Homilies from the Hill
A collection of Sunday homilies from Peter Gibbs, reflecting on faith, life and the Gospel from our little corner of South-West France.
A Word to Every Reader
Homilies from the Hill are written from readings taken from the Holy Bible, following the Christian Lectionary and the pattern of the Church Year. The readings can be found at:-
The Lectionary Page. https://www.lectionarypage.net/
Bible Gateway. https://www.biblegateway.com/
However, they are offered for everyone.
They can be read and enjoyed by people of all faiths, or by those who have no religious faith.
It is hoped that, whoever reads these thoughts from week to week, will find something to enjoy, something to question and perhaps something to reflect upon — exploring subjects, experiences and questions that are close to us all.
Everyone is very welcome here, whoever you are and whatever your beliefs.
I hope you have enjoyed reading this week’s homily. If you have, please do pass our link on to anyone you feel may enjoy it too.
Sunday 30 August 2026
Peter Gibbs
Proper 17: Year A
Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity / Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Take Up Your Cross
Readings:
Jeremiah 15:15–21 • Psalm 26:1–8 • Romans 12:9–21 • Matthew 16:21–28
From the Hill
There are some passages of Scripture that comfort us, and there are others that challenge us.
Today’s readings do both. They remind us that faith is not always easy, that following Christ does not mean that life will be without difficulty, and yet, through all our struggles, God does not abandon us.
Jeremiah begins by speaking with remarkable honesty. He has been faithful to God, yet he feels wounded, rejected and alone.
“Why is my pain unceasing?” he asks.
Jeremiah is not pretending that everything is fine. He brings his disappointment and frustration directly before God.
That is something worth remembering. Prayer does not require us to pretend.
God can cope with our questions, our anger, our disappointments and our doubts.
Jeremiah discovers that although he feels overwhelmed, God is still with him:
“I am with you to save you and deliver you.”
The Psalm continues that theme.
“Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked with integrity.”
The psalmist is seeking to remain faithful even when circumstances are difficult. There is a quiet determination here: I may not understand what is happening, but I will continue to trust God.
And then we come to Paul’s words in Romans, which seem at first almost deceptively simple.
“Let love be genuine.”
What a remarkable instruction.
Not look as though you love one another. Not say the right things. Not pretend to care.
Let love be genuine.
Paul then gives us a practical description of what genuine Christian love looks like:
Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep; live peaceably with one another; do not repay evil for evil; overcome evil with good.
This is Christianity brought down from the church building and placed directly into everyday life.
It is about how we speak to one another. How we behave when somebody has hurt us. How we respond when someone succeeds and we are struggling. How willing we are to forgive. How we treat the person with whom we disagree.
And then Matthew brings us to the heart of the matter.
Jesus tells his disciples that he is going to Jerusalem, where he will suffer and be killed. Peter cannot accept this. He takes Jesus aside and protests:
“God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”
Peter loves Jesus. His reaction is understandable. He wants to protect him. But Jesus responds with extraordinarily strong words:
“Get behind me, Satan!”
Why such a severe response?
Because Peter is thinking in human terms. He cannot yet understand that the way of God is not always the way of power, safety and success.
Jesus then says something that reaches across the centuries directly to us:
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”
We sometimes use the phrase “my cross to bear” to describe an inconvenience or a difficulty. But Jesus is speaking about something much deeper.
The cross represents a willingness to follow Christ even when that path is difficult.
It does not mean that we should deliberately seek suffering. Christianity is not a religion that glorifies pain for its own sake. Rather, it means that when doing what is right becomes difficult, we do not automatically turn away.
Sometimes taking up our cross means forgiving someone when we would rather remain angry.
Sometimes it means standing beside somebody who is lonely when it would be easier to walk away.
Sometimes it means speaking the truth gently when silence would be more comfortable.
Sometimes it means accepting that we cannot control everything and placing our future into God’s hands.
And sometimes, like Jeremiah, it means continuing to pray when we feel that our prayers are going nowhere.
There is an important connection between all our readings today.
Jeremiah feels overwhelmed, but God says, “I am with you.”
The Psalmist struggles, but continues to walk with God.
Paul tells us that genuine love must be lived out in practical ways.
And Jesus tells us that discipleship means following him, even when the road leads somewhere we would rather not go.
The Christian life is therefore not a promise that the road will always be smooth.
It is a promise that we do not walk it alone.
Perhaps that is one of the most important things we can take from these readings.
We are not promised a life without difficulty. We are promised God’s presence within it.
And when Jesus says, “Take up your cross and follow me,” he is not saying, “Carry this burden alone.”
He is saying, in effect, Come with me.
The cross is not the end of the story. Beyond the cross comes resurrection. Beyond apparent defeat comes new life. Beyond the darkness comes light.
That is why Paul can tell us to “overcome evil with good.” He knows that the way of Christ ultimately leads towards life.
So this week, perhaps we might ask ourselves three simple questions.
Where am I being called to trust God more deeply?
Where am I being called to make my love more genuine?
And what might “taking up my cross” mean for me today, not tomorrow, not next year, but today?
We may not have all the answers.
Jeremiah didn’t.
Peter didn’t.
The disciples certainly didn’t.
But they discovered something that we too can discover:
God is faithful even when we are uncertain.
So let us walk the road with Christ.
Let us carry what we are called to carry.
Let us love genuinely.
Let us refuse to repay evil with evil.
And above all, let us remember that wherever the road leads, Christ walks it with us.
Thought for the Week
Taking up our cross does not mean carrying our burdens alone. It means trusting that Christ walks beside us, even when the road is difficult, and choosing love when it would be easier to choose fear, anger or despair.
A Prayer for the Week Ahead
Lord Jesus Christ,
you call us to follow you,
even when the road is difficult.
Give us courage when we are afraid,
faith when we are uncertain,
and strength when our burdens seem too heavy.
Teach us to love genuinely,
to forgive generously,
to overcome evil with good,
and to walk humbly with you.
When we are like Jeremiah
and cannot understand our circumstances,
remind us that you are with us.
When we are like Peter
and cannot see where the road is leading,
help us to trust you.
And when we are asked to take up our cross,
help us not to carry it alone,
but to remember that you are beside us
every step of the way.
May our lives become a reflection
of your love, your grace and your peace.
Amen.
May peace be with you for the coming week.
Peter Gibbs, Reader for the Anglican Church in Midi-Pyrénées and Aude, France.
Sunday 23 August 2026
Peter Gibbs
Proper 16: Year A
12th Sunday after Trinity / 13th Sunday after Pentecost
Who Do You Say That I Am?
Readings:
Isaiah 51:1–6 • Psalm 138 • Romans 12:1–8 • Matthew 16:13–20
You may like to read these verses from a Holy Bible, or you can find the readings online at:
The Lectionary Page. https://www.lectionarypage.net/
Bible Gateway. https://www.biblegateway.com/
From the Hill
There are some questions in life that are easy to answer.
“What is your name?”
“Where do you live?”
“What do you do?”
But then there are questions that reach much deeper.
“Who are you?”
“What do you believe?”
“What is your life really about?”
And perhaps the most important question of all, the one Jesus asks his disciples in today’s Gospel:
“Who do you say that I am?”
That is not simply a question about what we know about Jesus. It is a question about our relationship with him — and ultimately about who we are called to be.
Our readings today begin with Isaiah speaking to a people who have forgotten where they came from.
“Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug.”
It is a beautiful image.
Isaiah is reminding God’s people: Remember your foundations. Remember where you came from. Remember what God has already done.
Sometimes, when life becomes difficult, we can become so focused on what is immediately in front of us that we forget the long story of God’s faithfulness.
We look at the cracks in the present and forget the foundations beneath us.
But Isaiah says, in effect: Look back. Remember.
God took Abraham and Sarah and made from them a people. God brought hope out of apparent impossibility. God has not finished with you yet.
That message speaks to us today.
Faith is not pretending that everything is easy. Faith is remembering that God has been faithful before — and trusting that God will remain faithful.
And then we come to the Gospel.
Jesus asks his disciples:
“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”
They give him various answers.
Then Jesus makes the question personal:
“But who do you say that I am?”
Peter answers:
“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”
It is one of the great declarations of faith in the New Testament.
And Jesus responds by telling Peter that upon this rock he will build his church.
Peter’s answer matters, because Christianity is not simply a collection of teachings, rules or traditions.
At its heart is a person.
Jesus Christ.
And the question Jesus asks Peter is also a question he asks each one of us:
“Who do you say that I am?”
We may answer differently at different stages of our lives.
Perhaps at one time Jesus was simply a figure from Bible stories.
Later, perhaps, he became a teacher, someone whose words offered wisdom and guidance.
Then perhaps we discovered that he was more than a teacher — that he was someone who knew us, loved us and called us personally.
And faith continues to grow.
We never really finish discovering who Jesus is.
But there is something else in today’s readings which is important.
Paul, writing to the Romans, tells them:
“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.”
In other words, faith is not merely something we believe in our heads.
It becomes something we live.
Paul goes on to describe the different gifts given to members of the Christian community.
Some are called to teach.
Some to serve.
Some to encourage.
Some to give.
Some to lead.
Some to show mercy.
There is no suggestion that everyone must do the same thing.
Instead, Paul says that we are one body in Christ, and individually we are members of it.
That is wonderfully liberating.
God does not ask us to be someone else.
God asks us to offer what we have.
Our gifts may be different.
Our circumstances may be different.
Our abilities may change as we grow older.
But there remains a place for every one of us within the body of Christ.
Perhaps we sometimes think that because we cannot do what we once did, we have less to offer God.
But Paul does not say that the value of a Christian depends upon physical strength, age, status or achievement.
He speaks of gifts.
And one of the greatest gifts we can offer is simply ourselves — our prayers, our encouragement, our kindness, our experience, our compassion and our willingness to be available to God.
The Church is not built only by those who stand at the front.
It is built by every person who quietly lives out the love of Christ.
And perhaps this brings us back to Peter.
Jesus says:
“Who do you say that I am?”
Peter gives the right answer.
But Peter will soon discover that knowing the answer is only the beginning.
He will have to learn what it means to follow Jesus.
He will make mistakes.
He will misunderstand.
He will even deny Jesus.
And yet Jesus does not abandon him.
That gives me great hope.
Because being a Christian does not mean that we always get everything right.
It means that when we stumble, Christ continues to call us.
So today, perhaps we can hear three invitations in our readings.
Remember where you have come from.
Isaiah tells us to look to the rock from which we were hewn.
Remember who Christ is.
Jesus asks each of us, “Who do you say that I am?”
And finally:
Remember that you have something to offer.
Paul reminds us that we are members of one body, each with gifts to share.
The Christian life is therefore not simply about looking backwards, although we remember God’s faithfulness.
It is not simply about looking upwards, although we worship Christ.
It is also about looking forwards — asking:
“Lord, what would you have me do with the life, the gifts and the opportunities you have given me?”
We may not have all the answers.
But perhaps we don’t need to.
We simply need to take the next step.
For the same Jesus who asked Peter that great question continues to ask us today:
“Who do you say that I am?”
And our answer is not found only in our words.
It is found in the way we live.
Thought for the Week
We are not called to be someone else.
We are called to offer to God who we are, and to use whatever gifts we have been given in the service of Christ and his people.
Amen.
A Prayer for the Week Ahead
Lord Jesus Christ,
you call each one of us by name
and ask us, “Who do you say that I am?”
Help us to know you more deeply,
to trust you more completely,
and to follow you more faithfully.
Remind us of the foundations of our faith
and of all the ways in which you have been faithful to us.
Help us to recognise the gifts you have given us,
however small or ordinary they may seem,
and teach us to use them for the good of others.
Where we are tired, give us strength.
Where we are uncertain, give us courage.
Where we have stumbled, give us grace to begin again.
Make us, together, your living body in this world —
a people of faith, hope and love.
And may our answer to your question,
“Who do you say that I am?”
be seen not only in what we say,
but in the lives that we live.
In your holy name we pray.
Amen.
Peter Gibbs, Reader for the Anglican Church in Midi-Pyrénées and Aude, France.
Sunday 16 August 2026
Peter Gibbs
From The Hill
Bread for the Journey
11th Sunday after Trinity – Proper 15, Year A
Readings:
Isaiah 56: 1, 6–8
Psalm 67
Romans 11: 1–2a, 29–32
Matthew 15: (10–20), 21–28
Even the Crumbs
There are some Gospel stories that make us feel comfortable.
And then there are stories that make us stop, scratch our heads, and say:
“Jesus, what are you doing?”
Today’s Gospel is one of those stories.
A Canaanite woman comes to Jesus. She is desperate. Her daughter is suffering, and she believes that Jesus can help her.
She cries out:
“Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”
And what does Jesus do?
Nothing.
He does not answer her.
The disciples become irritated and say, essentially, “Send her away. She is making a nuisance of herself.”
And then Jesus says something even more uncomfortable:
“I was sent only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel.”
The woman, however, refuses to go away.
She kneels before him.
“Lord, help me.”
And Jesus replies:
“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
That sounds extraordinarily harsh.
And yet the woman does something remarkable.
She does not argue.
She does not walk away.
She does not give up.
Instead, she says:
“Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.”
And Jesus responds:
“Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”
And her daughter is healed.
There is something wonderfully challenging here.
The woman knows something about God that even the disciples have not yet fully understood.
She knows that there is enough.
Enough mercy.
Enough love.
Enough grace.
Enough bread.
Enough room at God’s table.
She asks only for the crumbs.
And Jesus gives her everything.
Isaiah gives us the same message, but from another direction.
The prophet speaks of foreigners who have joined themselves to the Lord.
People who, according to the religious boundaries of the time, might have been regarded as outsiders.
But God says:
“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.”
Not just for some people.
Not just for the people who look like us, worship like us, speak like us, or belong to the right group.
All peoples.
And then Psalm 67 gives us that extraordinary prayer:
“Let the nations be glad and sing for joy.”
The blessing of God is not something to be locked away.
It is something to be shared.
God’s table is not a private dining room.
It is a table with room for the whole world.
And then we come to Paul in Romans.
Paul wrestles with the painful question of Israel’s relationship with God.
And his conclusion is astonishing:
“For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.”
God does not give up on people.
Even when people turn away from God, God does not simply cross their names off the list.
God’s mercy keeps reaching.
Keeps calling.
Keeps waiting.
Keeps opening the door.
Perhaps that is one of the most important things we can hear today.
Because we are very good at drawing lines.
We draw lines between insiders and outsiders.
Between people who belong and people who don’t.
Between those we think deserve God’s blessing and those we think don’t.
Sometimes we even draw those lines within ourselves.
We think:
“I have failed too much.”
“I have gone too far.”
“God couldn’t possibly want someone like me.”
But the Gospel says otherwise.
The Canaanite woman stands outside the boundaries.
And yet she discovers that God’s mercy has no boundary.
There is also something else happening in this Gospel.
Jesus allows himself to be challenged.
The woman will not accept the boundaries placed around her.
And somehow, through that encounter, the disciples—and perhaps we ourselves—are invited to see something new about the kingdom of God.
The kingdom is bigger than we thought.
The table is bigger than we thought.
The mercy is bigger than we thought.
And perhaps the Church is called to be a place where people discover that.
A place where nobody has to stand outside waiting for permission to receive God’s grace.
A place where there is bread enough for everyone.
It reminds me of the little boy in John’s account of the feeding of the five thousand.
He has five barley loaves and two fish.
It is almost nothing compared with the size of the crowd.
But he offers what he has.
And Jesus takes it.
And somehow, in the hands of God, there is enough.
That seems to be a recurring pattern in Scripture.
The widow has a little flour.
The boy has five loaves.
The Canaanite woman asks for crumbs.
And God says:
“That’s enough.”
Perhaps we sometimes think we have very little to offer God.
A little time.
A little kindness.
A little money.
A little courage.
A little faith.
Perhaps we think our contribution is insignificant.
But God has a habit of taking little things and making them into something much greater.
And perhaps that is particularly important for us as we continue our own journey of faith.
We do not have to have everything sorted out.
We do not need perfect faith.
We do not need perfect prayers.
We do not need to understand everything.
The Canaanite woman simply knows where to go.
She goes to Jesus.
And she says:
“Lord, help me.”
That may be one of the simplest and most profound prayers we can pray.
When life is difficult:
Lord, help me.
When someone we love is suffering:
Lord, help them.
When we don’t know what to do:
Lord, help us.
And when we feel that we have nothing left to give:
Lord, give us today’s bread.
Just enough for today.
So perhaps the question for us this morning is not:
“Who deserves a place at God’s table?”
The question is:
“Who have I unconsciously kept away from the table?”
And perhaps another question:
“Where am I standing outside, believing that I am not worthy to come in?”
Because Jesus is continually widening the circle.
Isaiah says:
“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.”
The psalm says:
“Let the nations be glad.”
Paul reminds us:
“The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.”
And the Canaanite woman teaches us:
Even the crumbs are enough when they come from the table of Christ.
So let us come to that table—not because we are worthy, but because we are invited.
Let us bring what little we have.
Our five loaves.
Our two fish.
Our crumbs.
Our imperfect faith.
And let us trust the God who takes what we offer and somehow makes it enough.
Because there is room at this table.
There is bread for the journey.
And there is mercy enough for everyone.
Amen.
Thought for the Week
“Even the crumbs are enough when they come from the table of Christ.”
God’s table is wider than we imagine, and God’s mercy is greater than the boundaries we sometimes put around it.
This week, let us ask ourselves: Who might need an invitation to the table? And where might God be inviting us to take our own place at it?
A Prayer for the Week Ahead
Loving God,
Thank you that your table is open to all,
and that your mercy is greater than our understanding.
Help us to recognise those whom we might too easily regard as outsiders.
Give us the faith of the Canaanite woman,
who would not give up asking for your mercy.
When our faith is small, meet us there.
When we have little to offer, take what we have and use it.
When we feel unworthy, remind us that we are invited.
Give us bread for the journey,
grace for today,
and hearts generous enough to share your love with others.
May we never forget that there is room at your table
and mercy enough for everyone.
In the name of Jesus Christ,
Amen.
Peter Gibbs, Reader for the Anglican Church in Midi-Pyrénées and Aude, France.
Sunday 9 August 2026
Peter Gibbs
Proper 14: Year A
Take Heart – It is I; Do Not Be Afraid
Readings:
1 Kings 19:9–18 • Psalm 85:8–13 • Romans 10:5–15 • Matthew 14:22–33
“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”
Matthew 14:27
From the Hill
There are mornings on the hill when the wind arrives before the sun has fully risen. It whispers through the trees, stirs the grasses, and brushes against the ancient stones of the old pigeonnier. For a while everything seems to be moving. Then, almost without warning, the wind falls away and an extraordinary stillness settles over the valley. In those quiet moments, the silence itself seems full of God’s presence.
Life is rather like that. There are seasons when everything around us feels unsettled and uncertain. We worry about our families, our health, our future, or the burdens we quietly carry each day. Yet there are also moments—sometimes quite unexpected—when God draws near, reminding us that he has never left us.
This week’s readings take us from the silence of Elijah’s cave to the storm-tossed waters of Galilee. They remind us that whether God meets us in the stillness or in the storm, his promise remains the same:
“Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.”
So wherever you are reading these words—in a church, in your home, or perhaps with a cup of coffee overlooking your own garden—welcome to Homilies from the Hill.
Let us walk together into God’s Word.
The Homily
Some of the most important moments in life happen not in the earthquake, nor in the fire, nor in the wind, but in the quiet.
Our world is full of noise. News reaches us by the minute. Opinions compete for our attention. Our days can become so busy that silence feels almost uncomfortable. Yet today’s readings invite us to discover that God’s voice is often heard most clearly when everything else becomes still.
Elijah has reached the end of his strength. He has stood courageously against the prophets of Baal, yet now he is exhausted, frightened and alone. He retreats to a cave on Mount Horeb, wondering whether his ministry has been in vain.
Then God passes by.
A violent wind tears across the mountain.
But the Lord is not in the wind.
An earthquake shakes the ground.
But the Lord is not in the earthquake.
A fire blazes.
But the Lord is not in the fire.
Finally comes what Scripture describes as “the sound of sheer silence”—the gentle whisper in which Elijah recognises the presence of God.
How often we expect God to act dramatically, while he chooses instead to speak quietly to our hearts.
Many of us know what it is to wait in uncertainty. We have sat beside hospital beds, prayed for loved ones, faced financial worries or wondered what tomorrow may bring. During such times God may appear distant, yet later we discover that he was quietly sustaining us all along.
The Psalmist understands this when he says:
“I will listen to what the Lord God is saying.”
Before we can speak faithfully, we must first learn to listen.
Prayer is not simply presenting God with our list of requests. It is making space for him to speak.
Our Gospel takes us from the stillness of Horeb to the violence of a storm on the Sea of Galilee.
The disciples are battling against the wind when, before dawn, they see someone walking across the water.
They are terrified.
Then Jesus speaks words that have brought comfort to Christians for centuries:
“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”
Notice that Jesus does not first remove the storm.
He comes to them within it.
That is often how God works.
We may ask him to remove our difficulties immediately, and sometimes he does. But more often he first assures us of his presence. His companionship becomes stronger than our fear.
Peter, never one to remain sitting quietly, asks permission to come to Jesus across the water.
For a few astonishing moments he walks on the waves.
Then he notices the strength of the wind.
His confidence falters.
He begins to sink.
How familiar that feels.
As long as Peter keeps his eyes on Christ, he is able to do what he never imagined possible. Once his attention shifts to the storm, fear takes over.
Isn’t that true for us?
We live in uncertain times. We worry about our children and grandchildren. We are anxious about the future of our world. We carry concerns that no one else sees.
If we look only at the waves, they become overwhelming.
If we keep our eyes upon Christ, we discover that he is greater than every storm.
Peter’s prayer is wonderfully simple:
“Lord, save me!”
Three words.
No polished language.
No carefully constructed prayer.
Just an honest cry from the heart.
Matthew tells us that immediately Jesus reached out his hand.
Immediately.
That is grace.
Paul reminds us in Romans that Christ is never far away.
“The word is near you.”
We do not need extraordinary experiences to find him. We need only open our hearts in faith.
Paul then asks a question that challenges every Christian generation:
“How are they to hear without someone to proclaim him?”
That is our calling.
Not merely to preserve buildings, however beautiful.
Not simply to maintain traditions, however precious.
But to bear witness to the living Christ.
Every act of kindness, every encouraging word, every visit, every prayer, every quiet expression of faith becomes part of God’s voice in the world.
Perhaps that is what these readings are inviting us to become.
People who listen before they speak.
People who trust in the storm.
People who are willing, like Peter, to step out in faith, even when the water looks frightening.
And when our courage fails—as it sometimes will—we need only pray:
“Lord, save me.”
The hand that reached across the waters of Galilee is still stretched out today.
It is strong enough to hold us.
Gentle enough to steady us.
Faithful enough never to let us go.
A Thought for the Week
This week, when life feels uncertain, pause for a moment of silence, before rushing to find the answers. Listen for God’s gentle voice. Then, whatever storm you may be facing, remember that Christ comes to you before he calms the sea. His presence is your greatest peace.
A Prayer
Loving Father,
Teach us to recognise your voice in the quietness.
Give us courage when life feels uncertain,
faith when fear begins to overwhelm us,
and hope when the future seems unclear.
Keep our eyes fixed upon your Son,
who comes to us across every storm,
takes hold of our trembling hands,
and never lets us go.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Until next Sunday.
May God meet you in the silence,
steady you in the storm,
and bless you on your journey.
Peter Gibbs, Reader for the Anglican Church in Midi-Pyrénées and Aude, France.
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Sunday 2 August 2026
Peter Gibbs
Proper 13: Year A
Isaiah 55:1–5 | Psalm 145:8–9, 15–22 | Romans 9:1–5 | Matthew 14:13–21
“They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”
Today’s Gospel begins with sadness. Jesus has just heard the heartbreaking news that John the Baptist has been murdered. He withdraws by boat to a lonely place, seeking solitude to grieve. Yet when he reaches the shore, he finds thousands of people waiting for him.
What would we have done? We might have said, “Please, not today. I have nothing left to give.”
But Matthew tells us something remarkable. Jesus looked at the crowd, had compassion on them, and healed those who were sick. Before the miracle of the bread, there was the miracle of compassion. The heart of Jesus was moved by the sight of the crowds who had followed him on foot from the towns.
That same compassion echoes through all today’s readings. Isaiah extends God’s invitation:
“Come, everyone who thirsts… come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.”
God is not a reluctant giver. He delights in generosity. He does not ration his love or measure out his grace sparingly. He invites all who hunger and thirst to come freely.
The Psalm takes up the same song:
“The eyes of all wait upon you, O Lord, and you give them their food in due season.”
Our God is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and rich in mercy.
Yet the disciples cannot see abundance. They see only scarcity.
“There are too many people.”
“It is getting late.”
“We have only five loaves and two fish.”
How often we speak like that.
“I have only a little strength.”
“I have only a small pension.”
“I have only a few years left.”
“I have only one talent.”
The language of fear is always the language of “only.”
Jesus speaks a different language.
“Bring them here to me.”
Those words are the heart of this Gospel.
Whatever we have, however little it seems, he asks us simply to place it in his hands.
St Matthew tells us only that there were five loaves and two fish. But St John adds a lovely detail. They belonged to a little boy.
I often find myself imagining that child before he left home that morning. Perhaps his mother lovingly packed his lunch—a few small barley loaves and two little fish—and reminded him with a smile, “Promise me, you won’t go hungry.”
She could never have imagined that the simple meal she prepared with a mother’s love would that day feed thousands when placed into the hands of Jesus.
Of course, that little conversation belongs to our imagination rather than the Gospel itself, but it reminds us of an important truth. God so often begins his greatest works through the ordinary acts of ordinary people.
A mother, preparing lunch.
A child, willing to share.
Disciples, willing to obey.
Nothing spectacular in itself.
Yet once those simple gifts are placed into Christ’s hands, they become more than enough.
Isn’t that how God still works?
A visit to someone who is lonely.
A meal shared with a neighbour.
A listening ear.
A note of encouragement.
A prayer offered quietly for another.
They seem such small things.
But in the hands of Christ they become channels of grace.
St Paul, in today’s reading from Romans, shows us another kind of generosity. He speaks with deep sorrow for his own people. His heart aches that they have not recognised their Messiah. Paul reminds us that Christian faith is never detached or indifferent. Like Christ himself, we are called to carry others in our hearts with compassion.
Perhaps that is another miracle we need today—not simply multiplied bread, but multiplied compassion.
We live in a world where many people are hungry.
Some are hungry for food.
Many are hungry for friendship.
Others hunger for forgiveness.
Some hunger simply for someone to notice them.
The Church cannot solve every problem. Neither could the disciples feed the crowd by themselves.
But Jesus never asked them to feed the world from their own resources.
He simply said, “You give them something to eat.”
In other words, offer what you have.
Bring it to me.
Trust me with the rest.
There is one final detail that is easy to overlook. After everyone had eaten and was satisfied, twelve baskets of broken pieces were gathered up.
God’s generosity is never just enough.
There is abundance.
There is overflow.
There is always more grace than sin, more mercy than failure, more hope than despair.
That is the Gospel.
As we come to this Eucharist today, we come like that crowd—hungry in different ways.
We bring our joys and our griefs.
Our strengths and our weaknesses.
Our five loaves and our two fish.
Our “only.”
And once again Christ takes them into his hands.
He blesses them.
He breaks them.
He gives them back transformed.
May we leave this place today, trusting that whatever we place into the hands of Jesus, however small it seems, can become a blessing far beyond anything we could ever imagine. Amen.