You've heard it all your life. Jesus fed 5 ,000
with a boy's lunch. Sweet story for Sunday school,
a miracle about food, but what if I told you
this sign was never about the bread? John tells
us the crowd ate until they were full, but then
Jesus turned around and said, Unless you eat
my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life
in you. That's not potluck talk. That's a scandal.
It's the kind of sermon that clears a sanctuary.
So here's the rub. Jesus doesn't come to be your
bread king. Handing out happy meals on demand.
He comes to break the math of scarcity. To wreck
the way we count what's enough. To offer not
crumbs, but his very life. This is not about
bread. It's about the lamb of Passover. The bread
of heaven. And why your hunger runs deeper than
your stomach. I'll see you on the other side.
We're looking at the signs of John, and today
is no exception. Again, really quickly in the
book of John, we find within it what scholars
call the book of signs. There are these seven
things that John lays out that are evidence that
is supernatural in John's opinion and in mine,
that John presents to you, the reader, that proves
that Jesus is who he says he was, the Messiah,
the coming of God in the flesh. And so he puts
these things together that in his life, as his
white eyewitness account might attest to, these
are things I saw and witnessed with my own eyes
that should prove to you that Jesus is who he
says he is because it certainly proves it to
me. And we're going to look at one of these.
Today we're going to look at the feeding of the
5 ,000 and let us set the scene. We're going
to try to put ourselves there on that. hillside
when Jesus performs this miracle and try to put
in our minds what exactly is going on in the
story. So, you've been walking all day. The heat
sits on your shoulders like a sleeping dog. Road
dust clings to your ankles and sneaks between
your toes. Your tongue sticks to the roof of
your mouth. Across the slope, you can smell the
lake, a faint, cool note. And on the wind, you
catch the smell of the salt of dried fish, the
warm, nutty scent of barley, the sweat of people
who've walked a lot farther than they had planned
because hope somehow pulled them along. You didn't
pack a lunch. You weren't even thinking about
lunch. Somebody said he was healing the sick.
Somebody said he spoke to a storm and the water
flattened out like a sheet on a clothesline.
Somebody said a little girl is dead and isn't
dead anymore. So you came. You came because your
body aches and your mind won't rest. Because
your boy needs a future that you can't buy him.
You came because there is a hunger deeper than
bread. And you want to know if that man can touch
that place. The hillside keeps filling. Fishermen
with hands like ropes. Women with babies bound
tight to their chests. Boys chasing each other
through the grass. Fathers counting coins they
don't have. Widows in rough shawls, older men
leaning on walking sticks as polished as river
stones. Some look curious. Some look desperate.
Some look like they're trying not to hope too
hard because disappointment is expensive. And
up the hill a little ways, the rabbi sits with
his disciples encircling him. He scans the crowd,
not like a shepherd counting sheep, but like
a father memorizing faces. He doesn't see a mob.
He sees names. He doesn't see numbers. He hears
stories. He looks at the sun, at the hour, and
he looks at your empty hands. Then he turns to
one of his men, Philip, and asks a question.
that hangs thick in the afternoon where are we
to buy bread so that these people may eat philip's
eyes go wide like he's been asked to lasso the
moon you can almost hear the math clacking in
his head 200 denarii eight months wages 200 wouldn't
be enough to give everybody even a little The
scarcity is loud. Scarcity always is. It knows
the price of everything and the value of very
little. Andrew clears his throat. There's a boy
here, he says, with five barley loaves, two fish.
He shrugs at his own words like he's embarrassed
by them. But what are they, he says, for so many?
And there it is, the human sentence, the one
that follows us from garden to grave. What are
they for so many? What is my little against the
world's need? What is one small lunch against
5 ,000 growling stomachs? What is one small life
against the ache of a thousand sorrows? The boy
looks down at his bundle, rough barley rounds,
the bread of the poor, two little fish, probably
dried and salted. They're really more like garnish
than they are an entree. And he looks up at Jesus,
and Jesus smiles, the kind of smile that says,
I already know what I'm going to do. Before we
read, tune your ears like you're tuning a guitar
in a quiet room. Don't just hear bread, hear
Exodus bread. Don't just see a crowd, see Israel
in the wilderness. Don't just see a rabbi, see
the lamb at Passover and the bread of life in
his hands. John tells you this season on purpose.
So listen hungry, because you are. John chapter
6, beginning with verse 1. After this, Jesus
went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee,
which is the Sea of Tiberias. And a large crowd
was following him because they saw the signs
that he was doing on the sick. Jesus went up
on the mountain, and there he sat down with his
disciples. Now the Passover, the feast of the
Jews, was at hand. Put a pin in that. Lifting
up his eyes then, and seeing that large crowd
was coming, Toward him, Jesus said to Philip,
Where are we to buy bread so that these people
may eat? He said this to test them, for he himself
knew what he would do. Philip answered him, Two
hundred denarii worth of bread would not be enough
for each of them to get even a little. One of
his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter's brother,
said to him, There's a boy here who has five
barley loaves and two fish, but what are they
for so many? So the men sat down, about 5 ,000
in number. Jesus then took the loaves, and when
he had given thanks, he distributed them, put
a pin in that, to those who were seated. So also
the fish, as much as they wanted. And when they
had eaten their fill, he told his disciples,
gather up the leftover fragments that nothing
may be lost. So they gathered them up and filled
12 baskets with the fragments from the five barley
loaves left by those who had eaten. When the
people saw the sign that had been done, they
said, this is indeed the prophet who's coming
to the world. And thus ends. Reading of the word,
my friends. Passover, but in Galilee. John is
not giving you a date stamp here. He's giving
you a decoder ring. John 6 and 4 in our story
says, now the Passover was at hand. Passover
means Exodus. Passover means lamb's blood on
doorposts. The angel of death. Passing over.
Passover means the Red Sea split like a curtain.
The slaves walking out as free people. Passover
means wilderness hunger and heaven's bread. But
we're not in Jerusalem. There's no temple smoke
curling in the sky. No lambs bleeding in the
courtyards. No crowded upper rooms smelling of
bitter herbs and roasted meat. This is Galilee.
This is out in the sticks where fishermen mend
nets and children run barefoot. Mamas carry babies
on their hips. This is in every way the old maps
could possibly tell it outside. And that's actually
the point. John wants you to know deliverance
is on the loose. The things that used to require
a trip. To the holy city. And the sacrifice at
that altar are walking around the countryside
in dusty sandals. The lamb is not waiting politely
in Jerusalem. The lamb is setting a table in
the wild. The exodus is happening on grass, not
marble. The feast is spreading. On a hillside,
not a palace floor. So hold that Passover frame
in your hands and watch this story unfold. Lamb,
liberation, wilderness, bread. John mentions
it here so that every bite taken on the hillside
will taste to you like Exodus. The disciples
carry clipboards in their heads. Philip counting
calories and cost, 200 denarii wouldn't be enough.
And you know what? He isn't wrong. He's just
stuck in the world where you only get what you
pay for. Andrew notices a boy. There's a boy
here. Bless him for that line, right? The boy's
not a metaphor. He is not a sermon illustration
in sandals. He is a human child whose mama packed
his lunch because mamas do that kind of holy,
ordinary thing. Five barley loaves, the poor
man's bread, coarse and humble. Two fish, likely
small, dried, salted, not much. But it is what
the boy has. Andrew keeps talking, but what are
they for so many? And you can almost see the
boy's fingers tighten on the bundle. Not because
he doesn't want to share, but because he's learned
the math of the world. Small things don't matter,
except in the kingdom of God, small is the doorway.
Little becomes large. Not enough becomes more
than enough. The kingdom always starts as a mustard
seed, a pinch of yeast, a widow's mite, a lunch
pail in a child's hand. That's gospel arithmetic.
In Jesus' hands, scarcity loosens, sufficiency
rises, and abundancy spills over the sides of
the baskets that we could never believe could
have been full in the first place. Let me say
it plain for the folks in the back. There is
a world of difference between what we've got
and what God can do with what we've got. The
first is a budget. The second is a blessing.
The first is a ledger. The second is life. So
Jesus says, have the people sit down. Soft command.
Sit down in the grass. Stop hustling. Stop counting.
Stop trying to solve what grace intends to give
you. Sit down, saints and sinners alike, because
the kingdom is not a drive -thru. It's a table.
John wants our ears to be tuned to that old wilderness
song. In a few verses, the crowd themselves will
quote it. Our fathers ate the manna in the wilderness
as it is written. He gave them bread from heaven
to eat. People of Israel remembered manna, that
morning bread, like pearls. Exodus 16 and 4 says,
Behold, I am about to rain bread from heaven
for you. A few verses later, Exodus says, They
said to one another, What is it? They did not
know what it was. The 78th Psalm says, He commanded
the skies above. He rained down on them manna
to eat. Man ate the bread of angels. Keep that
music playing beneath this hillside scene because
John says Passover and your heart, again, should
always answer Exodus. Here they are again, a
people far from the city walls, hands open, stomachs
empty, a wilderness of need stretching out into
the horizon. And here he is again, the God who
feeds people where they are. But remember the
old truth. The manna was enough for the day.
If you tried to hoard it, it turned sour. The
Israelites ate and lived, but they died in the
wilderness too. So Jesus will say later in this
very chapter, laying the old and new bread side
by side. Jesus says, your fathers ate the manna
in the wilderness and they died. Then he points
to himself. He says, this is the bread that comes
down from heaven so that one may eat of it and
not die. I, he says, I am the living bread that
came down from heaven. Anyone eats of this bread,
he will live forever. Can you hear perhaps what
John is doing? He's not just talking about a
miracle meal. He's actually declaring a new exodus.
The old bread was real, but that was a rehearsal.
The real show is Jesus. The old bread could hold
off hunger until sundown. This bread holds off
death. Verse 11 is a four -beat drum. Took, gave
thanks, distributed. We know from the synoptics,
broke that bread. That's the same shape of the
supper. Matthew, Mark, Luke, I always say, is
told in the first three Gospels, as well as the
Apostle Paul's first letter to the Corinthian
church when I do the words of institution. Matthew,
Mark, Luke talk about what happens in that upper
room. John does too. I'm going to get to this
in a minute, but he doesn't talk about the communion
part. It's interesting. But I think he does.
Stick with me. John leaves the table silent.
And instead, in his version of what happens in
the upper room, John leans into Jesus kneeling
to wash the disciples' feet. It's not because
John had forgotten what took place at the meal
and its importance. It's because John places
the meal here in this story. Listen to the verbs
again from our passage today. See if they don't
sound familiar. Jesus then took the loaves, and
when he had given thanks, he distributed or broke
them. Same language as the upper room. That's
not by accident. That is on purpose. John is
written in the 90s, the first century, not the
1990s, the 90s, right? John knows about these
other gospel accounts. John knows that they all
talk about the upper room and about the bread
and the cup. And it's not like John doesn't believe
in it. John says, you already got that covered.
Let me tell you something else that is important
about what happened that night. And he explains
the washing of the feet. But Jesus establishing
the new Exodus covenant where he becomes the
new sacrifice, the bread and the cup. This isn't
lost on John. John wants to tell you that story
as well. But when he tells it, he's actually
telling it in this way, calling back to the wilderness
in the Exodus. See how he's doing it? I hope.
We'll see how we get there when we get there.
In John's upper room, it preaches a different
key, the basin and the towel, dirty heels, clean
hearts, the master on his knees. If you will
eat me, you must also embody me, though, he says.
The meal serves as servanthood. The table means
towel. The bread of life means the way of love.
Now, after they've eaten the feast, there is
a line in scripture that I wish we could tattoo
on our hearts. Gather up the leftover fragments
that nothing may be lost. If you or I multiplied
bread out of thin air, we might tell the disciples,
kick the crumbs into the grass. We can always
make more. I just did it. Not Jesus. He insists
that they gather the fragments. The Greek word
for fragments is the same word used for the pieces
of bread after the breaking at the table. He
gave the pieces, the fragments. Same word here
is used. Again, John is tying these two things
together. Because the pieces matter to him. The
leftovers to Jesus matter. The things that the
world calls waste are to Jesus' witness. And
they gather 12 baskets full. Bring that truth
near your own story. There are seasons in your
life you wish you could forget. Chapters that
feel like burnt edges. Ears that look like crumbs
on the floor. Jesus says, gather them up because
your fragments are not garbage in my kingdom.
Your fragments are material for miracles. Your
fragments are how I will tell the story of abundance
to the next hungry soul. So let's go back to
the little boy for a second. He's nameless in
the text and famous in heaven. I would imagine.
And he's not a prince or a priest. He's just
a kid with a sack. He does what many of us are
simply afraid to do. He gives what he has. And
this miracle does not begin with thunder. It
begins with permission. Permission to be small
and still be a part of the story. The boy is
not solving hunger. He's offering what he has
to the one who can. This is the difference between
religion as anxiety and gospel as grace. Anxiety
says, you have to fix it. The gospel says, give
it to Jesus and let him do his work. Imagine
his eyes as the loaves go out and they don't
run out. As fish keep finding plates. As the
people's faces softened from tight and tired
to full and laughing. Imagine him clutching the
rim of one of those baskets while the disciples
loop through the crowd and the bread multiplies
in hands he can't see. Imagine the moment Jesus
catches his eye and nods like, you and me, kid,
we did this together. Not because Jesus needed
his lunch. Because Jesus loves to let children
carry the corner of his miracles. That's still
the way of it. He lets us carry the corners.
Prayer, whispered in a pantry line, casserole
left on someone's porch. Tithing check that doesn't
look like much until grace multiplies it. A sermon
preached with a trembling voice. A hand on a
shoulder at a hospital bed. We all carry corners
and he feeds the crowds. Our little in his hands
is never little again. And let me talk to the
weary ones for one minute. The ones who have
been living on spiritual crackers, rationing
their hope. Some of you are surviving on the
memory of a miracle that happened years ago.
Hear me. Memory is holy ground. Sought the whole
meal, but it is like a warm stove. Gather your
fragments of remembered grace. Take them into
your hands and say, this happened. And when this
happened to me, he met me there. And ask the
bread of life to multiply the old mercies into
fresh courage. Some of us carry our shame like
backpacks full of rocks. Some of us think our
fragments disqualify us from the table. Jesus
has bring them forward. I am the one who gathers
the fragments. I am the one who loses nothing.
If a crumb matters to me, it should matter to
you because you matter to me. Some of you have
a boy's lunch in your hands and a voice in your
head that says it isn't much. And you're right.
It isn't. until it's placed in his hands. Do
not insult the giver by hiding the gift. Bring
it and watch what he does. So here's the invitation.
Simple as a front porch call at suppertime. Come
hungry. Don't bring your resume. Don't bring
your price list. Don't bring your excuses. Bring
your hunger. Come if you are Philip with a calculator
that keeps up coming short. Come if you're Andrew,
nervous and honest, whispering, but what is this
for so many? Come if you are the boy with the
lunch and a good mama who taught you to share.
Come if you are the one who got here late and
stood in the back and hoped there'd be enough
left for you. Come if you're a skeptic who still
needs to see. Come if you are broken and you
need to be gathered. Come, if you are proud,
you need to just sit for a while in the grass.
Come hungry to the Christ who takes what we have
and thanks the Father and breaks it open and
gives it away until fear loosens and gratitude
sings. Come hungry to the lamb who sets the table
outside the city for people the city keeps forgetting.
Come hungry to the bread who promises not just
enough. but life, and who will not lose a single
fragment along the way. And when he has fed you,
because he will, gather the leftovers, tell the
story, pack the baskets of memory, and carry
them to the ones who couldn't make it up the
hill today. Let your kitchen be a chapel. Let
your porch steps be a pulpit. Let your Tuesday
look like loaves in Jesus' hands, taken, blessed,
broken, given. Five loaves, two fish, one Savior,
twelve baskets. Come hungry. Amen? Amen. Five
loaves, two fish, one Savior. 12 baskets. And
here's the line you can hang your hat on. Gather
the fragments that nothing may be lost. That's
Jesus' way of saying you're not garbage. And
you know what? Nothing in you is wasted. The
world teaches us to measure scarcity, not enough
money, not enough time, not enough faith. But
in the kingdom, Jesus gathers the crumbs. He
gathers you. your fractured seasons, your burnt
edges, your tired soul. Every fragment matters.
That's the comfort of John 6. You don't have
to perform. You don't have to pay. Just come
hungry. Sit in the grass. Let the shepherd feed
you. And when you rise, you carry baskets of
memory enough to share with the ones who couldn't
make it up the hill. So if this spoke to you,
don't just scroll on. Gather the fragments. Share
this with a friend. Subscribe so you don't miss
the next meal of mercy. This is the Semi -Seminarian
Revival for your ears. I'll see you next time.
Therefore, leading the principles and the doctrines
of Christ, let us go on.