Leftovers

The story of Jesus feeding a large crowd is one of my favourite miracle stories in the Bible. It’s also the only miracle story - other than the resurrection, of course - to appear in all four gospel accounts of Jesus’ life.

It’s a great story, and the general details are pretty consistent. A crowd has been following Jesus all day and, by late in the evening, they’re hungry. Jesus tells the disciples to feed them, but they have no food and not enough money to buy it. All they can find is some loaves and fishes. In John’s account, it’s a small boy who steps forward with five barley loaves and two fish. Hardly enough, but Jesus makes it enough. Indeed, more than enough because there are twelve baskets full of leftovers.

A miracle of Jesus' creation, miraculously making food appear, or a miracle of Jesus' inspiration, aided by the generosity of the small boy who was willing to share all that he had, a miracle certainly happens here. Yes, inspiring generosity enough, in a crowd that large, for everyone to share what they have so that everyone is fed is a miracle. I don’t think it’s explaining it away, but inviting us in, to be a part of the miracle - as we should be. And all are fed. And then some.

Let's step beyond the miracle moment for a minute. Each of the gospels recounts the same ending: there's leftovers. "Twelve baskets full" of leftovers. But no one says what happens to the leftovers. Do the people take them home? Does Jesus give the baskets to the disciples for later on their journey? Are they distributed to the poor?

I can't bring myself to believe that "twelve baskets full" of leftovers is meant to be just a sign of God's extravagant abundance and that's all. Surely there's a purpose for them.

So here's a thought. Everyone who experienced the moment of this miracle took that experience away with them. The experience changed their lives in some way. They also shared the experience with others. So frequently to so many, in fact, that it was a powerful enough story and tradition to be included in all four of the gospels.

It's that "ripples in the pond" effect, isn't it? Like any action we take, the moment of the miracle is just the beginning of its impact on our lives. The leftovers are its residual effect, the thing we take away with us, even the thing that we share with others. It's no wonder we should pay close attention to them.

Jesus didn't just feed the multitude that day. Jesus fed everyone they touched and everyone they touched and so on. A few verses later in John's gospel, we hear Jesus telling the people to look for a different food than the bread and fishes that they just received, a "food that endures for eternal life" (John 6:27), a food that Jesus can give them.  Jesus said to them, "I am the Bread of Life" (John 6:35) and those who come to him will never be hungry. Maybe feeding the multitude that day’s a metaphor as well as a miracle.

The spirit is fed by more than the moment of an experience, it's sustained by what we take away from the experience, live in our lives and share with others. Just so, the Bread of Life continues to feed us each and every day.

A living, breathing thing

I think the Bible is a living thing whose stories speak to us about what is true and right. It tells stories from which we learn how to live together and build positive relationships with God, the world and each other. Sure, there’s a lot of negativity, violence, death and destruction, but that’s to be expected when humanity’s involved. It’s also full of creativity, good, love and grace, and that’s to be expected when God’s involved. While we tend to look at those things as either/or situations, I think they’re and/with situations and the sooner we realize the stories are living, breathing things and not just words on a page, we’ll begin to understand that better. Just as we’ll understand how to bring those stories alive in our own lives when we realize the point of Jesus isn’t to distinguish between God and us, but to show us God in us and how we, too, are divine and earthly.

But sometimes we think it's a book. Sometimes we treat it like it’s just words on a page, rules to follow (or not), behaviour to mimic or avoid, be entertained, even moved by, but ultimately to use to reinforce what we’ve already decided, rather than learning from it how we might grow and mature into the truest of our selves.

Sometimes, the book is an icon, held up by the powerful to justify their power. And they can because, though the Bible is available in more forms than it’s ever been before and more people are buying them, fewer people really know what’s in it. Tim Beal wrote an excellent book about this a few years ago, The Rise and Fall of the Bible: The Unexpected History of an Accidental Book. I'm sure there's other books about this, some with shorter titles, but essentially he contends, with evidence, that very thing: while more Bibles are being purchased, in more forms and languages than ever before, less and less people are biblically literate. In other words, while The Word has become more accessible, we're reading it less. And worse, we're often simply believing what someone else tells us about it. And then tells us how to behave. 

The thing is, the Bible isn’t a book, really, it’s a library of books. So, in its collection, you shouldn’t be surprised to find a lot of diversity, spirituality, reality, some contradictions, some myth, some fiction, some history, some self-help and health, a little religion and maybe even some fantasy and science fiction. 

At least, it appears that way if we simply take the stories at face value. And that’s not what the Bible’s about. What makes it most meaningful and valuable is finding what’s at its heart, what essential truth a story is relating, what life principle it’s speaking to us today in this time and place, however strange and unfamiliar the story may seem at first.

I think that’s true of all sacred texts, whether they’re part of “the library” or not. What makes them sacred is being about life, how we create and live together, how we steward creation and community, how we love.

We need to share the stories. We need to wonder at how they speak to us, how we see the stories in our own lives, in our own time. We’ll need help with that, from researchers and commentators, even interpreters. We’ll need to hear other people’s stories. Maybe that sounds like work, but it’s how we build relationships. Stories are living, breathing things that come alive when they’re shared, remembered and taken into our lives.

Have faith: things don't always go according to plan

Stories of Jesus aren’t just about believing in God. That’s not enough. There’s more to believe in. Here’s what I mean.

It was a dark and stormy night … 

Jesus had seen the clouds moving in while they were having supper. It’d been a long day and the crowd that had been following him had stopped for something to eat. It was an outdoor meal, a simple one, a potluck with bread and fish and whatever else anyone had. But Jesus was tired. He decided to send the disciples on ahead, taking a boat to cross the lake to the other side. If they left now, they might beat the storm that was coming, and Jesus would have enough time to say a few last goodbyes, have a rest and walk around the lake in the morning.

Things don’t always go according to plan.

It was the thunder that woke Jesus up. The wind was pulling at his coat and the rain had just started. As he looked out on the lake with the first light of morning, he could see the wind picking up the waves. It would be a rough crossing. He could just make out a few boats, fighting the storm. There, at the front, were the disciples. He wasn’t much of a sailor, but he could see they were in trouble. There must be something he could do.

Meanwhile, the disciples were wishing they’d walked, too. The water was rough and dangerous and the storm was battering them from every side. Even the most experienced fishermen among them was afraid. And then one of them saw a figure out on the water, coming towards them. It seemed to be a person, not in a boat, but on the waves, climbing them, riding them, rushing towards them with each gust of the wind. The disciples were even more afraid. First the storm and now this: what could it be?

But as it drew closer, Peter could see it was Jesus.

“Don’t be afraid,” shouted Jesus over the storm, “you can do this!”

Thinking he meant to come out to him, Peter stepped out of the boat on to the water. He took a few steps, feeling the rushing water beneath his feet. “How is this possible?” he thought. And he could also feel the wind and the rain, and the thunder boomed overhead and the lightening lit the white waves. And he was afraid. And he began to sink.

“Help me, Jesus, I can’t do it,” he shouted.

And just then, he felt Jesus’ hand grab hold of him and help back into the boat. “Oh Peter,” Jesus said. And he got in the boat with him and he said, “Peter, where’s your faith?”

Peter said “I thought I believed in you enough, Jesus, I did. I thought I believed enough to be able to do what you were doing.”

Jesus sighed (loud enough to be heard over the storm). “No, that’s not what I mean, Peter. I know you believe in me. I know you believe in God. I know that. That’s not what I mean. That’s not enough, Peter. You have to believe in you.” Peter looked puzzled.

“Believe in yourself, Peter,” said Jesus again. “Believe in you, believe that you are an important part of this world. Believe that God is with you, just as I am. Believe that God’s spirit is in you and in the sea and in the wind and in everything around you. Believe in possibility and don’t be afraid. You’re not alone.” Jesus grabbed Peter’s arm. “Let’s show the others.”

Peter grabbed an oar and began shouting to the other disciples, telling them to row with the wind, to ride the waves, not fight them. He encouraged them to work together and not be afraid of the storm.

Before long, they reached the shore. Wet, tired and with more of an adventure than they’d wanted. But they reached the other side, ready for the next step of their journey.

It could be about the garden

There’s always more than one perspective. As we move forward towards the post-pandemic world, we’ll need to remember that living into the love that’s in all of us requires nurture and care and a little work. Or a lot.

Jesus told some people a parable.

A wise old woman looked out her window one day. She looked up at the sun and down at the earth and she looked at her calendar and her clock and she said to herself, “it’s time.” 

She picked up a large bag full of seeds and …

“Hang on a minute,” someone interrupted. “We’ve heard this one before. You told it last week. The seeds are God’s love and they’re scattered generously everywhere for everyone.” There were nods and murmurs of agreement. “Tell us a new one, Jesus.”

“But I am,” replied Jesus. “This story isn’t about the seed. Listen.”

She stepped out her back door and she began tossing the seeds to the earth, spreading them out as far as she could.

Some of the seeds landed on the path from her door. She remembered digging out the ground and putting in the nice, flat stones to make the path. The old woman smiled to see the birds enjoying their meal.

Some of the seeds landed on rocks. The wind and the rain had worn the rocks down over the years, making smooth little pockets where the seeds landed. The old woman smiled when the seeds sprang quickly to life, then just as quickly faded away.

Some of the seeds landed among weeds. The old woman picked some dandelion leaves and chickweed to go with her lunch. They were fresh and delicious and it cleared a little room for the seeds to grow.

Some of the seeds landed in the good soil. “Good soil,” laughed the old woman. It hadn’t been much before she started to take care of it, digging up the garden bed, tilling the soil, adding healthy compost and watering. She even put up a little fence to keep out the animals while things grew. And she checked every day, and talked kindly to the little seedlings as they grew, wishing them sunlight and rain. It wasn’t long before there was a beautiful garden, thriving under her care and nurture.

Jesus looked at the crowd. “How does your garden grow?” he asked.

There was silence and more than a few frowns and looks of confusion. “So we’re supposed to be good soil?” said someone. 

“You’re supposed to be who you are,” said Jesus. “We’re all different and we’re all just meant to be who we are. We’re valuable to creation just as we are, that’s part of the great wonder and variety.

“See, we’re just like the garden. We need to grow, to flourish, to be more fully who we are. That means we need work, we need feeding and nurturing, we need to stand in the sun and sit in the earth. The world around us affects how we are and what we’re like, too. And we grow together, in relationship with all things. 

“Everything comes from the earth and the earth needs our help and care, just like we do, ourselves. Love is in all things and it grows and brings life when we’re open to it, we nurture it and we care for it. So. How does your garden grow?”

It could be about the gardener

As we find our way forward from the pandemic, with other challenges, old and new, to face, we might want to reflect on a parable Jesus told some people. A parable that went something like this. Mostly.

A wise old woman looked out her window one day. She looked up at the sun and down at the earth and she looked at her calendar and her clock and she said to herself, “it’s time.” 

She picked up a large bag full of seeds and threw it over her shoulder. She stepped out her back door and she began tossing the seed to the earth, spreading them out as far as she could. And, when her bag was empty, she went back in the house and watched out the window, waiting.

Some of the seeds landed on the path from her door. She stepped on a few and some were eaten by the hungry birds that followed her. Some of the seeds landed on rocks, where the birds didn’t see them. The sun was warm and the seeds sprang to life. But there was no water there, so they just shrivelled up. Some of the seeds landed among weeds. There were dandelions and crab grass and chickweed and thistles. The weeds did very well and it wasn’t long before they overwhelmed the little seeds. Some of the seeds landed in the good soil. It was warm and wet and full of good things seeds need to grow. And they did, making a beautiful garden of the brightest flowers and the greenest leaves.

Jesus paused for a moment. The people were looking at him very confused. A couple were smiling, trying hard not to laugh. “What’s so funny?” Jesus asked.

“Well,” said one, “I’m not much of a gardener, but even I know that’s a lot of wasted seed.” 

“Yeah,” said another, “I have a bit of garden at my house and I would be a lot more careful where I planted the seeds. If you want things to grow, you have to be careful where you plant them. This woman is anything but wise.” There were nods of agreement all round. Except for Jesus.

“Perhaps,” said Jesus. “But the seed that fell on the path fed the birds. The seed that fell on the rocks might be caught by the wind and planted elsewhere. Or, over time, perhaps enough will land there to make a little pocket of soil on the rock and start to wear it down. And the seeds in the weeds, well, what is a weed anyway? Sometimes they’re important, too. Besides, one or two might be strong enough to grow with the weeds, who knows?”

“Yes,” said someone, “who knows, Jesus.” Another said, “you have to invest in the best location. You have to plant where you know the seed will grow.” There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

“But,” said Jesus. “Imagine the seeds are God’s love. God invests in the certainty that all creation is deserving of love, just as it is. When we live God’s love in the world, each seed is like an act of love offered by you. The point is that it’s offered, with generosity and without conditions. Wherever it lands it has the hope of doing good, of growing more love and more generosity. Imagine, just imagine how full and beautiful the garden of earth would be, if we all offered love with the generosity of this wise old gardener.”

It's a Metaphor

There are stories we need to hear right now. To listen, we need to let down the walls we’ve built and discard the things that keep us apart. That’s a tall order. It begins with paying attention to how we are all connected. Here’s a story about Moses, who began with letting go the simplest thing.

Moses was taking care of his sheep near the mountain. It was a bright sunny day, but out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something even brighter and shinier that grabbed his attention.

He decided to investigate and, as he got closer, he could see that it was a bush. The bush was on fire, but it wasn’t being burned up. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. He thought he should find out more and, as he stepped towards it, he thought he heard something. It sounded like a voice, very far away, but he couldn’t be sure, it was so hard to hear. It seemed to be yelling something, but he could barely make it out. He leaned closer to the bush.

“Moses, take off your shoes,” he thought it said, “you’re standing …” He couldn’t make out the rest.

“I can’t hear you,” Moses shouted back, “can you speak up.”

The voice tried again “Take off your shoes. You’re standing on holy ground.” It was barely a whisper, but he thought that’s what it said.

“I don’t know who you are, but I don’t hear with my feet, I hear with my ears and right now I can’t hear you. Speak louder.”

“Trust me,” the voice said, still a distant whisper, “take off your shoes.”

“Fine” said Moses, and slipped out  of his shoes. “But I don’t see how that’s going to help.”

“Can you hear me now?” Suddenly the voice was crystal clear and so loud, it made Moses jump.

“What the … who is this? Where are you?” he demanded.

“It’s God, Moses,” the voice answered, as if from the bush itself, but also, it seemed, everywhere. “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time, but you haven’t heard me. I had to light up the bush to get your attention. I need you to do something.”

“What? But …” stammered Moses, “if you’re God, why couldn’t I hear you?”

“Your shoes, Moses,” said God. “Your shoes. The ground isn’t just holy right here, it’s holy everywhere because I am everywhere. You put something between me and you and it blocks you from hearing me. You disconnect yourself from the earth and you disconnect from me. You might as well have built a wall.”

“But the shoes protect my feet,” said Moses. “And besides, don’t you speak through prophets and priests and holy people?”

Moses heard a very clear and long sigh that seemed to surround him. “Oh Moses,” said God. “I speak through all people and all things because I am in all. My love is in all creation, in the earth, in you, in all people. When you try so hard to protect yourself, you are simply disconnecting from my love. Listen, not only to the people around you, but the world around you. Open your ears, open your mind, open your heart. Don’t be afraid.”

“But I don’t know where to begin,” said Moses quietly.

“You just did,” said God. “You took off your shoes.”

Please be Jesus

It’s easy enough to point to the moments when being the church has most definitely not meant being Jesus. I don’t mean to lay them all out here, or debate them. There’s no room for that. Nor should it be necessary.

It would be easy, too, to suggest that religion, as a structure, and the institutionalization of that structure are contributing factors to the manner in which power has been wielded, over and against people. Easier still to say that’s history and we need to move forward.

Except it’s not all history, it’s now. And even if it were, it’s a legacy which is ours now and what we do with it is our life and our legacy for the future.

You’ve likely heard all this before. I’m not saying anything new, just saying it again. And again.

Among all the pictures you might find framed or posted on a wall in a church, especially in a church school room, you’re most likely to find this classic: Jesus, seated, with a child on his knee, another trying to climb up, surrounded by little children. He’ll be relaxed and smiling and, in the background, you might see a couple of disciples looking bemused or even a little annoyed.

It’s a moment referenced by Matthew, Mark and Luke. People are bringing children to Jesus to be blessed and the disciples try to stop them and send them away. Jesus is indignant (perhaps too kind a word) and tells them to let the children come. In Mark, Jesus says “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

Jesus reminds us of the openness, the wide-eyed wonder and innocence of a child. The desire to learn and grow, without preconceived ideas, prejudices or conditions. Of course, Jesus wants us to be child-like, not child-ish. That’s a challenge for life-hardened adults, as it is, but there’s more. There’s vulnerability.

We must make ourselves vulnerable, as Jesus did, in order to find empathy and connect with others. That’s not about power over others or control or fitting in or even “just getting along.” It’s about being open and available to the life and experience of others. Just. Like. Jesus.

We tell stories of Jesus as if he just lectured/preached/proclaimed and people listened and did what he said and then it’s all good. But I don’t think it happened that way. I think it happened just like the children, with openness, vulnerability and connection. And time. Jesus took the time to listen and connect. Listen first, then act.

But there’s still more here. There’s Jesus, welcoming children and blessing them, caring for them and protecting them, just as he did with all the vulnerable, weak and marginalized people he met. He met their vulnerability with his own, connected with them and valued them as the perfect child of God they are, helping them to be wholly the creation they are meant to be.

It’s not history, it’s now. Let go of the structures that disconnect us. Please be Jesus.