Homily 53 — Matthew 15, verse 32, to 16, verse 12

“But Jesus called his disciples to him and said, ‘I have compassion on the crowd, because they have now been with me three days and have nothing to eat. And I will not send them away hungry, or they may faint on the way.’” [a]

Earlier, when he was about to work this miracle, he first healed those who were maimed in body; and here he does the very same thing. From healing the blind and the lame he goes on to this again.

But why was it that then his disciples said, “Send the crowd away,” but now they did not say so, even though three days had passed? Either they themselves had improved by this time, or they saw that the people did not feel their hunger much, for they were glorifying God for the things that were being done.

But see how in this case too he does not go straight to the miracle, but draws the disciples out toward it. The crowds who had come out to be healed did not dare to ask for the loaves. But he, who loves humankind and provides for them, gives even to those who do not ask, and says to his disciples, “I have compassion, and I will not send them away hungry.” And so that they would not say the people had come carrying food for the journey, he says, “They have now been with me three days,” so that even if they had brought some, it was all used up. That is why he did not do this himself on the first or the second day, but only when they had eaten everything, so that, having first been in want, they might receive his work more eagerly. That is why he says, “or they may faint on the way,” showing both that they had far to go and that they had nothing left.

“Then if you are not willing to send them away hungry, why do you not work the miracle?” So that by this question, and by their answer, he might make the disciples more attentive, and so that they might show their faith by coming to him and saying, “Make loaves.”

But not even so did they understand why he asked. That is why afterward, as Mark tells it, he says to them, “Are your hearts so hardened? Having eyes, do you not see? And having ears, do you not hear?” If this were not so, why does he speak to the disciples at all, and point out that the crowd deserved to receive a kindness, and add the pity he himself feels?

And Matthew says that after this he also rebuked them, saying, “You of little faith, do you not yet understand? Do you not remember the five loaves of the five thousand, and how many baskets you gathered? Or the seven loaves of the four thousand, and how many baskets you gathered?” So completely do the evangelists agree with one another.

What, then, do the disciples say? They are still creeping along the ground, although he had done so very many things so that the earlier miracle would stay in their memory: by his question, by their answer, by making them serve at it, and by handing out the baskets. But their state of mind was still rather imperfect. That is why they say to him, “Where would we get so many loaves in the wilderness?”

Both before and now they mention the wilderness. They said it themselves as a feeble argument, yet even by this they put the miracle beyond suspicion. That is, so that no one could claim (as I have already said) that they got the food from some village nearby, the place is stated, so that the miracle may be believed. With this in view he works both the earlier miracle and this one in the wilderness, far away from the villages.

The disciples, considering none of this, said, “Where would we get so many loaves in a wilderness?” For they really thought he had said it because he meant next to order them to feed the people. That was very foolish, since he had said, and only recently, “You give them something to eat,” with exactly this intent: to bring them to the point where they urgently needed to ask him.

But now he does not say, “You give them something to eat.” What does he say? “I have compassion on them, and I will not send them away hungry.” He brings the disciples closer, stirs them more, and gives them clearer sight, so that they would ask these things of him. For these were truly the words of one showing that he has the power not to send them away hungry, of one displaying his authority. The words “I will not” show that the purpose is his own.

But they still spoke only of the crowd, and the place, and the wilderness — “Where,” it says, “would we get so many loaves in a wilderness, to fill so great a crowd?” — and not even then did they understand what he meant. So he goes on to do his own part, and says to them, “How many loaves do you have?” And they say, “Seven, and a few small fish.” And they no longer say, “But what are these among so many?” as they had said before. So although they did not reach his whole meaning, still they rose higher little by little. And he too, rousing their mind by this, puts the question much as he had done before, so that by the very form of the question he might remind them of the works already done. [d]

But just as you have seen their imperfection in this, so notice the strictness of their spirit, and admire their love of truth: writing about themselves, they do not hide their own faults, great as these were. For it was no small fault to have forgotten so soon this miracle, which had taken place so recently. That is why they are also rebuked.

And along with this, consider their strictness in another matter too: how they had mastered their appetite, how disciplined they were to think little of their food. For they were in the wilderness and had stayed there three days, and they had seven loaves.

Everything else he does as on the former occasion. He makes them sit down on the ground, and he makes the loaves multiply in the hands of the disciples. For “he commanded,” it says, “the crowd to sit down on the ground. And he took the seven loaves and the fish, and gave thanks, and broke them, and gave them to his disciples, and the disciples to the crowd.” But when we come to the end, there is a difference. For “they all ate,” it says, “and were filled, and they took up seven baskets full of the broken pieces that were left. And those who ate were four thousand men, besides women and children.”

But why was it that the former time, when there were five thousand, twelve baskets full were left over, while here, when there were four thousand, there were seven baskets full? For what purpose, I ask, and for what cause, were the leftovers fewer, when the guests were not so many?

One may say either that on this last occasion the baskets were bigger than those used before; or, if that was not so, that he did not want the sameness of the miracle to throw them into forgetfulness again, and so roused their memory by the difference, so that by the variation they might be reminded of both the one and the other. So in the first case he makes the baskets full of fragments equal in number to his disciples, and in this one equal to the loaves. Even by this he shows his power beyond words, and the ease with which he used his authority, since he could work such miracles both this way and that. For it took no small power to keep the exact number, both then and now — then when there were five thousand, now when there were four thousand — and not to let the leftovers be more than the baskets used on either occasion, even though the number of the guests was different.

And the ending too was like the former one. For as then he left the crowd and withdrew by boat, so also now; and John too says this. No sign moved them to follow him as much as the miracle of the loaves did, and they were minded not only to follow him but even to make him king. So, avoiding any suspicion of grasping at royal power, he hurries away after this wonder. And he does not even go away on foot, so that they would not follow him, but gets into a boat. “And he sent away the crowds,” it says, “and got into the boat, and came to the region of Magdala.”

“And the Pharisees and Sadducees came and asked him to show them a sign from heaven. But he says, ‘When it is evening, you say, “Fair weather, for the sky is red”; and in the morning, “Stormy weather today, for the sky is red and overcast.” You know how to judge the appearance of the sky, but can you not judge the signs of the times? A wicked and adulterous generation seeks a sign, and no sign will be given to it except the sign of the prophet Jonah.’ And he left them and went away.” [g]

But Mark says that when they had come to him and were arguing with him, “he sighed deeply in his spirit and says, ‘Why does this generation seek a sign?’”

Their demand surely deserved anger and great indignation. Yet even so, he who loves humankind and provides for them is not angry, but pities them and grieves over them as people sick beyond cure — people who, after so full a proof of his power, were still putting him to the test.

For they were not asking so that they might believe, but so that they might catch him. If they had come to him ready to believe, he would have given it. For he who said to the woman, “It is not right,” and afterward gave — how much more would he have shown his generosity to these!

But since they were not asking in order to believe, he also calls them hypocrites, because in another place they said one thing and meant another. Indeed, if they had believed, they would not even have asked. And it is clear from something else too that they did not believe: when they were rebuked and exposed, they did not stay with him, or say, “We do not know, and we want to learn.”

But what sign from heaven were they asking for? Perhaps that he should stop the sun, or rein in the moon, or bring down thunderbolts, or change the air, or something else of that kind.

What, then, does he say to all this? “You know how to judge the appearance of the sky, but can you not judge the signs of the times?”

See his gentleness and restraint. He did not simply refuse, as he had before, and say, “None will be given them”; he also states the reason he does not give one, even though they were not asking in order to learn.

What, then, was the reason? “Just as in the sky,” he says, “one thing is a sign of a storm and another of fair weather, and no one who saw the sign of stormy weather would look for a calm, nor in calm, fair weather for a storm, so you should reckon about me too. This present time of my coming is different from the one that is to come. Now these signs on earth are needed; the ones in heaven are stored up for that time. Now I have come as a physician; then I will be here as a judge. Now I have come to seek what has gone astray; then, to demand an account. That is why I have come now in a hidden way, but then I will come in full public view, rolling up the heavens, hiding the sun, not letting the moon give its light. Then ‘the very powers of the heavens will be shaken,’ and the appearing of my coming will be like lightning, which shows itself to everyone at once. But now is not the time for these signs, for I have come to die and to suffer everything to the utmost.”

Have you not heard the prophet saying, “He will not quarrel or cry out, nor will his voice be heard outside”? And another again: “He will come down like rain on a fleece of wool”?

And if people speak of the signs in Pharaoh’s time — there was an enemy then from whom they needed rescuing, and all of it happened in its proper course. But he who came among friends had no need of those signs.

“And besides, how will I give the great signs, when the small ones are not believed?” Small, I mean, in outward show, since in power these were far greater than those. For what could equal forgiving sins, and raising the dead, and driving out demons, and creating a body, and setting everything else right?

But see their hardened heart: when they were told that “no sign will be given to it except the sign of the prophet Jonah,” they do not ask about it. Yet since they knew the prophet and everything that happened to him, and had been told this a second time, they ought to have asked and learned what the saying could mean. But, as I said, there is no wish to learn in anything they do. That is why “he also left them and went away.”

“And when his disciples,” it says, “had come to the other side, they had forgotten to take bread. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees.’” [n]

And why did he not say plainly, “Beware of their teaching”? He wants to remind them of what had been done, for he knew they had forgotten. To accuse them outright seemed to have no reasonable ground; but to take the occasion from the disciples themselves and then rebuke them would make the charge one they had to admit.

“And why did he not rebuke them back then, when they said, ‘Where would we get so many loaves in the wilderness?’ That seemed a good time to say what he says here.” So that he would not seem to rush hastily into the miracle. Besides, he would not blame them in front of the crowd, or seek honor in their presence. And now the accusation also had more reason behind it, because they thought this way even after the miracle had been repeated.

That is why he works another miracle as well, and only then does he rebuke them. I mean that he brings out what they were reasoning in their hearts. And what were they reasoning? “It is because,” it says, “we have brought no bread.” For they were still full of anxiety about the purifications of the Jews and the rules about foods.

So on every count he confronts them, and sharply too, saying, “Why are you reasoning among yourselves, you of little faith, because you have brought no bread? Do you not yet perceive or understand? Is your heart hardened? Having eyes, do you not see? Having ears, do you not hear? Do you not remember the five loaves of the five thousand, and how many baskets you gathered? Or the seven loaves of the four thousand, and how many baskets you gathered?”

Do you see how intense his displeasure is? Nowhere else does he appear to have rebuked them like this. Why, then, does he do it? Once again, to throw out their prejudice about foods. That is, with this in view, whereas then he had only said, “Do you not perceive, or understand?” here, with a strong rebuke, he says, “You of little faith.”

For gentleness is not a good thing everywhere. Just as he used to let them speak freely, so he also rebukes them, providing for their salvation by this variety. And notice at once his rebuke, how strong it is, and his mildness. For he all but excuses himself to them for his sharp rebukes, saying, “Do you not yet consider the five loaves, and how many baskets you gathered, and the seven loaves, and how many baskets you gathered?” And for this reason he also sets down the numbers, both of the people fed and of the fragments, at once bringing them to remember the past and making them more attentive for the future.

And to show you how great the power of his rebuke was, and how it roused their sleeping mind, hear what the evangelist says. Jesus said nothing more; he only rebuked them and added this: “How is it that you do not understand that I did not speak to you about bread, that you should beware, but of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees?” And the evangelist adds, “Then they understood that he did not tell them to beware of the leaven of bread, but of the teaching of the Pharisees and Sadducees” — although he had not given that explanation himself.

See how much good his rebuke did. It led them away from the Jewish observances; it made them more attentive when they had been careless; and it freed them from their lack of faith, so that they were not afraid or alarmed if at any time they seemed to have few loaves, nor anxious about going hungry, but despised all these things.

So let us not, for our part, flatter in every way those in our charge, nor seek to be flattered by those who rule over us. For in truth the human soul needs medicines of both kinds. That is why, in the whole world, we can see God arranging things this way — now doing this, now the other — and allowing neither our good things to last nor our hardships to stand alone. Just as now it is night and now day, now winter and now summer, so too within us: now pain, now pleasure, now sickness, now health. So let us not be surprised when we are sick; it is rather when we are healthy that we should be surprised. Nor let us be upset when we are in sorrow; it is rather when we are glad that it makes sense to be upset. For all these things happen according to nature and in their order. And why be surprised if it is so in your case, when one can see this happening even to those saints? [p]

So that you may learn it, let us bring forward the very life you think fullest of pleasure and most free from trouble. Would you like us to examine Abraham’s life from the beginning? What was said to him at the very first? “Go out from your country and from your relatives.” Did you see what a painful thing he is ordered to do? But look also at the good that comes after it: “And come to a land that I will show you, and I will make you a great nation.”

What then? After he had come to the land and reached the harbor, did his troubles stop? Not at all. Others followed in their turn, harder than the first: a famine, a move to another land, and his wife taken from him by force. And after these came more good fortune: the plague on Pharaoh, her release, the honor, those many gifts, and the return home. All the later events too form the same kind of chain, good fortune and troubles woven together.

The same thing happened to the apostles as well. That is why Paul said, “Who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble.”

But someone will say: “What is that to me, when I am always in sorrow?” Do not be unfair, or ungrateful. No, it is impossible for anyone to be in troubles always; our nature could not bear it. But because we want to be in joy always, we count ourselves always in sorrow. And not for this reason only: we quickly forget our advantages and blessings, but are always remembering our troubles, and so we say we are in sorrow. Yet it is impossible for a human being to be always in sorrow.

If you like, let us examine both the life of luxury, so soft and so dissolute, and the other life, so hard, so galling, so painful. For we will show you that the first has its sorrows and the second its comforts. No, do not be alarmed. Let us set before us a man in chains, and another who is a king, young, an orphan, who has come into a great fortune; and let us also set before us one who toils for wages all day long, and another who lives in luxury all the time. [r]

Shall we first tell the troubles of the one who lives in luxury? Think how his mind must be tossed as if by a storm, when he longs for a glory beyond his reach, when his servants despise him, when his inferiors insult him, when he has ten thousand people accusing him and finding fault with his extravagant living. And all the rest that is likely to come with such wealth one cannot even tell: the annoyances, the insults, the accusations, the losses, the schemes of the envious, who, because they cannot move his wealth over to themselves, pull and tear the young man apart on every side and stir up endless storms against him.

Shall I tell you also the pleasure of the other one, the hired laborer? He is free of all this. Even if someone insults him, he is not hurt, for he does not think himself greater than anyone. He is not afraid for his wealth; he eats with pleasure; he sleeps in great comfort. Those who drink Thasian wine do not live in such luxury as he does when he goes to the fountains and enjoys those springs. But the other man’s state is not like that.

Now if what I have said is not enough for you, then, to make my victory more complete, come, let us compare the king and the prisoner. You will often see the prisoner enjoying himself, playing and leaping, while the king, with his diadem and purple robe, is in despair, has countless worries, and is dead with fear.

For we cannot — we simply cannot — find anyone’s life without sorrow, nor again without its share of pleasure; our nature could not have borne it, as I have already said. And if one person rejoices more and another grieves more, this comes from the one who grieves, from his own smallness of soul, not from the nature of things. For if we wanted to rejoice continually, we have many ways to do it.

Once we had taken hold of virtue, nothing would grieve us any more. For virtue gives good hopes to those who possess it, makes them pleasing to God and respected among people, and pours into them a delight beyond words. Yes, though doing right involves toil, virtue fills the conscience with great gladness, and lays up within a pleasure so great that no speech could express it.

For which of the things in our present life seems pleasant to you? A lavish table, bodily health, glory, wealth? No — set these delights beside that pleasure, and compared with it they will prove the bitterest of all things. For nothing is more pleasant than a sound conscience and a good hope.

And if you want to learn this, let us ask someone who is about to depart this life, or someone grown old. Let us remind him of the lavish banquets he has enjoyed, and of glory and honor, and of the good works he has at some time done, and let us ask which of these he rejoices in more. We will see him ashamed of the first, and hiding his face, but soaring and leaping for joy over the second. So Hezekiah too, when he was sick, did not call to mind lavish feasts, or glory, or royal power, but righteousness. “Remember,” he says, “how I walked before you in an upright way.” See Paul too, leaping for joy over these things and saying, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” [s]

But someone may say: “Why, what else did he have to speak of?” Many things, and more than these: the honors paid to him, and the attention and great respect he had enjoyed. Do you not hear him saying, “You received me as an angel of God, as Christ Jesus,” and, “If it had been possible, you would have torn out your eyes and given them to me,” and that people had “risked their necks for his life”? But he brings forward none of those things. He brings forward his labors and dangers, and the crowns given in return for them — and with good reason. For the one kind are left behind here, but the other go with us; and for the first we will give an account, while for the second we will ask a reward.

Do you not know how sins make the soul shrink on the day of death? How they stir up the heart from its depths? At that time, then, when such things are happening, the memory of good works stands by us like a calm in a storm, and comforts the troubled soul.

For if we are watchful, this fear will be with us always, even during our life. But insensible as we are, it will surely come on us when we are cast out of this world. For the prisoner too is most grieved when they are leading him out to the court, and trembles most when he is near the judge’s seat, when he must give his account. For the same kind of reason one can hear most people at that time telling of horrors and fearful visions, the sight of which the dying cannot bear. Often they shake their very bed violently and stare in terror at those standing by, while the soul presses itself inward, unwilling to be torn away from the body, and unable to bear the sight of the angels who are coming. For if human beings who are fearsome to look at strike terror into us, when we see angels threatening, and stern powers, among those who come to us, what will we not suffer, as the soul is forced from the body and dragged away, lamenting much, and all in vain? For that rich man too mourned much after his departure, but gained nothing from it.

So let us picture all these things to ourselves and consider them, so that we do not suffer the same; and in this way let us keep the fear that comes from them strong, so that we may escape the actual punishment and attain the eternal blessings. May God grant that we all attain them, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom be glory to the Father, together with the Holy and life-giving Spirit, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.