask it in genuine bafflement and frustration. What difference can we make? Jesus took the tiny amount of food, the hopelessly inadequate resources, the disciples had, and did something extraordinary with it. God continues to take what seem inadequate resources and works with them. He takes the compassionate response of those who respond to emergency appeals by Christian Aid and the other agencies; the seemingly small amounts of money which add up to a great deal and are able to buy life-saving food and medicine. Perhaps, too, he is able to take the small things of these occasional responses, and build them into something more; a deep-seated and sustained commitment to make things different. The small beginnings of the Jubilee Debt and the End Poverty Now campaigns which got onto the agenda of the G8 meeting amidst the opulent splendour of the Gleneagles Hotel. The idea of Jubilee, the cancelling of debts, comes not from so secular ideology, but straight from the pages of the Bible. In an age when we are deeply cynical about politicians and their motives, perhaps we should give thanks that at least some of them are not totally motivated by self-interest. We should certainly not use that cynicism as an excuse for doing nothing ourselves. We know that these issues are complicated; that there are no easy answers, no quick fixes. We know perhaps, in our heart of hearts, that it is not just a matter of changing things in Africa but of changing things here. We know that we are part of a society which wastes food and resources on a profligate scale. The Common Agricultural Policy or farm subsidies in the United States are wrong not just because they waste our hard-earned taxes on President Chirac’s farmers or US agribusiness, but because, much worse, they drive people in the developing world ever deeper into poverty. We can see the corruption of a Mugabe and preach the need for the rooting out a culture that connives at it, but we forget the Enrons and WorldComs of our supposedly honest and law-abiding society. Matthew places this story in which no one goes hungry, just after Herod’s banquet with its debauchery and drunken boasting, which ends in murder on the whim of drunken monarch and the wiles of his scheming and vindictive wife. It is a deliberate study in contrasts. Long ago, St. Paul upbraided the Corinthian Christians because the wealthy among them are not sharing their food with the poor at the common meal in which the Eucharist was set. They thought they were receiving the body of Christ, but they are only eating condemnation on themselves, because they failed to recognise the body of Christ, his presence, in their neighbours. That moral dimension of the Sacrament has not gone away, even if it is sometimes concealed by an excessive concern for the ritual of High Mass, or the superficially jolly bonhomie of the suburban Parish Communion, or the me and my God devotion of the early service. The bread which we bring to the altar is the symbol of God’s bountiful provision for his children. It is also the symbol of the inequalities and divisions we have made in the production and distribution of that bounty. The wine we offer is the symbol of joy and celebration, but it is also the sign of suffering and degradation; our abuse of the gifts which God has given us.