Readings:
Isaiah 55:1-5
Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21
Devotional:
“Three balls for $5! If you make the shot, you win!” Cover this big circle with five little circles, toss the ring onto any bottle, climb up the ladder without falling off, push the coins off the edge, get the good prize out of the claw machine. We have all seen these carnival and arcade games, and if you’ve even tried them once, you know them for what they really are: a scam.
Kids don’t know that though. And so they beg to please try to win that giant stuffed animal or trendy rare collectible, trusting in your hand-eye coordination to overcome the game’s impossible odds. We might relent once or twice, but eventually even our kids learn that the payoff isn’t there. In some cases, even if you do manage a lucky win, the prizes are cheap dupes or you only get the small bear instead of the giant banana. The game is engineered to look good, with exciting rewards and seemingly easy requirements, but the outcome is rigged against the player.
Scams have only gotten more refined in our digital era. Posing as law enforcement, banks, churches or leaders, con artists continue to use what is honorable and credible to deceive us or steal from us. From a young age, scams teach us to question anything that looks too good to be true, robbing us of our former trust and genuine excitement. Even if we don’t fall victim to the scam itself, we still lose something of our willingness to believe or have hope, replacing it with cynicism or apathy. We would rather remain uninvested or disengaged than to risk letdown or loss by believing in something without evidence. And again, just like last week, we find ourselves back to evaluating and assessing a claim before we’ll commit, not realizing what’s being stolen from us in the process.
However, it is exactly the restoration of trust, joy, belief and hope that Father, Spirit and Son would give us, and our writers are trying to capture our attention that we might be persuaded.
If we were an ancient people living in exile in Babylon, we would hear it in Isaiah’s passage. The text is actually written to sound like a merchant hawking wares in a busy market. “Hey! Thirsty? Get a drink here. Completely free! No money, no problem—we’ve got free wine, Dubai chocolate, wagyu beef…” Okay, the chocolate and steak were my additions, but that’s how it would have sounded back then. Free milk and honey? That can’t be right. But Isaiah is hoping that his audience will keep listening, because what he’s peddling isn’t a temporary fix to hunger pangs.
The children of Israel had, at this point, assimilated into Babylonian society to find success as bankers, merchants, and landowners, but Isaiah is challenging their investment. He is offering something radical: the abundance and provision of God, the quality promises that were associated with kings and leaders, are available to all. And not just all Jews. All nations, just like we talked through on Sunday. Way back in Babylonian exile, Isaiah is advertising an abundant way of living, with much easier rules of engagement, and it is no scam. Wealth and provision are not coming from the expected efforts or sources. God has a longer-lasting promise of life, comfort and mercy not only for all of Israel, but also for Babylon and beyond.
David echoes the same message in his song. He recalls the same Exodus promise of generations: God will be kind, God will be merciful. And we know he means all because he says it over and over again. The Lord is good to all. His mercies are over all His works.
Consider that thought for a moment: God made us, in our imperfection, with the full intention to be merciful to us from the outset. This is the behavior of a Father. When our newborns cry, we don’t judge them for their inability to change their diaper or to provide their own food. We look on them with compassion and meet their needs. His mercy extends to everything He made. He knew full well that what He made would need mercy, and He made it anyway. Our neediness isn’t an inconvenience or interruption; it’s the anticipated, planned-for behavior.
David continues on. He sustains all who fall. He raises up all who are bowed down. He opens His hand—which is another way of saying He extends His power, means and direction—in order to satisfy every living thing. All will bless His name. The narrative is decisive in God’s intention toward us. He is going to take care of all of us, destroying the things that would make us feel hostile toward Him and filling us with everything that satisfies.
It feels too good to be true, right? Our scam sensors are trying to sound the alert. It’s why the prophets are rejected. It’s why the Pharisees question Jesus. It’s why the religious leaders, despite having all the knowledge and legacy of God’s relationship with His children, refuse the idea of mercy in favor of the rigged rule system that leads to death. Our conditioning tells us that this can’t be right. Surely there’s a hidden cost or a loophole or some sort of reckoning to come. Our propensity for simple trust and belief in the goodness of God has been robbed from us.
It’s why Paul is heartbroken and grieved in Romans 9. “I’m telling the truth!” he implores. For the sake of his Jewish brothers, who hold the very traditions and ancestral lineage that would point to the Messiah, but still question if it’s believable, Paul desperately wishes for their belief to be restored. God’s compassion is real! It’s believable!
Let’s realize that Paul’s heartbreak is for us too, who continue to imagine an “in” and “out” or an “us” and “them.” There is not a complicated game to learn how to play in order to be the object of His favor and affection. It’s like an echo of Isaiah—don’t spend your time and money trying to learn to beat a broken system; instead embrace the free gift of abundant life. He’s going to have compassion on who He wants to have compassion on, and that “who” is all of us. He’s genuine. He’s trustworthy. He’s faithful. Amen.
Matthew shows the same character of God in the feeding of the five thousand. Let’s set a bit of the scene though before we dig in. A few chapters earlier, remember that Jesus had compassion on the people, healing the sick and tending to them, as they were harassed and thrown about, as though sheep without a Shepherd. Jesus tells the disciples that the harvest is plenty, but the laborers are few. There are many sick to help, many in need of compassion. There is work to do, and He’s there to do it with us, promising rest to the weary, an easy yoke, and a light burden.
But in chapter 12, the Pharisees are in scam detection mode: why do the disciples pick and eat on the Sabbath? Is healing allowed on the Sabbath? He must be empowered by demons, they conjecture. Can He show them a sign to prove what He says? They are on alert, desperate to evade would-be loss and pain, and they are intent on preventing deception. They see a con, rather than their imagination being captivated by the wonder of God’s compassion.
Return to chapter 14, and Herod has just thrown himself a giant birthday feast, inviting all sorts of important guests. At this event, because of promises Herod makes, John the Baptist is beheaded. When Jesus learns the news, he withdraws to a secluded place. It would be easy to assume here that Jesus is grieving and needs space; we see the crowd and presume an imposition. Yet, when the crowds follow, Jesus has compassion on them again, healing their sick.
Eventually, it grows late, and the disciples suggest the crowd should go away to return to the markets and buy their own food. Being a type-A personality, I identify with the disciples here. It’s late and now time to make a plan, since we are in an impromptu giant dinner quandary here. If we send them now, they have time to eat before bedtime routines, and we can all recharge before tomorrow. It would be wise for everyone to part ways, since we didn’t have this all sorted out ahead of time.
But look how Jesus responds. The center point of the whole story hangs here: “They do not need to go away; you give them something to eat!” They said to Him, “We have here only five loaves and two fish.” And He said, “Bring them here to Me.”
The answer isn’t separation. Even in His grief, Jesus looks at the need with compassion and proximity. The crowd isn’t an intrusion; they are welcome to be with Him. And the wisdom to part ways for dinner isn’t the answer either. They don’t need to go away. What do they actually need? To eat! The compassionate, love-motivated answer, however impractical it seems on the surface, is in His emphatic charge to the disciples: YOU give them something to eat! But “we only have” is what the disciples reply. That Jesus could satisfy (in time, space, in the minutia and for the whole of humanity) all that we need continues to escape our imagination, just like our disciples. Just like the Pharisees with their historic roadmap. Our scam-sensitivity, robbed of belief and trust, leaves us with the language of “we only have.”
Jesus then says the words that all parents say when a child has need: “Bring them here to Me.” Just like a parent would pick up the pieces from the broken toy, would sit beside a broken heart, would mend broken skin, Jesus sees all of the need and draws them close. Just like that moment when the world seems to have collapsed for the child and all imagination for the future is gone, Jesus comes like a parent who knows what life is still ahead. He fills in the imagination for resources we aren’t thinking about. He covers the wounds with care we don’t know how to give ourselves. He names the qualities and worth He placed in us (the objects of His affection) when no one around us seems to see those traits. He is near to all who call on Him. He hears our cries and will save us.
And what does the crowd then do? Instead of being separated from Him, the people relax on the grass, welcomed to be together. Instead of wondering at the would-be lack of resources, the disciples are met with abundance, more than enough to leave everyone full and for the disciples to continue the work (12 baskets, after all) of meeting needs. Instead of a sick crowd seeking help in a desolate place, we find Christ drawn near to a people, sustaining them and raising them up, making them whole again.
The answer to need isn’t in the resources or efforts we imagine, just like Isaiah was telling the exiles in Babylon. It’s not the prosperity and feast of Herod’s lavish party and misplaced promises—that was the scam that led to death. Our needs are met in the nearness of His compassion and mercy, free of limit or requirement. The gift is as good as it sounds, even better.
So come near. When we are hungry and don’t have enough, come near. When we are out of resources or ideas for how to tend the harvest, come near. When we don’t have imagination left for the hopeless or desolate, come near. More than a personal or private invitation, this is an offer for us as communities, as neighbors, as states and nations. He looks across our collective with planned, purposeful compassion. So let us bring it all to the Father, little or great. Let us carry that same excitement and joy for the giant stuffed animal—optimistic expectation of what wholeness and abundance He imagines for us. Let our trust and belief be restored. Let us come to Him, listen that we might live. Eat what is good, and delight in abundance. With Him is the promise of life, and it’s a claim we can fully trust.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God of Abundance,
You know what brings us fulfillment and joy, know how to meet every need. As we listen to You, may we find our circles widening to share the richness of all You bring to life. To Our King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever.
Amen
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
You meet us with compassion in our deserts, replacing desolate with nearness, need with fulfillment. Open our eyes to imagination beyond our wisdom and joy beyond our circumstance, fully believing and hoping in Your faithfulness toward us.
Amen
Blessing
May we find trust in Your compassion and love restored, believing with renewed wonder for the abundance that You promise to all nations.
Photo by Will Myers on Unsplash
Isaiah 55:1-5
Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21
Devotional:
“Three balls for $5! If you make the shot, you win!” Cover this big circle with five little circles, toss the ring onto any bottle, climb up the ladder without falling off, push the coins off the edge, get the good prize out of the claw machine. We have all seen these carnival and arcade games, and if you’ve even tried them once, you know them for what they really are: a scam.
Kids don’t know that though. And so they beg to please try to win that giant stuffed animal or trendy rare collectible, trusting in your hand-eye coordination to overcome the game’s impossible odds. We might relent once or twice, but eventually even our kids learn that the payoff isn’t there. In some cases, even if you do manage a lucky win, the prizes are cheap dupes or you only get the small bear instead of the giant banana. The game is engineered to look good, with exciting rewards and seemingly easy requirements, but the outcome is rigged against the player.
Scams have only gotten more refined in our digital era. Posing as law enforcement, banks, churches or leaders, con artists continue to use what is honorable and credible to deceive us or steal from us. From a young age, scams teach us to question anything that looks too good to be true, robbing us of our former trust and genuine excitement. Even if we don’t fall victim to the scam itself, we still lose something of our willingness to believe or have hope, replacing it with cynicism or apathy. We would rather remain uninvested or disengaged than to risk letdown or loss by believing in something without evidence. And again, just like last week, we find ourselves back to evaluating and assessing a claim before we’ll commit, not realizing what’s being stolen from us in the process.
However, it is exactly the restoration of trust, joy, belief and hope that Father, Spirit and Son would give us, and our writers are trying to capture our attention that we might be persuaded.
If we were an ancient people living in exile in Babylon, we would hear it in Isaiah’s passage. The text is actually written to sound like a merchant hawking wares in a busy market. “Hey! Thirsty? Get a drink here. Completely free! No money, no problem—we’ve got free wine, Dubai chocolate, wagyu beef…” Okay, the chocolate and steak were my additions, but that’s how it would have sounded back then. Free milk and honey? That can’t be right. But Isaiah is hoping that his audience will keep listening, because what he’s peddling isn’t a temporary fix to hunger pangs.
The children of Israel had, at this point, assimilated into Babylonian society to find success as bankers, merchants, and landowners, but Isaiah is challenging their investment. He is offering something radical: the abundance and provision of God, the quality promises that were associated with kings and leaders, are available to all. And not just all Jews. All nations, just like we talked through on Sunday. Way back in Babylonian exile, Isaiah is advertising an abundant way of living, with much easier rules of engagement, and it is no scam. Wealth and provision are not coming from the expected efforts or sources. God has a longer-lasting promise of life, comfort and mercy not only for all of Israel, but also for Babylon and beyond.
David echoes the same message in his song. He recalls the same Exodus promise of generations: God will be kind, God will be merciful. And we know he means all because he says it over and over again. The Lord is good to all. His mercies are over all His works.
Consider that thought for a moment: God made us, in our imperfection, with the full intention to be merciful to us from the outset. This is the behavior of a Father. When our newborns cry, we don’t judge them for their inability to change their diaper or to provide their own food. We look on them with compassion and meet their needs. His mercy extends to everything He made. He knew full well that what He made would need mercy, and He made it anyway. Our neediness isn’t an inconvenience or interruption; it’s the anticipated, planned-for behavior.
David continues on. He sustains all who fall. He raises up all who are bowed down. He opens His hand—which is another way of saying He extends His power, means and direction—in order to satisfy every living thing. All will bless His name. The narrative is decisive in God’s intention toward us. He is going to take care of all of us, destroying the things that would make us feel hostile toward Him and filling us with everything that satisfies.
It feels too good to be true, right? Our scam sensors are trying to sound the alert. It’s why the prophets are rejected. It’s why the Pharisees question Jesus. It’s why the religious leaders, despite having all the knowledge and legacy of God’s relationship with His children, refuse the idea of mercy in favor of the rigged rule system that leads to death. Our conditioning tells us that this can’t be right. Surely there’s a hidden cost or a loophole or some sort of reckoning to come. Our propensity for simple trust and belief in the goodness of God has been robbed from us.
It’s why Paul is heartbroken and grieved in Romans 9. “I’m telling the truth!” he implores. For the sake of his Jewish brothers, who hold the very traditions and ancestral lineage that would point to the Messiah, but still question if it’s believable, Paul desperately wishes for their belief to be restored. God’s compassion is real! It’s believable!
Let’s realize that Paul’s heartbreak is for us too, who continue to imagine an “in” and “out” or an “us” and “them.” There is not a complicated game to learn how to play in order to be the object of His favor and affection. It’s like an echo of Isaiah—don’t spend your time and money trying to learn to beat a broken system; instead embrace the free gift of abundant life. He’s going to have compassion on who He wants to have compassion on, and that “who” is all of us. He’s genuine. He’s trustworthy. He’s faithful. Amen.
Matthew shows the same character of God in the feeding of the five thousand. Let’s set a bit of the scene though before we dig in. A few chapters earlier, remember that Jesus had compassion on the people, healing the sick and tending to them, as they were harassed and thrown about, as though sheep without a Shepherd. Jesus tells the disciples that the harvest is plenty, but the laborers are few. There are many sick to help, many in need of compassion. There is work to do, and He’s there to do it with us, promising rest to the weary, an easy yoke, and a light burden.
But in chapter 12, the Pharisees are in scam detection mode: why do the disciples pick and eat on the Sabbath? Is healing allowed on the Sabbath? He must be empowered by demons, they conjecture. Can He show them a sign to prove what He says? They are on alert, desperate to evade would-be loss and pain, and they are intent on preventing deception. They see a con, rather than their imagination being captivated by the wonder of God’s compassion.
Return to chapter 14, and Herod has just thrown himself a giant birthday feast, inviting all sorts of important guests. At this event, because of promises Herod makes, John the Baptist is beheaded. When Jesus learns the news, he withdraws to a secluded place. It would be easy to assume here that Jesus is grieving and needs space; we see the crowd and presume an imposition. Yet, when the crowds follow, Jesus has compassion on them again, healing their sick.
Eventually, it grows late, and the disciples suggest the crowd should go away to return to the markets and buy their own food. Being a type-A personality, I identify with the disciples here. It’s late and now time to make a plan, since we are in an impromptu giant dinner quandary here. If we send them now, they have time to eat before bedtime routines, and we can all recharge before tomorrow. It would be wise for everyone to part ways, since we didn’t have this all sorted out ahead of time.
But look how Jesus responds. The center point of the whole story hangs here: “They do not need to go away; you give them something to eat!” They said to Him, “We have here only five loaves and two fish.” And He said, “Bring them here to Me.”
The answer isn’t separation. Even in His grief, Jesus looks at the need with compassion and proximity. The crowd isn’t an intrusion; they are welcome to be with Him. And the wisdom to part ways for dinner isn’t the answer either. They don’t need to go away. What do they actually need? To eat! The compassionate, love-motivated answer, however impractical it seems on the surface, is in His emphatic charge to the disciples: YOU give them something to eat! But “we only have” is what the disciples reply. That Jesus could satisfy (in time, space, in the minutia and for the whole of humanity) all that we need continues to escape our imagination, just like our disciples. Just like the Pharisees with their historic roadmap. Our scam-sensitivity, robbed of belief and trust, leaves us with the language of “we only have.”
Jesus then says the words that all parents say when a child has need: “Bring them here to Me.” Just like a parent would pick up the pieces from the broken toy, would sit beside a broken heart, would mend broken skin, Jesus sees all of the need and draws them close. Just like that moment when the world seems to have collapsed for the child and all imagination for the future is gone, Jesus comes like a parent who knows what life is still ahead. He fills in the imagination for resources we aren’t thinking about. He covers the wounds with care we don’t know how to give ourselves. He names the qualities and worth He placed in us (the objects of His affection) when no one around us seems to see those traits. He is near to all who call on Him. He hears our cries and will save us.
And what does the crowd then do? Instead of being separated from Him, the people relax on the grass, welcomed to be together. Instead of wondering at the would-be lack of resources, the disciples are met with abundance, more than enough to leave everyone full and for the disciples to continue the work (12 baskets, after all) of meeting needs. Instead of a sick crowd seeking help in a desolate place, we find Christ drawn near to a people, sustaining them and raising them up, making them whole again.
The answer to need isn’t in the resources or efforts we imagine, just like Isaiah was telling the exiles in Babylon. It’s not the prosperity and feast of Herod’s lavish party and misplaced promises—that was the scam that led to death. Our needs are met in the nearness of His compassion and mercy, free of limit or requirement. The gift is as good as it sounds, even better.
So come near. When we are hungry and don’t have enough, come near. When we are out of resources or ideas for how to tend the harvest, come near. When we don’t have imagination left for the hopeless or desolate, come near. More than a personal or private invitation, this is an offer for us as communities, as neighbors, as states and nations. He looks across our collective with planned, purposeful compassion. So let us bring it all to the Father, little or great. Let us carry that same excitement and joy for the giant stuffed animal—optimistic expectation of what wholeness and abundance He imagines for us. Let our trust and belief be restored. Let us come to Him, listen that we might live. Eat what is good, and delight in abundance. With Him is the promise of life, and it’s a claim we can fully trust.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God of Abundance,
You know what brings us fulfillment and joy, know how to meet every need. As we listen to You, may we find our circles widening to share the richness of all You bring to life. To Our King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever.
Amen
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
You meet us with compassion in our deserts, replacing desolate with nearness, need with fulfillment. Open our eyes to imagination beyond our wisdom and joy beyond our circumstance, fully believing and hoping in Your faithfulness toward us.
Amen
Blessing
May we find trust in Your compassion and love restored, believing with renewed wonder for the abundance that You promise to all nations.
Photo by Will Myers on Unsplash
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