What Are You Eating?

2026-44
sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector

The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13A-tr 2), August 2, 2026

Isaiah 55:1-5; Psalm 145: 8-9, 15-22; Romans 9:1-5; Matthew 14:13-21

One Saturday morning I was trying to sleep in, but a sound kept waking me up: crunch, crunch, crunch. Rustle, rustle, crunch, crunch, crunch. I called out from bed: “Spark! What are you eating?” For indeed, the cat had been raiding the wastebasket at 5:00 a.m. For some reason, one of his favorite hobbies is to chew and suck on plastic. I don’t think he’s very bright. Or maybe he’s wicked smart: this could be his passive-aggressive way of asking for breakfast two and a half hours early!

But as I move into my mid-50s, I find that I have to ask myself the same question, with similar annoyance: “What are you eating?” Am I just not that bright? If you’ve ever had to cut back on salt or fat or sugar or gluten or anything else for the sake of your health, doubtless you’ve had to ask yourself that question as well.

And it seems that the Prophet Isaiah, in his own ancient way, asks it today of the people of Israel: “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” In other words: Why do you allow yourself to take in stuff that does not nourish you?

It’s a question for every age. Why do you consume so much junk food and alcohol and bad TV movies? Why do you spend all evening scrolling on your phone when you know what it does to your nervous system? Why do you argue with trolls on social media? How is this helping anyone?

In Isaiah, eating and drinking are closely connected with hearing, because the food and drink on offer are wisdom, which enters by the ears. This is the divine covenant: God gives us wisdom, and in response we commit to be good to one another, which is the natural byproduct of absorbing the wisdom with which God feeds us. By encouraging the people to draw closer to God’s intent for them, the writer envisions a future in which no earthly kings will be necessary, because all Israelites will be counted as royalty, and everyone will live in peace and harmony. In fact, all the other peoples of the world will come to learn wisdom from the Israelites—wisdom that comes from the One who created every human, in all our rich variety.

It seems to me that Jesus taught in the same vein. He never explicitly referred to himself as a king. He just kept lifting up the lowly and pointing people back to God as the source of all that nourishing wisdom.

Now, today’s gospel passage takes place immediately after King Herod has had John the Baptist beheaded. When Jesus hears the news, he just wants to go away quietly for a while to grieve. But the crowds of people who are beginning to idolize Jesus find him anyway and clamor around him. Jesus can’t catch a break, yet he is moved with compassion for them.

By the way, the Greek verb here that’s rendered “had compassion” is translated pretty unimaginatively. The word is way more interesting than that: it’s “esplagchnisomai,” and it refers to a yearning deep in a person’s guts. The same word is used in Luke’s gospel to describe the reaction of the Good Samaritan to the wounded man lying by the side of the road—and also the reaction of the father of the Prodigal Son when he sees him straggling home. Jesus isn’t looking at the crowd and thinking, “Oh gosh, I hope someone helps them.” It’s more like, “My bowels are churning for their needs to be met!” And then he goes about healing those among them who are sick.

On another occasion, in John’s gospel, Jesus comments to his disciples, “I have food to eat that you don’t know about.” They take him literally, and this aggravates Jesus, because he’s talking about his recent conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well. Healing and reassuring and drawing people closer to God can relieve Jesus’ very guts of their distress. So he may be literally hungry, but Jesus is not thinking about that right now. He is perfectly content.

It’s this contentment that Jesus wants to share with the crowds—both literally and metaphorically. So today we hear about one of the only miracles of Jesus attested by all four gospels: the feeding of a multitude.

Notice that Jesus doesn’t take credit for this miracle. It’s not even Jesus’ idea to announce that it’s time to eat. (I hadn’t noticed before that none of these thousands of people appears to have mentioned hunger at all!) The need arises from the disciples’ worry about the crowds: “They’ve been here for hours, and they must be so hungry! Send them away for dinner.”

“I don’t need to do that,” says Jesus. “Dinner was your idea … you provide it.”

I wonder what would have happened had the disciples not worried about the people’s hunger. Did thousands of people really travel out this far without any food for their journey? When Jesus says, “You give them something to eat,” they can only bring him the dinner they themselves have packed. Since the disciples think dinner should be offered, well, they’re the ones to offer it.

There’s something here about who bears the responsibility when a need comes to light. Do you see a need in our community? Don’t go casting around for a messiah to fix it for you. You noticed it: it’s your job.

The disciples are probably keeling over from hunger, but maybe they think it would be terribly rude to stop and eat. As it turns out, their suggestion that it’s dinnertime is well received. Jesus helps them over the hurdle of their anxiety about whether there will be enough, and he does this through a simple fourfold action:

Take. Jesus takes the bread and fish from the disciples.

Bless. Jesus prays over the food.

Break. Jesus breaks the food into smaller pieces.

Give. Jesus distributes the pieces to the disciples to share around.

Take. Don’t hide your food from sight. Let Jesus take it from your hands.

Bless. Don’t take your food for granted. Thank God for it and pray that it will nourish more than just yourself.

Break. Change the form of your food into something that can be more easily consumed.

Give. Share it freely.

This also works with non-literal food. You know that human connection you feel with others, that longing from deep in your guts to see and to be truly seen, to love and to be truly loved? Take it to Jesus. Pray over it with him. Change it into something that can be more easily shared. Then share it. But it all starts when you notice a human need.

Now, it may turn out that you were over-functioning—that you perceived a need that wasn’t really there. It may instead be a reflection of your own hunger. If that’s the case, then striving to address the need may reveal to you how unnecessary it is. When you offer something that people don’t want, well, they won’t take it. That’s an opportunity to grow beyond your misconception. When you circle back around and identify the actual need, that can lead to a shared meal that’s far more nourishing.

There’s one more important piece for us to notice here, and it moves us beyond the question “What are you eating?” into this question: “Where does your food come from?” Kings and emperors are always producing propaganda to shore up their power, and in the ancient world this often took the form of reminders about food: “Who’s the one who makes sure everybody in our realm gets fed? I am! Who’s the one who makes sure foreigners don’t come and steal all our crops? I am!”

In the ancient world, of course, nobody got to choose their own leaders, and those who ruled did so only by clutching tightly to power. A popular uprising could overthrow a tyrant. We hear in the Book of Exodus that Pharaoh feared the Hebrews because they were so numerous. Rather than keeping them mollified, he decided it was better to cull their ranks strategically. If you allow the poor and sick to die, there will be fewer discontented subjects. If you actively get rid of the strong, they will be cowed into submission. To this day, dictators do the same thing.

So when Jesus gathers thousands of people out in the wilderness and then somehow makes sure they all get healed and fed, even the poor and the sick? That’s a politically subversive act! Who needs Caesar when we have a king like Jesus? Jesus never calls himself a king, but he does allow his followers to play with the metaphor. He’ll even ride into Jerusalem on a humble donkey, just like the promised king in the Book of Zechariah.

But whereas earthly emperors secure power by promising to feed the people, Jesus tells his disciples today, “You give them something to eat.” Who feeds us? We feed us. We take bread, break it, and give it to the people. But we don’t neglect that other step in the middle: “bless.” Without blessing the food, we would give ourselves credit for all this abundance! And then we’d be no better than the run-of-the-mill kings and emperors and dictators of the world. As it turns out, we have what we need to feed one another necessary and nourishing food, but not solely from our own efforts. Scarcity turns out to be an illusion, specifically because Jesus is here.

Are you hungry and thirsty today? Are you hungry for hope? For possibility? For human connection? Is that why you came here today—because you suspect that there might be food here that kings and emperors and dictators don’t know about?

According to Isaiah, the food and water that God gives are both delicious and nourishing; God’s teachings are both flavorful and nutritious. So why would we ask for any other food and drink? We’ll help each other to be fed, and that will be a blessing. We’ll make sure we have sustenance enough for the next leg of our journey. But then we’ll keep coming here, too. Because you know what? We don’t come to this place to learn about God. We come here to get to know God personally—by being fed from God’s table.

Do you see a need today? Hear the words of Jesus: “You give them something to eat.” Take your effort and bring it to Jesus to be blessed. Then break it open and give it away—not hoarding your effort, not clinging to it, but watching it miraculously multiply. Amen.