August 2, 2026
Pentecost 10 / Proper 13, Year A
The Rev. Dr. Elaine Ellis Thomas
St. John’s Episcopal Church, Essex, CT
Genesis 32:22-31 ~ Psalm 17:1-7, 16 ~ Romans 9:1-5 ~ Matthew 14:13-21
The kingdom of heaven is like a busload of unexpected guests arriving at dinnertime, and all you have in the pantry is a can of beans and an open box of spaghetti noodles from which you create a gourmet feast, everyone eats their fill, and there are still leftovers to last for days.
The kingdom of heaven is like the most beautiful place you have ever been, and you would do anything to go back there.
The kingdom of heaven is like coming face to face with God and receiving a blessing.
The kingdom of heaven is like something beyond your wildest imagination.
The kingdom of heaven is what Jesus is talking about. It’s what Isaiah meant when he spoke of a peaceable kingdom where lion and lamb live together. It’s John’s vision of the New Jerusalem coming down to us with the river of life running through it. It is the place where no one goes hungry. It is a place where all are welcome.
It is a place where thousands of people show up hungry and we feed them because Jesus said, “You give them something to eat” (Matthew 14:16).
Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve heard a series of parables where Jesus uses outrageous illustrations to describe the kingdom of heaven, but to our contemporary ears, it is hard to grasp just how outrageous they are. A mustard seed becomes a tree? How about this: have you ever seen a giant redwood tree soaring 250 feet into the sky? It starts from a seed the size of a grain of oatmeal. The point Jesus is making in these images is that we cannot even fathom the abundance that is on offer.
The feeding of the 5,000 (which was actually more like 20,000 or 30,000 when you add in the women and children) is in all the gospels, so this miracle was obviously an accepted part of the early story about Jesus. Yet, I’m not sure that is only because it was such a stupefying event. No, I think it’s because it forces us to pay attention, to remember just who it was that Jesus came to serve. It wasn’t the Ceasars of the world or the empires of the world. It was those on the underside of that, the ones who were victims of the rich and powerful. Feeding 5,000 people was not a metaphor or symbol (although we might legitimately use it as such), it was an act of love and mercy. Feed the hungry. That this story shows up multiple times is a good indication of the importance of this basic ministry of tending to the needs of the people right in front of us.
Biblical scholars are quick to point out that this story also directs our attention toward this table at which we gather each week. Jesus took bread, blessed, broke, and gave it, just as I take bread, bless it, break it, and give it to all of you. We don’t share a eucharistic meal to fill our bellies. A little wafer will not do that. But we come to this table hungry just the same, hungry to be filled with grace and mercy and forgiveness, not just to keep that for ourselves but to be sent into the world to share it.
This meal also points us heavenward. At the Last Supper, Jesus says to his friends, “ I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom” (Matthew 26:29). This is our foretaste of that heavenly banquet, as the catechism tells us, nourishing us for service here and promising that there is a greater feast than we can even imagine waiting for us.
Hearing this miraculous feeding story today after the series of short kingdom of heaven parables last week gives the impression that it immediately follows that. Maybe those who compiled our Sunday readings were trying to draw a parallel between that woman who mixed leaven into a small measure of flour that produced an abundant amount of bread, like that given to the crowd on the hillside. But our reading begins with, “Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself” (Matthew 14:13). What we don’t hear is that he had just learned the fate of his cousin John the Baptist. He’s grieving. He needs to get away to pray and remember and maybe to steel himself because John’s death might just be a precursor to his own. But the crowds follow him. They press upon him, and instead of throwing up his hands or heading further into the Galilean hills, he heals the sick and, when the hour grows late, knowing that their bellies are empty, he tells them to take a seat, and he feeds them.
But he doesn’t do it alone. The disciples are his partners in ministry. It must have been overwhelming at times, the need of those who followed them wherever they went. I know we feel that way, too, sometimes. The world is on fire. Wars rage. Earthquakes devastate. Tornadoes destroy. We have more people showing up at our Tuesday soup kitchen than in a long while. And just when we might want to turn away, to feel helpless in the face of so much desperation, Jesus says to us, “you give them something to eat.” And then he gives us the bread we need to share, and there is enough left over for many more.
The kingdom of heaven is like that.