It was springtime, the time that Kings
go out to battle, as Samuel once wrote, and also the time of Passover, which
was very near. It was springtime, and the temperatures had not yet gone through
the roof: it was just warm enough that I didn’t need an outer cloak, yet not so
hot as I’d want to take it all
off, thereby embarrassing myself, my parents, my ancestors, my spiritual leader
and my fellow disciples. Not that I’d ever do
such a thing, good Jewish boy that I am.
Anyway. After the master’s sermon about
how he was the Son of the Father, who’d been sent
by the Father, and who’d been given the power to give life through the Father, not
to mention the authority to judge
by the father, we all piled into a boat and crossed the Sea of Galilee, and I
don’t know that we
did it to escape the wrath of the Temple authorities, but the sermon had been given in Jerusalem,
and by crossing the Sea we were
going into Gentile lands and thus out of their reach . . . just saying.
So we got to the other side, the Gentile
side, and Jesus went on doing what he did: signs of the coming kingdom like
healing folks and casting out demons, and just like on the Jewish side there
was quite a crowd following us around, so that none of us could go anywhere and be alone, we
attracted people like flies, and they occasionally could get a bit rowdy, as
folks in crowds were liable to do, but mostly they made it impossible to get a
spiritual moment in. As everybody knows, signs and miracles run on prayer and
also on more prayer, and listening for God’s voice, and recharging the old
batteries, then praying and listening some more, and . . . well, you get the
picture, and with the crowd roiling and crashing around us we couldn’t hear one
another much less
God, so Jesus took us up to a mountain to get away from it all.
And like I said, the Passover was near,
and next thing you know, the crowd was up
there with us, and it was getting on toward dark, and Jesus turned
to Philip and said “Where are we gonna buy bread for all these people?” And it
was obvious to me
that it was a loaded question—Jesus used those as teaching tools—but it must
not have been to Philip, ‘cause he said “Two hundred denarii wouldn’t be enough
to feed all these people,” and he was right: you could have over half a year’s
wages and you still wouldn’t have enough to feed everybody even a little bit.
But as I said, it was a loaded question, because Jesus already knew what he was
going to do, and then Andrew chimed in saying there’s a boy with five loaves
and two fish, but what good would that
do? It wouldn’t even feed the front row.
And Jesus didn’t say anything about our
cluelessness, he didn’t say “O ye of little faith” as he’d been known to do, he
just smiled an enigmatic little smile and said “Get them to sit down.” And
there was quite a lot of grass up there on the mountain side, which was unusual
in that barren land, and looking back on it I think that was a sign in itself,
a portent pointing to what was about to happen: the lush, unlooked-for green of
the abundant grass foreshadowed the outpouring of abundant, unexpected grace we
were about to witness.
So we sat them down in that wild,
unexpectedly verdant green, and Jesus himself took the bread, thanked God for
the bread, broke the bread and gave it to them there in the tall grass—and the
fish as well—and everybody ate until they were satisfied, until they were
sleepy and lolling and full, lying back in the grass and drowsing away the
afternoon. And I remember that a profound peace descended upon us all: there
was no sound but the soft calling of doves in the nearby bushes and the hum of
insects in the grassy verge. A soft breeze blew and clouds scudded across the
sky, and the afternoon was perfect, even with thousands of people crowded
around.
And it seems to me now that the grace
offered there was more than just the fish and loaves, more than just full
bellies and sleepy eyes. It seems to me that that peace passed all
understanding, passed my
understanding, anyway . . . we were caught up in a bubble—no, that’s not right,
for a bubble breaks when you penetrate its skin. We were caught up in some kind
of, of energy . .
. we weren’t locked away
from the wilderness around us so much . . . the wilderness was still there, we were still in it, but wefelt a
timelessness, a wonder,
that was greater than just the miracle we witnessed.
Which was pretty amazing, don’t get me
wrong. It was expansive, all-embracing, gracious, bounteous . . . people
remember his raising of Lazarus, and rightly so, but this was just as
miraculous, in my book. To be sure, Jesus gave life in the raising of Lazarus, but here he did
the same, for what was
life in the wilderness but bread? Was was it but fish? Do not doubt it: that
was what Jesus brought to the multitude—abundant, overflowing life.
I know, I know: there are some,
especially in these skeptic times, who discount the miraculous, discount the supernatural in all of this.
They say that the boy’s giving up of his loaves and fish shamed all the others, that
they brought out caches of food hidden somewhere there in the back country,
which, when you think of it, would be kind of silly . . . why would anybody
hide anything out there on the mountain in the first place? What purpose would it serve? At
any rate, all I can tell you is what I saw: Jesus began to pass out those
loaves and that fish, and he just kept on passing. I saw no pulling-out of
hidden provisions, no passing back-and-forth of anything other than what was
given to them by the Master. Jesus took five loaves and two fish, thanked God,
broke the bread and passed it out. And it was enough.
In fact, it was more than enough—when we
gathered up the leftover bread it added up to twelve whole baskets, an
overwhelming amount, given that we started with only five loaves. But I guess
that’s how God’s grace is: overwhelming. Abundant. Surpassing. Like at Jacob’s
well, where the Samaritan woman got living water, gushing up to eternal life.
Like at the wedding at Cana, where the wine filled the jars right up to the
very brim, God’s grace is more than enough. I am sure that if the numbers of
people on that mountain were to suddenly double, or triple, if all of the
thousands already present were to go get their aunts and uncles and in-laws, Jesus
would have taken those twelve baskets full and handed them out and there’d
still be twelve left over.
And don’t think I didn’t get the
symbolism of the number twelve. Twelve baskets, twelve tribes of Israel . . .
despite all the threats and plots to kill him by the Jewish authorities, Jesus would
gather up the Jewish people.
Jesus said to gather up the fragments so that nothing might be lost, and he meant what he
said. You know? And the more I think on it, the more I realize it applies to us
all: in the wildernesses of our lives, when there doesn’t seem to be enough to
nourish us, or slake our thirst, or calm the raging seas, Jesus is there, right
there in the wilderness with us. I guess that’s why they call it good news.
Amen.
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