Sermon by Dr Ryan Danker for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, August 2, 2026

Dr Ryan Danker is Director of the John Wesley Institute in Washington, DC.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish. In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. I still remember in preaching class in Divinity School that they were very explicit to tell us that no good sermon ever started with platitudes and thanks. But I'm going to ignore that for a second and tell you how wonderful it is to be back at the Church of the Advent. And of course, a special thanks to the rector and the clergy for the invitation to preach. It's good to be back in Boston. There's a great story about this sort of sermonic start going very badly. It was during the height of the evangelical revival in England, and George Whitfield started his sermon by warmly greeting the congregation from atop a three-storied pulpit. The rector was sitting below as Whitfield greeted the congregation this way. But instead of sitting quietly and listening, the rector turned around and yelled at the great preacher, Do not speak so. The greatest part of the congregation is going to hell with their eyes wide open. I trust that this doesn't describe anyone here today, nor that yelling will be a part of this solemn assembly. The text appointed for today is a very famous one. The feeding of the 5,000 is well known. Of course, it's more than 5,000, but we won't get into that. It's a text chock full of nuance. If you've attended church for any length of time, you've heard sermon upon sermon on this particular text. And there's so many ways to interpret it. Some good and some not so good. Let's start out with the bad. The worst interpretation I've ever heard of this text comes not surprisingly from a Protestant liberal. Only in John's telling of the story do we have a young boy provide the bread and the fish. He isn't mentioned in Matthew, Mark, or Luke. But according to one misguided interpretation, it was the young boy's example that inspired the others, who then miraculously shared what they had. The only miracle associated with that interpretation is that someone said it with a straight face. But, ignoring silly interpretations, there's so much here. It's a story of God's goodness, of his abundance, of his care for the basic necessities of life. Jesus saw the crowds, as the text says, and not only had compassion on them, but healed their sick. The story also sings of Eucharistic themes. He looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples. And the disciples gave them to the crowds. This is certainly a foreshadowing of the Eucharist and of the abundance that is provided at every moment in all the tabernacles of the world, even to the end of time. And I'm certain that this interpretation has been preached from this very pulpit numerous times, as it should be. But when I read the text this time around, something else struck me. I was struck by the words, we have nothing here but five loaves and two fish. A few years ago, a friend of mine was going through the process of becoming a part of the Roman Church. You know the story, he met a girl, you get it. But he was going through as he was going through the process of joining that part of the church, he attended Mass regularly. And one Sunday morning before his confirmation, he attended a Catholic parish not far from my home in Virginia, called Blessed Sacrament. At the distribution, he went forward and crossed his arms over his chest, as was appropriate for him at that time. But instead of a blessing or anything like it, he was greeted with the words, I have nothing to offer you. I have nothing to offer you. Now, to be fair, this was probably spoken by a lay Eucharistic minister and not by a priest. Or at least that's the best spin I can put on the story. But that's what he was told. Not a God be with you, or perhaps God loves you, but instead, I have nothing to offer you. I'm afraid we have we hear something similar in today's reading. We have nothing here. And how foolish the disciples look. How limited is their vision, how little is their faith, and how weak is their grasp of the power of God. Yet how often do we say the very same thing? Now it might sound a little differently here in this parish. We have nothing here but a world-class choir, orthodox clergy, historic architecture, a liturgy that makes the Vatican look lazy, and the best coffee hour in Christendom. But, all joking aside, how often do we communicate that sentiment? Or worse, choose to. And yet Jesus turns all of that on its head. The text says that people had come on foot from a wide region, obviously yearning for what Christ had to offer. No doubt they had heard of his miracles, his healings, and perhaps something of his teachings. Very early in his ministry, we hear of people flocking to him, and no wonder. By this time, in his ministry, Jesus had, according to Matthew, traveled throughout the region, called the apostles, preached the Sermon on the Mount, cleansed lepers, healed the centurion's servant and Peter's mother-in-law, calmed the Sea of Galilee, and so much more. From the very beginning of his ministry, as Matthew records, they brought to him all sick people who were afflicted with various diseases and torments, and those who were demon-possessed, epileptics, and paralytics, and he healed them. No wonder Matthew adds, great multitudes followed him from Galilee and from Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and beyond the Jordan. Today they still flock to him. The yearning of the human soul for God and the healing that only he can provide is universal, whether one wants to admit it or not. We're hardwired for it, we're searching for it. Saint Augustine was right when he wrote that our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God. And yet, we have nothing here. I understand that sentiment. Even if the church father Chrysostom wrote that the disciples' comment revealed that they were continuing to crawl like babies. As foolish as the disciples ultimately look in this story, and in so many others, their concern here isn't unfounded. Cyril of Alexandria was nicer than Chrysostom about this. He wrote that this request to send them away was a pastoral one. People need to eat. The text says that there were 5,000 men. That means that the number of people was significantly higher. So, how do you feed 15,000 people in the middle of nowhere? The logistics are daunting. As someone who works in administration, the very thought of it causes me stress. Just think about organizing a lunch for 15,000 on the common this afternoon and all that it would entail. This isn't simply about catering, but set up, organizing, distribution, and everything necessary after the meal. A secondary miracle in some versions of this account, perhaps, is that it's the men who do the cleanup, by the way. But we can understand the disciples' concern. And yet that same reasonable concern can stunt our efforts. I still remember fresh out of seminary, my first ministry position, I was on hospital visitation duty. There were eight ministers in a large parish, and every six days, if anyone was in the hospital, it was my turn to visit them. And every six days, I was exhausted. I would go to the various hospitals in the area with the Bible in hand, armed with prayers for every occasion, thinking that I needed to be ready to answer every theological question that could be asked about every possible human experience. And on top of that, if you can imagine, I was trying to entertain them. At one point, though, it clicked when I realized that these visits weren't about me. In other words, when I got over myself, I didn't have to have the right words, the right prayer, the right scripture verse at the ready. All I needed to do was to be there, to sit with them, to listen, to be present. It wasn't about me, it was about Christ. And that's exactly what the disciples didn't see in this text. They still believed that it was about them. Even if he was standing there right in front of them, even if they had seen his miracles, heard his teaching, and experienced his presence, they didn't see. But Jesus knew what he was doing, he knew the power of God. He is God in the flesh. And his words are meant for his disciples that day and meant for us now. He says, Bring them to me. In a deserted place, bring them to me. Fleeing the world from sickness of all sorts of body and soul, bring them to me. Yearning for the wholeness that only God can provide, bring them to me. Friends, if you've come to this church seeking Christ, you have come to the right place. He is here. In fact, he called you here himself. Dear people, if you already know him, if you've been baptized into his death and raised to newness of life, if you partake of his body and blood in the sacrament of the Eucharist, you have everything, everything to offer. Bring them to me, he says. Offer them Christ. For we have nothing here but him. Amen.