St. John’s Lutheran Church
Albany, New York
2 August 2026 + The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
Proper 13 / Lectionary 18a
Matthew 14:[1-12], 13-21
The Rev. Josh Evans

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Comfort foods –
we all have them.

Whether it’s splurging at your favorite restaurant
or indulging in a pint of ice cream on your couch at home,
there’s something, well, comforting about our favorite foods.

Often consumed in response to feelings
of stress or anxiety, boredom, loneliness, or even physical pain,
comfort foods have become well-worn coping mechanisms –
in turn evoking feelings of nostalgia, safety, and belonging.

Scientifically speaking,
it’s all in your head – literally.
As nutrition consultant Kristin Klinefelter explains:
“When we perceive that we are safe and our needs are being met
(by eating comfort food, for example),
our brain chemicals begin to change.
When we eat our comfort food,
our hypothalamus releases dopamine…
Dopamine tells our body that it can expect a reward…
Simply thinking about our comfort food
can trigger a dopamine release
and begin a cycle of motivation and reward.”

Some studies suggest that dopamine,
working together with other hormones like serotonin and adrenaline,
can reduce stress and increase pleasure, if only temporarily,
thus leading to our habitual desire for our so-called comfort foods.

Comfort foods can be cultural –
varying by nationality or region –
while others are highly individualistic.
Personally speaking, Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream
has played a big role in keeping me sane
during every presidential and vice presidential debate since 2016.

Simply put,
whatever the particular choice of cuisine:
“Comfort food is food that produces a pleasant emotional state.”
(Psychology Today)

***

If anyone had a need for comfort food,
it’s Jesus.

Grieved over the gruesome death
of his fellow preacher, prophetic forerunner, and friend John,
Jesus is emotionally gutted,
and he withdraws in a boat,
by himself,
to a deserted place –
looking for a moment of peace
to catch his breath,
to process what has happened,
to grieve.

Jesus’ solitude is short-lived.
Apparently the crowds needed to process too
in their own way –
not retreating by themselves
to their own deserted places,
but flocking together to their trusted teacher.
For what? A word of hope? Reassurance? Prayer?
Or just not to be alone.
There’s hardly a one-size-fits-all grief.

This gospel is such a familiar story –
told in all four gospels –
the feeding of the five thousand.
We know that part by heart.

But lost in the scope of the lectionary
and Sunday school flannel graphs
is the backdrop of this story –
on the heels of political violence and death,
in the shadow of grief and fear.

If anyone had a need for comfort food,
it’s Jesus –
and yet, in this moment,
it’s not his own needs he seems to be concerned with.
When Jesus comes ashore,
he doesn’t get back in the boat to retreat further away.
He doesn’t tell the crowds to go away.

He has compassion on them.
He sees their suffering,
and he cures them.
He sees their hunger,
and he feeds them.

***

“I was overworked – tattered, tired, bleary-eyed, anxious,”
food writer and cook Danny Palumbo recalls.
“Emotionally, I was a void. Completely burnt out.”

He hadn’t walked into the cafe expecting anything more
than to work and to meet a deadline.
He certainly wasn’t there to unload his emotional baggage
on the unsuspecting cafe employee who simply asked how his day was.

“Sensing earnestness,” he writes, “I told her.
That I bemoaned my job,
that I needed a break,
that I felt like I was working myself blind.
She encouraged me with soothing, practical advice, no platitudes:
Ask my boss for some vacation time,
stick to that vacation time (no laptop),
use some to visit family.
And, she didn’t stop there.
‘Do you want me to make you something to eat?’”

No longer was the relationship merely transactional –
this wasn’t like any other order.
When she set down the plate
with the “simple, off-the-menu, free-of-charge tomato-and-cheese sandwich”
in front of him,
the sound of ceramic to limestone triggered something,
as he could imagine “every plate reverberating through history”:
“Thousands of years of people sharing meals
in huts and houses, in castles and dining rooms.
During famine, and war,
family strife, dinner parties, weddings, holidays, celebrations, and wakes.”

“‘Are you hungry?’ is a much different question than
‘Do you want me to make you something to eat?’”
Palumbo reflects.
“One is a functional, pragmatic query;
one is asking somebody to sit down, take a load off, humble themselves,
and accept a little kindness and a little bit of someone else’s time.”

Suddenly, it was hardly about just the sandwich anymore.
It was about being drawn into community
with another human being who cared.

***

It had been a long day
for everyone,
and it was starting to get late.
There was nothing around,
and the vendors in the closest villages
would be closing up shop soon.

“Don’t you think you should send them away now, Jesus,
so they can go buy food for themselves?”
the disciples helpfully offered.

A little bit of comfort food
after a long day, perhaps.

“No need,”
Jesus says,
and then orders the crowds
to sit down on the grass.

That’s a curious detail, isn’t it?

Stay here.
Sit down.

There’s no mistaking that Jesus feeds hungry people:
five thousand men, besides women and children.

Maybe the bread and fish
even triggered a dopamine surge.

I’m not sure that’s the miracle though.

In their grief,
in their wandering,
in their uncertainty,
Jesus feeds hungry people –
hungry for bread
and more than bread –
hungry for connection,
for community,
for belonging.

Stay here.
Sit down.
Take.
Eat.
Together.

The miracle here
is an invitation
to be,
to receive –
comfort food,
comfort community.

Gathered around this table,
here is Christ’s invitation:
to be,
to receive –
however we come here,
whatever weighs on us –
food that comforts,
food that revives,
food that saves,
food that draws us together
in community.