“And he told the crowd to take a seat upon the ground. Then he took the five loaves and two fish, looked into the sky above, gave thanks, broke. He gave the bread to his disciples, and they to the crowd” (Matthew 14.19).
In my mind, it’s a summer evening, late summer to be exact. The sun’s sitting well into the west, hidden behind the treetops on the surrounding slope. Shade has stretched across the grass, bringing a welcome relief from the heat of the day. The sky is hazy, blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. Blankets and cloaks lie beneath the people who sit cross-legged, lie upon their stomachs, or stretch out long, propped upon their elbows.
Jesus has probably stopped for a sip of water, his throat dry from speaking to this crowd who will not leave until he does. It’s then that the Disciples come to him, urge him to send these folks home before night falls; it’s almost dinnertime, after all.
Looking out on this crowd stretched deep from his left to his right, those words about dinner get him thinking. Not just about these people making their way home for food but those present who will arrive there and find the fridge and cupboards empty. The Gospel, after all, draws those who have so little in this world. Jesus chooses not to send them away without nourishing their bodies in addition to their souls.
You know the rest. There’s five loaves and a couple of fish that are enough. Excitement and thanksgiving ripples through those gathered there in the summer evening as the cicadas begin their ree-ree song; hands open in anticipation to receive something to feed their hungry stomachs, breaking and handing it to their spouses and children.
And then the first gunshots ring out, so strange in this scene that most people can’t place the sound at first; though, it’s one they know all too well living, as they do, in a region where the State seeks their destruction. Panic ensues as men, women, little kids fall to the ground, their blood pouring into the earth that, as it has since Cain struck down his brother, cries out in grief.
Or, perhaps, that’s how this story may play out today.
If you’ve missed it in the news, the reports are almost unbelievable. Over the past two months over a thousand people have been killed by the Israeli military while trying to get food. Soldiers have opened fire on starving men, women, and children as they stand in line trying to get something to eat from the few organizations who are there to stave off the tragedy in Gaza. Organizations that have faced violence and opposition.
The ongoing campaign in Gaza by the State of Israel is, like everything, an event around which there are strict camps. Critiquing the actions of this particular nation-state is labeled, by some, as an act of anti-Semitism. To comment on the desolation and death that has occurred in this now nearly two-year military action is to bring, from some, questions of why we’ve said nothing about the events of 7 October 2023. It is, like everything else, treacherous ground to trod. And I’ll confess to walking it carefully here.
And, perhaps, placing the story of the miraculous feeding of over five-thousand people into this current context is offensive. But, in my mind, if Scripture has behind it a living, active Breath then we must bring its stories into the moments in which we live. If we don’t, it is just static history without life, without hope.
Hope, in the Gaza story, seems distant. For reasons that seem to me nothing more than cruelty, the State of Israel has blocked and disrupted aid in the form of medical care and nourishment from the people of Gaza. There are charities who continue to struggle, to try and get whatever help they can in to aid the people of this land. And they can use whatever support not just people but governments can provide. But the situation seems almost insurmountable.
It seems to need a miracle worker who can bring about sufficiency from lack.
Which turns us back to the story of that large crowd feasting on bread and fish. There are no guns nor even swords in this account. The people, on their cloaks and blankets, eat and talk before getting up, stretching out the kinks from sitting so long, and head for home in the dusk. There is no bloodshed this day, not here.
But it is coming. The State whose power and wealth rest upon the suffering of the people Jesus has fed know what he’s done. They know that to feed the hungry is to feed their hope. It tempts them to depend upon something besides the State for life. In other words, it shows false what the State always wants us to believe—that it is the source of life and death.
Jesus, in word and action, sought to undermine this propaganda, this lie. He spoke of a different reality, one that is as close as the person next to us. It was a vision that appeared to come crashing down one Friday in spring when those who used violence, hunger, and threats to hold onto power put Jesus to a bloody and painful death. Silenced.
But that silence did not last. And what came after did and can shake the world’s foundations. He lives, two women were first to say. He lives, so many have echoed, which meant this Reality of God exists. And it is close.
What does that mean for us in light of the ongoing tragedy in Gaza? What can we do when leaders are aggressively preventing help and withholding food from a people who need it? Is there something that can change this?
I believe that we are called, as the women at tomb, the first disciples, the centuries of believers to speak. We are compelled to announce that same message: Jesus lives, and so does this Reality he spoke of. A Reality where violence toward the hungry and hurting is wrong. A Realm where those who would do anything to hold onto power will lose it. A World where those who treat others as less than human will know shame, repent, and seek to make right their wrongs.
It seems like so little: to speak (which is to pray), to call attention and to name the wrong of what is happening in the part of the world where over five-thousand people once sat on the summer grass, eating until they were satisfied. But those words will not be ours alone. They echo with those present that day.
Those who could say they tasted of another Way.
Risen One, you fed those who were hungry at the close of the day. We hold before you the people of Gaza who hunger during the long conflict. May they be fed and free from violence. May those behind their suffering relent and repent of their wrongdoing. And may all those who love you speak truth of these events.