Pastor Caitlin Trussell with Augustana Lutheran Church on August 2, 2026
[sermon begins after two Bible readings]
Matthew 14:13-21 Now when Jesus heard [about the beheading of John the Baptist,] he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. 14 When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. 15 When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” 16 Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” 17 They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” 18 And he said, “Bring them here to me.” 19 Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. 20 And all ate and were filled, and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. 21 And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.
Romans 9:1-5 I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience confirms it by the Holy Spirit—2 I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. 3 For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own brothers and sisters, my own flesh and blood. 4 They are Israelites, and to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; 5 to them belong the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh, comes the Christ, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen.
[sermon begins]
We connect with each other in the blink of an eye. Texts, emails, DMs, and pings fire from our fingertips. Phone calls fly across the planet. Our lightning-fast connections mute the handwritten letters of past centuries and millennia, slow boats and snail mail. Most letters are long gone, wisps of paper more fragile than our bodies. That is, unless you’re a historical figure like the Apostle Paul who wrote a lot of the letters included in the New Testament of the Christian Bible.
We wing around Paul’s name with so much respect that it’s hard to remember that he was a 1st century Jewish religious leader responsible for deaths of the earliest Christians. He held the coats while they were stoned. Paul’s conversion to Christianity is told in the book of Acts. It’s flashy, dramatic, and memorable – maybe even Hollywood worthy as he was blinded by the light, heard the voice of Jesus, and scales fell from his eyes to regain sight. Instead of killing Christians, Paul began planting churches. He wrote letters to these new churches, telling them he loved them, quieting their concerns, and reminding them about God’s promises in Jesus.
Paul’s letter to the Roman church became the Bible book of Romans. In our reading from Romans today, Paul had just finished writing the promise that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Nothing. He then wrestled with what this means for Jews, for his people, his kindred in the flesh.
As Paul wrestled, he rambled, “…my kindred according to the flesh; they are Israelites, and to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; to them belong the patriarchs, and from them according to the flesh, comes the Messiah, who is over all, God blessed forever, amen.”
Thousands of years ago, the Israelites, who were later called Jews, were blessed by God. Who were they to Paul? In our times, Israel is a country. In our Bible’s book of Genesis, Israel is a person, a person whose name was changed from Jacob after he wrestled “with God and with humans and prevailed.” From the Hebrew people freed from Pharoah by Moses, to the people Israel named after Jacob, to the Jews – generations of people to whom God made promises, promises in the form of a covenant through which the whole world would be blessed through a new covenant that includes everyone.[1]
In Lutheran Christianity, we talk about God’s promises quite a bit. At the communion table, we hear God’s promise through Jesus as the “new covenant in my blood.” We trust God to keep God’s promises and hold God accountable for the promises God has made. God’s promises are forever. Paul could have argued that Christianity is over and against Judaism, but HE DIDN’T. For good reason. Paul knew that either God keeps God’s promises or God isn’t trustworthy to keep any promises. The new covenant is an extension of the covenant that God made with the Jews, not erasure.
God’s promised covenant with the Jews matters today as much as it ever has. Antisemitism is the word that describes hatred for Jews and antisemitism is on the rise all around the world and here at home in Denver. How we talk about our Christian faith becomes a matter of life and death for our Jewish family, friends, and neighbors. As we call the modern state of Israel to account for its war against the Palestinians, we need to take care that we don’t paint Judaism with the broad brush of antisemitism as demands rightly escalate for peace in that region. It’s very complicated and it’s all too real with Palestinian and Jewish people’s lives at stake. We work for peace with Jews and Palestinians even as we long for it.
Paul longed for full knowledge. His letters are filled with longing to see the God’s promises fulfilled. In another letter he writes about being human as seeing through a mirror dimly.[2] We simply cannot see the big picture. Every so often we get glimpses of it, but our human highs and lows distract us. Matthew’s Gospel reading today is a case in point.
Jesus feeds the more than 5,000 children, women, and men in the story immediately following the gruesome beheading of John the Baptist at King Herod’s dinner party. After he gets the news of John’s death, Jesus’ pursuit of quiet is foiled by the crowds who follow his boat on foot around the water’s edge. When he goes ashore and sees the people, he’s filled with compassion. The Greek work for “compassion” here means that he felt for them deep in his belly. The crowd’s desperation was gut-wrenching for Jesus. In their distress, they had followed him to a deserted place. Perhaps they too were grieving and even afraid after John’s murder. At the very least, it was a tumultuous time for Jesus followers.
As 21st century Jesus followers, we are learning a thing or two about our own tumultuous times. We feel our own grief and fear. Desperation is in our own homes, down the street, and around the world. Fragile social structures are destabilized and leave some people especially vulnerable. It’s tempting to look away because the despair is heart breaking and our emotional resources feel maxed. But we can also pause and see people as people and allow desperation to stir our gut-wrenching compassion.
Augustana’s Soup Shelf was born out of such need and compassion during the pandemic. The honor system food shelf on the covered porch of our Sanctuary feeds people in our own congregation as well as neighbors in the community. We leave canned food on the porch of the Sanctuary and are instrumental in people eating today. You can bring canned food to share or take food to eat.
When Jesus prepares food for thousands of children, women, and men, he takes, blesses and breaks the loaves of bread before giving them to the people. This is not a serene summer picnic for the people or for Jesus. John’s execution by the king is a public act of political theater that traumatized the people. They sit together in what amounts to a funeral reception of fish and bread and each other. The people are treated to a meal from Jesus using the language of holy communion—bread taken, blessed, broken, and given. Amid the cultural chaos, there is a moment of peace fed by God’s promises.
We also pause in the cultural chaos of our time to simply be together and to receive. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who needs the reminder that we don’t muster up all that we need spiritually from inside of ourselves. It’s easy to either get caught up in the myth of the rugged individual or to curl up in despair when left to our own devices. Today, in bread and wine we’ll receive the fullness of Christ’s grace, forgiveness, strength, and peace.
A moment of peace when we’re reminded that Jesus turns to the desperate crowd and has compassion for them. Just as Jesus turns to us in these impossible times and has compassion for us – for our humanity, for our noise, and for the mess we find ourselves in. Jesus reminds us to sit, to pause, to eat, and to remember how important it is to give and to receive.
For today, you are invited to receive Jesus’ compassion. Jesus who knows the trauma of losing close friends amid political chaos. He knows the instinct to find quiet in a deserted place when bad things happen. He is the Word made flesh who experienced surrender, pain, hope, and joy. Following Jesus means we can receive his compassion for us when we don’t know what to do next. Sometimes, it’s enough that we set a table at home for communion via livestream or we hold our hands out to receive God’s promise in bread and wine. Hope for today is kindled and fueled as we receive God’s promises beyond our imaginings in the small, simple things of bread and wine from Jesus—the who is, who was, and who is to come.[3] Thanks be to God and amen.
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[1] Genesis 12:1-3
[2] 1 Corinthians 13:12
[3] Revelation 1:8