After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, also called the Sea of Tiberias. A large crowd kept following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing for the sick. Jesus went up the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near. When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. When they were satisfied, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” So they gathered them up, and from the fragments of the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.” (John 6:1-21)
Suppose I think of God only as the all-knowing, all-powerful creator of the world and judge of us all. And suppose I think of God’s love as protection and reward for good deeds. I may even believe God grants amnesty when we confess our errors. Yet, those beliefs would not suffice for me to believe.
I might try not to think of God, or place an agnostic moratorium on belief, or declare atheism altogether. More likely, I would take the route of the practical atheist. That means hedging my bets and declaring belief in God for the record but living as if God does not get involved. God then leaves it to me to take care of myself alone.
Yet, my needs and those of my family overwhelm me. If my care extends into the wider world, the needs of billions overwhelm me. If I stand with Jesus like Philip and Andrew, all too soon, here come the crowds. Hungry and thirsty for whatever the miraculous healer will give, they bring their needs. They want some hero to fix everything in their helpless paralysis under Caesar’s thumb. Worse, Jesus turns up the heat with a question: “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” (v. 5) Overwhelming.
The practical atheist answers: “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” Also, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” (vv. 7, 9) The practical atheist within moves into fight/flight/freeze mode. There seems no time to think of powers unseen and trust in One unknown.
So I look at what I can see and grasp with my hands. Yet, seeing too little, I sink back into that helplessness. But I am not surprised, for I share with my milieu an assumption of scarcity. I share the common sense belief that there is never enough. Rather, we must scrape and hoard and protect what is ours to survive.
Later in the day, winds rise, the sun descends, and the surf roars. Despite the overwhelming elements, Jesus turns up the heat again. He sees us off in our boat to the other side. Then he ascends the mountain like Moses, alone to commune with God. Back in fight/flight/freeze mode, we forget what he did with the crowds. We assume the power he displayed then cannot touch this storm, so we batten down the hatches.
That power made him look like Moses in the wilderness before he ever scaled the mountain. For Jesus took those five barley loaves and two fish and proliferated them like manna, feeding the multitude with leftovers to spare. They rejoiced, we rejoiced, albeit stunned with wonder, unable to fathom the very morsels in our teeth. This man not only healed biological bodies but an entire social body. He converted our selfishness-making hunger into community-forming satisfaction. But now the winds drive the memory of it away.
The Psalmist pronounces, “Fools say in their hearts, ‘There is no God,’” (Ps 14:1a). Although his feeding made a fool of my inner practical atheist, the boat pitches and lightning flashes. We cannot hear each other over the roar. Each man fears for his body, his breath, his future.
Everything began with chaotic waters like these. God sent a great wind that shaped and ordered it. With a word, God bequeathed light, land, and blue sky by day and stars by night. Birds flew, creatures crept or swam. Finally God molded human beings from mud (Gen 1) to make mischief. But all now seems gone as we see our lives flash before our eyes in these chaotic waters.
Then we see Jesus walking alone, more overwhelming than the hungry crowd that walked our way that day. He walks toward the shore, free from the emperor, fear, and even nature’s laws. Like Moses again, he comes from nowhere to lead us to land and away from our bondage to fear. Having silenced our foolish hearts saying, “There is no God,” he hears our hearts’ desire for him to join us. And in an instant, we stand ashore under the stars and among the living, abiding in his calm. Like God, he masters the chaotic waters, and like Moses, he leads us to freedom.
So I stand before you today convinced. I do not know how much historical fact these mythical stories contain. But either way, they tell the truth of my experience and, I hope, yours. When scarcity seems all too real and I do not know what tomorrow will bring, Christ shows up. When the storms threaten to toss me like a toy and swallow me in the depths, Christ shows up. Maybe not right away. Maybe not with a familiar face or the kind of power I thought I needed, but Christ meets me. Christ creates worlds I cannot conjure on my own and satisfies hunger for more than food. He calms seas and sees me to my destination when peril and disorientation seem my new normal.
I believe that Christ is our judge. But not a judge on a high bench protected by armed officers imposing sentences in legalese we cannot understand. Nor is he a judge who offers the carrot of conditional mercy. Rather, Christ, our judge, so loves us that he comes from above and meets us in our overwhelming. Moreover, he submits to the ultimate overwhelming of the cross. He thereby sets us free from ourselves first of all, from the practical atheist within that insists that we are alone to master the perils of life with insufficient resources. He frees each of us from the narrative of surviving alone in a perilous world. The risen, living Christ bids us journey with him to a kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
Free of that narrative of surviving alone by wits and luck, we find ourselves free for a narrative of belonging and welcoming. My story finds its way into our story, the church’s story, which is all about God’s story. We find ourselves in the community that the Holy Spirit rallies together from Pentecost until today and tomorrow. Christ as Moses provides freedom and food that sustains a gathering of people who seek his face. He frees us from control by anxiety and hunger that leads to excessive self-concern. Thus, Christ frees us for participation in a community marked by love for each other.
Granted, the Church often seems a motley crew in a storm-tossed boat. This is, after all, a nave. But when winds and tides spin us and the compass falls overboard in the night, Christ appears. He moves us through the chaos in a straight line for the destination. When we recognize and welcome him, he takes us there in the twinkling of an eye.
So I believe in God, not because I found a convincing philosophical argument, not because of self-discipline to earn my place, nor because of any great prudence on my part. I believe in God because Christ is more overwhelming than the perils of life. He meets me and calls me to follow him alongside you. And together, with every act of love we do in his name and with every divine mercy to which we bear witness, we not only hope for his peace to come, but we abide in his kingdom now. What a fool I would be not to believe.
To hear the sermon delivered on YouTube, click here. Participate in the worship service at St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in Athens, Georgia on July 28, 2024, or if you wish to hear the sermon only, forward to 47:10.
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