So, when we hear stories like the one in John’s Gospel today, it is easy to believe miracles like this don’t happen any more. I mean, I watch folks working at the food pantry each week, and people are still coming. Emmanuel Church has remodeled some of its space to put in more cooler space to try to get folks the fresh produce that they so desperately need. And whenever I'm in Byrne Dairy or Tops, it's not all that unusual to see somebody shoplifting food. I'm sure some of it is just plain old thievery, but I'm willing to bet that some of it is desperate hunger. So it's hard to imagine a miracle like the feeding of the 5,000.
And I also can't imagine 5,000 people today gathering together without some sort of conflict breaking out. I mean, I guess it's so that people get together as long as they agree with each other from the outset, but whenever I'm in a crowd nowadays, my first thought is “Who is gonna fire that first shot?” So, it's hard to imagine a miracle like 5,000 folks gathered together only to be fed.
But, I am here to tell you that miracles still happen. That there are times even now when, to my amazement, shock, and delight, the meager gifts folks have are divided in abundance and there is more left over than when they began.
Here's what happened.
When I was at St. James Knoxville, we got a call from a member of another smaller inner-city church that the son of their pastor had be shot and killed.
Fr. John Mark and I went as soon as I could. Pastor Reggie was sitting on the front steps of his home surrounded by friends. We shared a hug and some quiet words. I didn't know what to say. I mean what can you say? So, I just hung around, saying not much.
John Mark offered our space for the funeral. St. James is huge, with plenty of space, and surely the death of a 15 year-old would draw a crowd for the funeral service. They just wouldn't have enough space.
“No,” Reggie said. “We’ve done this before. We want to do this at Bethel.”
The next day John Mark got a text from him saying he had reconsidered. They would hold the funeral in their own church ,but he was wondering if they could hold the funeral lunch at St. James.
And so we did.
Now, St. James is a congregation made up of mostly those of White folks. And Bethel AME Church is primarily African American. And while John Mark had worked hard since his arrival to build bridges between us, some things hadn't changed.
While we worshiped the same God, we did not worship the same way. We didn't sing the same way. We didn't pray the same way. And man, oh, man, we didn't do funerals and funeral lunches the same way.
And so the day of the funeral we got to church early. There was a continuous stream of people dropping off bottles of water, deviled eggs, fresh salads and desserts, macaroni and cheese, collards, turnip greens, green beans, potato salad, cornbread, more cornbread, even more cornbread, and, of course, chicken of all the varieties, from fried to barbecued, to casserole. And a couple in the kitchen were had one duty and one duty only – making the sweet tea. It felt like the whole North Knoxville community was streaming through our doors as little old white ladies in blue dresses and pearls welcomed and received and found room.
John Mark and I got in his beat up old two-seater and headed out to the funeral. By the time we got there, the parking lot was full and there were cars parked up and down the road. We were directed to a spot on the grass behind the church. We made our way around to the front where people were standing in line trying to squeeze in. We found a space to stand in the back, shoulder to shoulder, front to back, shifting to and fro as people made their way back out to the rest rooms or to go outside for a smoke.
There may not have been the 5,000 we hear about in today’s Gospel, but there were 500 or more.
The music was vibrant and hopeful in the face of death. I thought to myself that we Episcopalians could learn something about hope in those moments. Because in the face of their loss, there was such hope, divided and shared and grown among those gathered..
Reggie preached, and that was hard on him, but he needed to do it. He told stories about their beloved son, yes, and he tied their collective grief into the history of a people who had known suffering before and still do...and had prevailed...and still do. Again and again he would say, “We may be down, but we are not out.” And this is so, I think.
After the family filed out, we left close behind them, back to St. James, and it was clear what needed to be done. Our two hundred chairs and beautifully decorated tables would not be enough. Not by a long shot. So, we got on the phones and started calling around, people were bringing card tables from their homes. The coffee shop down the road let us take their outside tables and chairs. The Catholic church and the Lutheran church got into the act, as well as a nearby synagogue. Church staff and volunteers, and yes, a number of early arriving guests started setting up this abundance of tables as they started coming to be ready for the guests who would soon arrive.
And I don’t know how we managed it, but the ladies who were counting estimated that nearly 600 guests were served that afternoon. I have no clue how our space could somehow expand to feed so many bodies and souls. But it did.
It was a miracle. But there was something more, more miraculous, more Christ-like...more Jesus-like. Side by side, people who had nothing in common except for the love of Jesus and the desire to show love to a grieving family worked to make it happen. People who did not know one another’s names or faces before that day made it happen. People who spend most of their lives on their own side of all those dividing lines made it happen. The greatest miracle is that I think we all got a glimpse of the Kingdom of God that day. At least I think I did.
I know that I did. I know that I saw the face of Jesus in the multiplying of loaves and fishes: in faith and hope, macaroni and cheese and fried chicken and chocolate cake, space and tables and chairs, and most of all multiplying and expanding the space in all of our hearts.
And I like to think that the 5,000 and more who were fed by a boy’s lunch on a hillside so long ago also sensed their own hearts growing with a sense of joy and possibility and hope. Even as we did that day at St. James. It was a miracle and it was a meal. And I could not be more grateful.