Matthew 14:13-21; August 6, 2023; Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
The other day, whilst sitting on a sunny, summery, beach, my son turned to me and read off his Christmas list. Yes, Christmas. In July. I reminded him that Christmas was no less than five months out, and that we shouldn’t wish away time, especially while on vacation. And, mercifully, that seemed to make sense to him. For about a second. Because just a minute later, he was asking me, “Daddy, what Christmas movies should we watch again?” Kids. God bless them.
Seth’s favorite Christmas movie, at least for a season, was “The Grinch.” No doubt you’ve all seen it. Either the original or the remakes. So, you likely know the moral of the story… that, if you show compassion for even the most unsavory of characters, the literal outcasts, green or otherwise, you could change someone’s heart, and cause it to grow three sizes, and in the process produce a ripple effect that could benefit a whole town of others (or Whos for that matter). For Cindy Lou-Who, you might remember, felt something deep inside for the Grinch, in her bowels that others simply couldn’t; and in showing him compassion, she helped to perform a miracle of sorts, and saved both him and Christmas.
Now, I don’t mean to suggest that Christ is Cindy Lou-Who, or the other way around, or, that we are the Grinch and in need of a heart-transplant, but I do think that my son’s strange, out-of-season request, helped set the stage for what I needed to hear in our scripture today. And about what you need to hear too. About compassion and what it means and what it can do.
Our text from chapter fourteen begins at verse thirteen, reading: “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.” Which is a bit like de-ja-vu, right? I mean, just before I left you all for vacation, our text from Matthew 13 featured Jesus distancing himself, and sitting in a boat. And here I am, just back from Cape May, and that dude is still there. In a boat. But this time, it’s likely a different boat, in a different place, and he seems to be rowing away as opposed to just sitting in it. But, why?
The abruptness of our lectionary’s beginning doesn’t itself offer any clues as to what Jesus heard that made him seclude himself again, to go into his safe space and row away — so we need to read back a bit. And so, my friends, listen again to the word of God, this time to the verses that come right before ours, from the same chapter of Matthew 14, verses 3-12.
3For Herod had arrested John the Baptist, bound him, and put him in prison on account of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, 4because John had been telling him, ‘It is not lawful for you to have her.’ 6And when Herod’s birthday came, the daughter of Herodias danced before the company, and she pleased Herod 7so much that he promised on oath to grant her whatever she might ask. 8Prompted by her mother, she said, ‘Give me the head of John the Baptist on a platter.’ 9The king, out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, commanded it to be given; 10he sent and had John beheaded in the prison. 11The head was brought on a platter and given to the girl, who brought it to her mother. 12And John’s disciples came and took the body and buried it; and then they went and told Jesus.
This, my friends, is what Jesus hears that sends him back to his boat. And can you blame him? His friend, his baptizer, perhaps even his mentor, had just been killed, and in the most sadistic way possible. So once again, justifiably, he needed some distance. Some time to mourn and grieve, and then some space to recoup, regather, and recompose himself — for his human self, for his human soul, and for God’s work in him to be done.
13Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. 14When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick.
And that’s not a misprint nor an abbreviation. It just says, “sick.” Sick. And that he healed their sick, because he had compassion. Compassion, as defined by our common dictionary, means “to express sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others.”
Compassion, as defined by the Biblical Greek lexicon, coming from the verb used in our text σπλαγχνίζομαι (splangkh-nid’-zom-ai) means “to have your bowels yearn; to feel pity, to be moved by sympathy.” To be moved by sympathy; to have your bowels yearn. And as somewhat weird (if not gross) as that sounds, I think the Greek is more fitting to the situation at hand. For just as ours would, Jesus’ bowels, his insides were literally turning over at the gruesome news of his friend’s beheading. Sick to his stomach, his heart was also no doubt shaken and distraught.
And so, he goes away, and takes some time to himself to recover in his boat. And when it’s evening, his disciples come to him and say, 15‘This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.’ Somewhat Grinch-like, actually…But like Cindy Lou-Who, Jesus deep down sympathizes with them. Pitying them, for they too knew John, and they too were grieving.
And so rather than sending them away, “he had compassion on them and healed their sick.” Their sick. Remember the word? σπλαγχνίζομαι (splangkh-nid’-zom-ai) — to have your bowels yearn. Grief, my friends, as you no doubt know is not just an emotional state, but a physical one as well. It makes you sick, and it turns your stomach inside out, to where you can barely eat, and thus you have no food in you, because you feel empty through and through.
And knowing that, sympathizing with that, Jesus feeds us, just as he fed them. He multiplies the loaves and the fish, and he gives them something to hold them over. To get them by. And as wonderful and supernatural and amazing as that is — this miracle of multiplication — the true miracle, in my estimation, is his compassion — his constant want to put the crowd’s needs before his own, loving them despite his own grief. Just like he does here at this table, where he sacrifices his life to put ours before his, he heals our sick; from now until the end of time.
His example is before us then, my friends — to welcome and include the whole crowd here, green, or otherwise. To not send any away. But to give each a space, a place, and a seat at the table, in his boat, where everyone can equally unburden themselves, and have their innermost selves, their souls and their bowels filled with his love, such that all hearts can be comforted, and together, grow at least three sizes bigger.
Amen.
