enough, and more than enough

“Fill The Church” Sunday 2010
Isaiah 45: 21-25; Ps 98: 1-4; Phil 2: 5-11; Luke 9: 10-17


What drew us to this man?

Was it his beauty? It’s strange, but we cannot remember the details of his face. We could not take our eyes off of him some days. John was more handsome, Peter was louder and his presence filled a room. Magdalene was beautiful and the men perspired slightly when she was near. But our eyes were drawn to him, the rabbi, the master, only to him. Why?

Why did we listen to this man? He was not a professional teacher, he did not set out to found a school. He had not studied with great teachers or even with the Gentile philosophers. But his words—he spoke them with his whole body, with his life and actions, with his whole being—no difference between what he said and what he did and who he was. To hear him was like listening to a waterfall while bathing in the pool beneath it.

Why did we follow this man? If we knew where the road would lead when we first met him, we would have shuddered and run away. But when he called, we stood up and took first one step after him, then another. It was all those steps, on the dust and on the paving-stones, on the sand of beaches and through the growing grain, that strengthened us so today we can bend and lift our cross as he lifted his on that terrible day, all alone, while we hid and shivered and secretly thought how lucky we were that we did not share his pain. And we have been changed—now we think we are blessed because by the mercy of God we are allowed to walk his way, from pain to glory.

That day in the wilderness was just such a day of change.

The teacher was tired, and so were we. So many thronged around, holding up their empty hands, opening their famished mouths, baring their famished souls. He spoke and touched, healed and blessed, but he was just one man and all we could do was stand and try to help in small ways—bring him water for his dry throat, support a drooping man for him to heal.

We were drained and exhausted. And of course we were broke—always broke. Thomas was practical—“Tell people to go now, tell them to scatter so they can hit the villages for food before the merchants close their booths for the day.”

The teacher surprised us. “You give them something to eat.”

It was impossible, and we told him so. A couple of us had brought a loaf or two of bread, not very fresh, and a couple of dried fish, workingman’s lunch. That was all the food in sight.

The teacher held that food, that working-stiff food, so tenderly. He raised his eyes in that way he had which was not sticky-sweet but natural. In simple words, he thanked his Father, broke the bread, carefully handed the pieces to us.

Numb, we obeyed. Piece by piece, we handed fragments to the open hungry hands. Break, hand, break, hand. Often we were sure we held the next-to-last piece. Each time there was more, there was more. The people watched us, and even in their hunger they themselves began to break pieces from their own pieces, and passed them on.

At first there were murmurs, then a strange hush, as if everyone were holding their breath, waiting for the very last piece to be passed, waiting to see who would be fed, who would be hungry. And then the buzz—faint at first, then the more hopeful began to say that something strange, something wonderful was happening right here, right out here in the middle of nowhere. The buzz became a deep, resonant, satisfied roar. Even the people on the fringe of the crowd, those who were just curious and not very interested in the teacher’s words, even they were handed their share.

There is nothing as content as a group of people filled with good food.

Andrew started picking up the pieces. He always worried about things like that. He had to find twelve baskets to hold them all. Enough for today, and for tomorrow. Our ancestors in the desert, fed with the manna, did not eat any better.

And we were changed.

Never again would we worry that a gathering of the faithful was broke or poor. The master said that if even two gathered remembering just his name, he would be there. If he is there, if he is here, then there is always more than enough. All we need do is remember the story, give thanks, share what we have. All shall eat, and be satisfied. And we shall be changed.

This is out story, Saints Peter and Paul. This is our teacher who is here with us today. Here is the bread—the bread of the altar, and the bread which is our lives. Have you ever felt broke? Have you ever felt stretched thin? Have you ever felt that there is just not enough, that our lives and energy are just not enough, that we can’t keep our lives, our families, or our church going another day?

Well, we have followed the teacher. He is with us today. He takes the bread of the altar and the bread of our lives and the story happens again—give thanks, break, and give. When we do that, there is enough and more than enough. We need him, we need each other, and we need to tell this tale. Know this—when we tell this tale together, when we live this tale today, there is enough. There is more than enough. And we shall be changed.