Sermon: “When Jesus went ashore, he saw a great crowd.” — Matthew 14:14

Preacher:

Paul Thompson

Date:

Sunday 2nd August 2026

Venue:

Guildford Cathedral

Service:

6pm Choral Evensong

Homily

“When Jesus went ashore, he saw a great crowd.” — Matthew 14:14

I expect all of us all need what we might call a ‘Thoughtful Spot’ once in a while: a place where we can just go to, and just sort stuff out. The children’s author A.A. Milne wrote about exactly this Thoughtful Spot in The House at Pooh Corner.

“Pooh Bear and his friend Piglet knew of just such a place. It was halfway between Pooh’s house and Piglet’s house. It was warm and out of the wind, and if one day they couldn’t think what to do next, they would go off to their Thoughtful Spot, where they could think”.

Often if we are being totally honest there are moments in life when we long to get away from people.

Not because we dislike humanity, but because life just becomes busy and sometimes a little noisy. Responsibilities multiply. Grief arrives uninvited. The soul becomes crowded even before the room does.

Our Lord knew that feeling.

In our Gospel passage today, he has just received and heard tragic devastating news: John the Baptist—his cousin, his companion in ministry, the prophetic voice crying in the wilderness—has been murdered.

Jesus gets into a boat to find solitude. It is Jesus’s thoughtful spot.

For us lesser mortals this might mean our favourite garden chair with a cup of tea. Perhaps a favourite bench overlooking the sea. A walk taken at dusk. A church/cathedral when it is empty. A room before anyone else arrives.

One man once said his “Thoughtful Spot” was the shed at the bottom of the garden. His wife said she always knew when theology was becoming serious, because he would disappear carrying a screwdriver he never actually used. We smile because we understand.

Even Winnie-the-Pooh understood the necessity of reflection. Pooh and Piglet had a place halfway between their homes where they would go whenever they “couldn’t think what to do next.”

And honestly, that may be one of the most profound descriptions of prayer ever written.

A place to think. A place to breathe. A place to listen.

Jesus sought such a place. But when he arrived, the crowds were already waiting. And here is where the Gospel becomes deeply revealing.

Most of us, after grief and exhaustion, would have said:
“Not today thank you.” “Please leave me alone.” “Office closed until further notice.”

But St Matthew records: “Jesus saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them.”

Compassion. Not irritation. Not resentment. Not performative politeness.

Compassion.

The word compassion in the original Greek text implies something visceral—'being moved in the depths of one’s being’. Jesus looks at human need and felt it.

And perhaps that is one of the marks of holiness: not escaping humanity,
but remaining open-hearted toward it. That can be quite difficult in our age.

We seem to be surrounded by suffering on a scale no previous generation has had to encounter and seemingly daily. Every hour we hear of wars, disasters, loneliness, injustice, famine, anxiety, displacement. One can become emotionally numb, simply for survivals sake.

And so, the individual temptation arises: “What difference could I possibly make?” And it is that very question that sits at the centre of this feeding miracle.

The disciples see the crowd mathematically.

Five thousand people. Five loaves. Two fish. Tricky !

The equation is absurd. But Jesus did not begin with arithmetic.
He begins with availability.

St John’s alternative narrative tells us there was a boy with a small offering. Five barley loaves and two fish—not the lunch of a wealthy man, but the meal of an ordinary person. And Jesus says, “Give it to me.”

Then comes that beautiful rhythm:
He took.
He blessed.
He broke.
He gave.

That pattern is everywhere in our Christian life.

It is the pattern of the Eucharist.
It is the pattern of vocation.
It is the pattern of discipleship.
 

And often, it becomes the pattern of our lives.

He takes us.
He blesses us.
He breaks us.
He gives us.

We like the taking. We certainly love the blessing. We appreciate the giving.

But the breaking? That is harder.

A young teacher enters the profession wanting to inspire children—and discovers exhaustion. A doctor dreams of healing—and encounters grief.
A priest imagines spiritual glory—and spends Tuesday afternoon in his church discussing roof repairs and missing teaspoons.

One churchwarden said, “I joined the PCC to serve God. I did not realise God needed so many discussions about the gas boiler.”

Again, we might laugh because it is true. Yet often vocation matures precisely at a breaking point. The saints were rarely people who avoided hardship. They were people who entrusted hardship to God.

And notice something else here:
Jesus does not create this miracle from nothing while the crowd watches on passively.

He invites their participation. “You give them something to eat.”

The disciples must bring what they have.
The boy must surrender his lunch. Someone must organise the crowd.
Someone must distribute the bread. Someone must gather the fragments.

The grace of God does not eliminate human participation. Grace can really transform it.

That matters enormously for our Church of today.

Many of us may secretly believe we have nothing significant to offer. Perhaps ..

“My faith is small.” “My talent is ordinary.” “My contribution won’t matter.”

But the Gospel repeatedly tells another story.

God delights in small offerings.

A conversation. A prayer. A meal cooked for someone lonely.
A note of encouragement. A financial gift quietly given. A skill placed in service. A listening ear. A faithful presence.

The Kingdom of God advances astonishingly often through people who think they are insignificant.

The feeding of the five thousand is not fundamentally about the miraculous multiplication of bread. It is about the astonishing capacity of Christ to use what is willingly offered.

And perhaps today the Lord still asks each of us the same question:
“What do you have?” Not: “What do you wish you had?” Not: “What does somebody else have?”

But: “What do you have to offer now?”

Time? Kindness? Wisdom? Patience? Resources? Experience?
Perhaps your own compassion born from personal suffering?

Bring that. Because in the hands of Christ, small offerings become abundant grace.

And perhaps this week, in your own Thoughtful Spot, you may begin to hear Christ quietly saying again:

“Give it to me.” Amen.