Scripture can be found here…
“Now, when Jesus heard this…” That’s how our passage from Matthew’s gospel begins this morning. And so we have to ask, Heard what?
What Jesus heard, was that John the Baptist was dead. John, who was his cousin. John, the one who poured the waters of baptism over countless people; who poured them over Jesus himself. John, who was a prophet—which doesn’t mean a fortune-teller so much as a truth-teller.
If we let our eyes travel up the page, to the passage just before this one, we read the whole, terrible story.
It was John’s truth-telling that did it. He told Herod the ruler that his marriage to his brother’s wife was unlawful. And Herod wanted to kill him right away, only… the crowds. The people. They loved John. They believed in him. John was the real deal.
So Herod settled for putting John in prison, until the night of his very posh birthday party. There, his step-daughter danced for him, a young woman the gospels don’t name, but whom tradition calls Salome. She danced, and her performance so delighted Herod that he promised her any reward she wanted. Her mother, tired of being slut-shamed by the prophet, called this shot. She called for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. And—get this—out of respect for both his promise and his guests, Herod complied.
So, when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself, for all the reasons you’d imagine. The grief. The horror. The need to pray, to feel God’s presence reassuring him. And, let us be honest, the threat. Jesus knows the cross lies ahead of him… he’s mentioned it already, a few chapters ago. But he also knows, this is not yet that time. So, he withdraws. He wants to be alone. He climbs into a boat, and his disciples row, and they seek another shore.
But the crowds want him. They go the long way, rushing around the coastline, and they beat him there, and they meet him there.
And when Jesus sees them, he is moved with compassion.
For us, the word compassion derives from the Latin word; it means “to suffer with.” When we see someone who is suffering, we feel their pain. We are wired that way. If we don’t feel compassion, it has been trained out of us, and more’s the pity. The scriptures tell us, over and over, what psalm told us this morning: The Lord is gracious and full of compassion.
And the biblical understanding of compassion—in both Testaments—is connected to our bodies. We feel others’ pain in our guts; in Hebrew, it’s the word for womb. Compassion is womb-love.
Jesus, even in his shocked, grieving, and perhaps fearful state, still has the capacity to feel compassion for the people who are so desperate to see him. So, instead of running away from them, he begins to heal them. He cures their sick.
The kin-dom of heaven is like a person whose heart is broken, who reaches out to heal other broken hearts.
And the sun moves across the sky, and suddenly, it is time—past time—for dinner.
You know what happens next. The disciples think, that’s enough of that. Let’s send them on their way, and they can pick up some sandwiches at the local bodega.
But Jesus says, you give them something to eat.
The kin-dom of heaven is like a tiny bit of bread and fish, which, taken, and blessed, and broken, and given away, feeds thousands.
You could call it a miracle.
You could call it a miracle that the people managed to find Jesus in this deserted place, when his every intention was to be alone.
You could call it a miracle that Jesus cured the hurting, sick people who presented themselves to him.
You could call it a miracle that five loaves and two fish fed, perhaps, ten thousand people, if we’re counting all the people, and not just the men.
The kin-dom of heaven is like a miracle you can’t explain.
But what if the miracle is compassion?
What if the miracle is, reaching out to help others to heal, even in the midst of our own brokenness?
What if the miracle is recognizing that suffering is not a zero-sum game—that acknowledging the hardships and horrors others endure does not subtract from those we endure?
The kin-dom of heaven is like a tiny seed of compassion which, when planted deeply, can heal the world—and feed it, too.
The kin-dom of heaven is justice and peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. Come, Lord, and open in us the gates of your kin-dom.
Thanks be to God. Amen.