09/01/2026
Build a Longer Table…
Two weeks ago I had the honor of preaching on Matthew 14:13–21—the feeding of the 5,000—and six words have stayed with me: “You give them something to eat.”
Thousands of people have followed Jesus into a deserted place. Evening is coming. They’re hungry.
The disciples see the problem. They do the math. And they come up with a perfectly reasonable solution: Send them away.
But Jesus says, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”
The disciples look at what they have.
Five loaves. Two fish. That’s it.
“We have nothing here but…”
I know that sentence. I think most of us do.
We have nothing here but…
Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough people. Not enough energy. Not enough answers. Sometimes, not enough hope.
But something happens in this story between “not enough” and twelve baskets left over.
And I think I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand what happens in between
Long before I started an organization dedicated to feeding people, I knew what it was like to need food myself.
When I was 19, I experienced homelessness. In 1999, I walked into a food pantry because I needed help.
Some of the food I received was spoiled. Boy, do I remember the food.
But what stayed with me even more was the feeling.
There is vulnerability in saying, “I need help.”
You walk through a door and wonder how the person on the other side is going to see you. Will they see the decisions you’ve made? The circumstances that brought you there? Will they wonder why you can’t take care of yourself?
Or will they simply see you?
A human being. A neighbor. Someone who happens to need something today.
That experience shaped me.
It taught me that feeding someone isn’t only about calories.
Dignity matters.
Welcome matters.
Being seen matters.
Years later, those experiences became some of the seeds that grew into Grow It Forward.
And seeds are funny things.
Hold one in your hand and it doesn’t look like much. It certainly doesn’t look like dinner. But give it soil, water, light and time, and something tiny becomes nourishment.
Grow It Forward started much the same way.
We didn’t have everything we needed. There wasn’t a perfect plan or some guarantee that it would work.
There was a need.
There were a few people willing to respond to it. And there was a willingness to begin.
Looking back, there have been moments I can only describe as little miracles. Usually they haven’t looked miraculous at all.
A donation arriving at the right moment.
A farmer calling when food was needed.
A volunteer appearing on a day when there weren’t enough hands.
Someone believing in an idea that wasn’t much more than an idea yet.
A door opening just as another one closed.
Those moments have taught me that miracles don’t always announce themselves.
Sometimes they happen in parking lots.
Earlier in August, someone came to our pantry for their monthly groceries.
I’ve known this person for about 13 years. I first met them when I worked for another nonprofit, when Grow It Forward was still just an idea.
They’ve told me many times that their parents once attended church in the very building where Grow It Forward is now housed.
They arrived early and found one of our horticulture staff outside cleaning equipment we use for growing lettuce. He was trying to get everything put away before leaving for physical therapy for a broken foot.
This person had come because they needed something.
But they saw somebody else who needed something first.
So they helped.
Bad back. Bad knees. They helped anyway.
They carried equipment inside. There was a little struggle with a power washer. Eventually they figured it out and laughed together.
Then they went inside and picked out their groceries.
Meat. Eggs. Milk. Corn on the cob. Peaches. Apples. Carrots. Fresh lettuce grown right downstairs.
Later, they wrote about the whole adventure on social media.
And among everything they wrote, one sentence stopped me:
“I just loved being around people, you know.”
That might be one of the best descriptions of what I hope community can be.
Because this person came to receive food. But before receiving anything, they gave something.
They gave their hands.
Their humor.
Their company.
And suddenly those neat categories we create don’t work anymore.
Who was the helper? Who was being helped? Who was the giver? Who was the receiver?
Both.
That’s community.
We aren’t divided into people who have something to give and people who need something.
We are people who carry both.
We have gifts. And we have hunger…sometimes on the very same day.
I learned that lesson in another way over the past month.
The morning before his father passed away, Pastor spent part of that morning with me preparing for this sermon/reflection and service.
We talked about this Scripture. We talked about my work. I shared some of the struggles I’ve been carrying lately. He listened. He encouraged me.
He also gave me something I didn’t fully understand the value of at the time.His time.
Knowing what I know now, those hours feel different because time may be one of the most precious gifts we ever give another human being.
Money can be replaced. Things can be replaced. Time cannot.
Once you give someone your time, you have given them a piece of your life.
That has made me think differently about those five loaves and two fish.
Maybe we sometimes misunderstand what we have to offer.
We think generosity requires having money to give. But maybe your loaves and fish are something entirely different.
Maybe they’re fifteen minutes with someone who needs to talk. Maybe they’re the hands that carry something for somebody else. Maybe it’s a ride. A meal. A telephone call. Your experience. Your patience. Maybe it’s sitting beside someone when you don’t have any words that can make things better.
Sometimes the most generous thing we can say is simply:
“I’ve got time. Tell me what’s going on.”
We also may never fully understand what that gift meant to the person who received it.
Now, I also don’t want to romanticize this Gospel. Because sometimes scarcity isn’t a mindset. Sometimes something really is gone.
A funding source ends. A program or event comes to a close. A job disappears. A relationship changes. A door closes. A person passes.
There are losses that positive thinking doesn’t fix. Faith does not require us to pretend otherwise.
The disciples weren’t imagining the problem. There really were thousands of hungry people. There really were only five loaves and two fish.
What fascinates me is that Jesus doesn’t shame them for noticing what they lack. He simply asks them to bring what remains.
I needed that reminder today, yesterday, and several times over the past few months.
In this work, there are days when something we’ve depended upon disappears. There are days when I look at what is ahead and genuinely don’t know how we’re going to accomplish it.
And perhaps abundance isn’t pretending that loss isn’t real. Maybe abundance begins with a different question:
What remains in my hands?
That question has become personal for me in another way.
Sometimes community work brings criticism.
There have been people who have passed judgment on our organization and on me without knowing the whole story.
Sometimes it hurts.
My instinct is to defend myself. Explain. Correct. Convince.
I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to earn a seat at tables where, if I’m truthful, a seat was never really being offered.
Then I’ve realized something.
My time is one of my loaves. My energy is one of my fish. Those are gifts, too.
I have to decide where I’m going to place them.
I can spend them endlessly trying to convince someone to pull out a chair for me. Or I can use them to pull out a chair for someone else.
That doesn’t mean we tolerate cruelty…Compassion and boundaries can exist together. But I don’t want someone else’s anger or resentment to determine who I become.
I don’t want hurt to teach me to build a smaller table. I want grace to teach me to build a longer one.
A table where someone can say, “I need help,” without surrendering their dignity.
A table where the person receiving today might be the person helping tomorrow.
A table where the weary can sit down.
A table where there is room for people whose stories we don’t completely understand.
And perhaps—this is the difficult part of grace—a table long enough that even someone who once refused us a seat might someday find one there.
Now this story belongs to you, because this sermon wasn’t really about Grow It Forward, and it isn’t really about me.
It’s about us.
Every person here knows something about hunger.
Maybe you’ve never worried about your next meal. But maybe you’ve been hungry for companionship. For forgiveness. For purpose. For your family to be okay. For a relationship to heal. For someone to notice that you’re struggling. For peace. For hope.
There are hungers no pantry can fill.
EVERY person has something to offer.
So I want you to consider two things:
What are you hungry for? What is in your hands?
Don’t answer the second question by thinking about what you don’t have. Don’t think about what you could do if you had more money. Or more time. Or more influence. Or fewer problems.
What do you have now?
Maybe you’ve survived something that someone else is just beginning to face. Maybe you can grow tomatoes. Maybe you can fix a faucet. Maybe you make really good soup. Maybe you can teach a child to read. Maybe you know what grief feels like. Maybe you know what starting over feels like. Maybe you’re the person who notices when somebody else has gone quiet. Maybe there is simply an empty chair beside you.
Don’t decide your gift is too small.
The disciples already made that mistake.
They looked at what they had and saw inadequacy.
Jesus looked at the same thing and saw something that could be blessed.
And then scripture gives us this beautiful sentence: “All ate and were filled.”
All.
Afterward, twelve baskets remained.
They began the evening counting what was missing.
They ended it gathering what overflowed.
So perhaps this week, when you hear yourself thinking, I don’t have enough, stop for a moment and ask ‘what is still in my hands?’
When you encounter someone who is hungry—not only for food, but for companionship, dignity, forgiveness or hope—ask: Is there something I can share?
When you find yourself spending all your energy trying to earn somebody else’s acceptance, perhaps ask: Whose chair could I pull out instead?
Maybe that’s where the miracle begins.
Not when we solve everything. Not when we finally have enough. But when ordinary people offer ordinary things and trust God with what happens next.
Five loaves.
Two fish.
A few hours on an ordinary morning.
A pair of tired hands in a parking lot.
A listening ear.
A seed.
A meal.
An empty chair.
Things that don’t look miraculous at all.
Until they are.
God of abundance, you take what seems small and bless it with grace beyond measure.
You feed the hungry, welcome the weary, and teach us that generosity creates community.
Help us recognize both the hunger we carry and the gifts already in our hands.
When something we depended upon is gone, give us courage to grieve what was lost and faith to recognize what remains.
When scarcity tells us to send someone away, remind us of Christ’s words:
“They need not go away.”
And when we are convinced that what we have could never possibly be enough, remind us:
“You give them something to eat.”
May our loaves be broken.
May our gifts be shared.
May our neighbors be seen.
And may we refuse to let fear, scarcity or hurt make our tables smaller.
Instead, God, teach us to build them longer.
And perhaps someday we’ll look around and discover that the miracle was happening in our midst all along.
