The story in John’s gospel of the feeding of the five thousand is filled with measurements. We have a LARGE crowd. Philip tells Jesus that SIX MONTHS’ wages will not be enough to buy bread to feed each person a LITTLE. ONE of the disciples, Andrew, tells him there is a boy with FIVE barley loaves and TWO fish. But what is that when there are MANY people? So they sit down where there is a GREAT DEAL of grass (which strikes me as a curious detail), and the crowd numbers FIVE THOUSAND. When Jesus finishes multiplying the loaves and fish, he tells them to gather up the remaining fragments so that NOTHING will be lost. From the original FIVE loaves they gather up TWELVE baskets full.

There seems to be something about all the numbers in this story—definite and indefinite. What’s with all the measuring? We have so much measuring in our everyday lives; can’t we get beyond measure when we come to church?

This reminds me of a story that has circulated on the Internet. The unedited version goes like this: “A sobbing little girl stood near a small church from which she had been turned away because it was too crowded. I can’t go to Sunday School, she sobbed to the pastor as he walked by. Seeing her shabby, unkempt appearance, the pastor guessed the reason and, taking her by the hand, took her inside and found a place for her in the Sunday School class. The child was so touched that she went to bed that night thinking of the children who have no place to worship Jesus.

“Some two years later, this child lay dead in one of the poor tenement buildings and the parents called for the kind-hearted pastor, who had befriended their daughter, to handle the final arrangements. As her poor little body was being moved, a worn and crumpled purse was found which seemed to have been rummaged from some trash dump. Inside was found 57 cents and a note scribbled in childish handwriting which read, This is to help build the little church bigger so more children can go to Sunday school. For two years she had saved for this offering of love. When the pastor tearfully read that note, he knew instantly what he would do. Carrying this note and the cracked, red pocketbook to the pulpit, he told the story of her unselfish love and devotion. He challenged his deacons to get busy and raise enough money for the larger building.

“But the story does not end there! A newspaper learned of the story and published it. It was read by a Realtor who offered them a parcel of land worth many thousands. When told that the church could not pay so much, he offered it for 57 cents. Church members made large donations. Checks came from far and wide. Within five years the little girl’s gift had increased to $250,000.00, a huge sum for that time (near the turn of the century). Her unselfish love had paid large dividends.

“When you are in the city of Philadelphia, look up Temple Baptist Church, with a seating capacity of 3,300, and Temple University, where hundreds of students are trained. Have a look, too, at the Good Samaritan Hospital and at a Sunday School building which houses hundreds of Sunday scholars, so that no child in the area will ever need to be left outside during Sunday school time. In one of the rooms of this building may be seen the picture of the sweet face of the little girl whose 57 cents, so sacrificially saved, made such remarkable history. Alongside of it is a portrait of her kind pastor, Dr. Russell H. Conwell, author of the book Acres of Diamonds—a true story. Goes to show WHAT GOD CAN DO WITH 57 cents. Please forward this on to all your friends, perhaps someone will be touched by this true story as I was.”

Well, here’s the rule about so-called true Internet stories: if they seem too good to be true, they probably are. So I went to a couple of online debunking sites and found what I suspected. The true story is simpler than the grossly embellished one circulated on the Net. Seems there was such a little girl, whose name was Hattie May Wiatt. No record of her poverty or tattered state. She did have such an encounter with a Dr. Conwell that made her wish for a larger church so that no one would be left out of Sunday school. She did die suddenly—actually only two weeks, not two years, after that first meeting. But at her funeral, not before, her parents handed the pastor a little purse with the 57 cents of savings for the church. The pastor later recounted that story for the man who owned the property the church wanted to purchase. The man was so moved that he offered favorable terms on the land and took the 57 cents as the first payment toward it, not the whole payment. Another man stepped forward and gave the rest of the $10,000 so that the church would have no debt. Others may have been inspired by the story and given generously, but there is no record of a quarter-million-dollar capital campaign offering. A church was indeed built that is near the great Temple University and the Good Samaritan Hospital in Philadelphia, but that’s that.

When you compare the facts with the fiction told, it makes you wonder why people need to exaggerate to make the story better. And it makes you wonder if that’s the kind of thing Bible writers did in telling stories like the feeding of the five thousand. Did the miracle really occur the way the Bible says, or were the five loaves and two fish of the little boy just like the 57 cents of the little girl that got blown out of proportion in order to make Jesus look good and convince people to give to an early church capital campaign?

Lots of people following the skeptical lead of those like Thomas Jefferson have assumed that miracles are impossible and that Bible writers were less enlightened than we. They told fantastic stories to strengthen their message. Modern readers have to look for the real message underneath things like five loaves and two fish turning into a feast for five thousand with twelve baskets left over.

Taking this tack, the message is motivational. Jesus is showing us the power of sharing. When a young boy brings forward his five loaves and two fish, it inspires everyone else to share their food, too. Instead of hoarding their resources and assuming there will never be enough for them if they give any away, the young boy motivates them to pull out what they had kept out of sight. We learn that there is always more than enough for everyone when we are generous.

This is like the story of the young girl with her 57 cents. We should have just been satisfied to see that a child can motivate adults to be generous by their simple acts of love and caring. Instead we add magical details that end up discrediting the whole thing when we find out the truth. But some people prefer magic to motivation.

If the choice is between magic and motivation, I’ll take motivation, don’t you know?! But if the choice is between miracle and motivation, I’ll choose both.

Motivation takes you only so far, because it’s all about us, all about human effort. I could tell you story after story about people who have little and have given much to some capital campaign or other charity out of a big love that shames those of us who have much more and give much less. You’ve probably heard some of those stories—if not from the pulpit, then on the Internet. And sometimes it’s not just the small gifts that motivate; it’s large gifts that do also. Like today, for example—we are in a position in which more than $5 million pledged by 125 households of deacons and Sunday school leaders and committee members toward a goal of more than $6 million. Some of you might figure your smaller gift will not matter because people with means mean to do this with or without you. But others of you are motivated by the generosity of these leaders. You figure maybe you can help the church go over the top by putting in your own fives loaves and two fish, or your own 57 cents, or whatever. Fine and good: I am happy for you to be so motivated. But we’re still depending upon a numbers game of measuring. And it’s still all about us.

I am not ready to dismiss this miracle story as solely a motivational tale of how sharing leads to greater things. Did you know that other than the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection, the feeding of the five thousand is the only miracle out of the thirty-five recorded that is in all four Gospels? Apparently, this made a powerful impression on the early church. There were still plenty of people around when the Gospels were written who could have and would have discredited this story if it were a mere parable. They didn’t.

What’s more, notice that nothing is said about how the loaves and fish were turned into a great feast. No abracadabra, magical incantations: just a boy giving to Jesus, and disciples who obey their master.

The God who made nature has not retired to a country estate in heaven to let it all play out until one day, letting us escape from its laws to live free in the sky with the angels and saints. This God still works in and through nature, not so much by suspending the laws of nature now and then by doing a miracle, but by extending those laws by doing a miracle. In this way God shows us now and then in the here and now the laws of the new world to come that intrude here and there on this one. Miracles are like portals, in our otherwise dependable experience, that keep nature open, not closed. Occasionally God allows us to pass through, or God passes through—not to change the rules, but to prove them by these marvelous exceptions. In the new heaven and the new earth, hunger and disease and inequality and suffering and death will be overcome.

If you believe that God can break through the wall between heaven and earth to give us a word of revelation once in a while, why not a deed of revelation? Why not see that a moment like this reveals that God rules nature instead nature ruling God? Why not see that a miracle like this invites us to live as if abundance and not scarcity is the true nature of nature? Why not see that a deed like this invites us to obey our master, Jesus, just as it did the disciples long ago, and that only in our obedience will we be able to see miraculous things happen and experience real abundant life?

Some of you say you believe that God raised Jesus from the dead, and you take hope that that means the law of nature will give way to the God who will also raise you from the dead one day. Some of you say you believe that God has healed people of their diseases, and that makes you pray for yourself and others that nature does not win every time, but God may indeed make some inexplicably well in this life. But when God turns a young boy’s five loaves and two fish into a feast for five thousand, you will not believe that. Why? Could it be that it isn’t just that it might offend the laws of nature but that it might offend the law of your nature? That you would have to become a giving person if you are to believe this? Can you believe only things that cost you nothing? How will you ever get beyond measuring to the immeasurable blessing of God if you can’t believe with your five loaves and two fish?

There are lots of ways of measuring. I want to suggest that the twelve baskets at the end of this miracle are an invitation to move beyond measure by measure. They symbolize the community of faith—like the twelve tribes and twelve apostles—that have all they ever need and more to know the power and presence of God in all things. All kinds of measurements fall short of the blessing that is beyond measure—the blessing of knowing abundant life in Christ and participating fully and joyfully in the new community of God.

Sometimes a miracle evokes faith, and sometimes faith evokes a miracle. So here’s what I am wondering: What miracle might God want to do in your life and in this community of faith if you were simply to bring what you have to Jesus? There’s still time today. He’s waiting.