Nobody was starving to death.
Reflecting on the miracle of the loaves and fishes, I find that this is one of the fundamental truths. In all the versions of the story reported in the Gospels, no one is dying. This isn’t mission critical. In Matthew 14, in fact, the disciples point out there’s food available in the villages—the people just need to walk to it.
This isn’t lowering-paralyzed-man-on-a-mat desperation. This isn’t “if you had come my brother would not have died.” There’s food out there, just not here. There’s not starvation: just inconvenience and annoyance and irritability, probably. I can imagine people were hangry, having trouble concentrating. Stomachs growling, spirits drooping.
And yet: “They do not need to go away,” Jesus says. “You give them something to eat.”
The Christian emphasis on being selfless means that sometimes we censor our prayers for fear of being selfish. We think we can’t ask for this particular thing or that—it’s surely too small. I can’t ask God to deliver me from this hindrance or inconvenience: it scarcely qualifies as a trial. I can’t ask God for this little thing that I’m hoping for: if it’s not a virtue or more of the Holy Spirit I’m after, why bother asking for anything at all?
But this posture deeply misunderstands God.
Not to say we’ll get everything we ask for, of course. But God was and is and remains deeply concerned and engaged with all of our needs, from the tall to the small. Matthew 6 tells us that God is aware that we need to eat and drink and have clothing—in other words, he is aware of, and tending to, the needs of daily life. If he’s looking after sparrows, then there’s not anything too small or insignificant to ask him about.
And God often answers these prayers in surprising ways.
I have to write them down. They are the easiest ones to forget. The prayer of the moment, the prayer to be delivered from inconvenience or lack, the prayer for a small thing, pops up and then vanishes as quickly as it came. God, please help me find a parking spot before this interview. Jesus, I know it’s stupid, but I am missing the one critical ingredient of a dinner for five people and if you could somehow provide it… Lord, can you prompt a person to send a response to me, so I can continue with my work? God, this presentation is a big one…
It is in many of these small non-critical moments (that always feel critical) that God comes through. The parking spot opens up; a neighbor shows up with a random bag of flour; I get the email I’ve been waiting days to get or the presentation goes well despite a glitch. I immediately forget these quiet answers and go about my day. But writing them down makes them stick, makes me see life as a record of God meeting needs hither and yon, sometimes even before I could ask for them, and always in circumstances that speak grace.
The loaves and fishes are also, though, a demand that I take responsibility for the needs of my community.
There are villages with food, the disciples say. You feed them, replies Jesus.
There is a joke that resurfaces frequently about the language used in professional emails and what it really means. “Per my last email” translates as “I’m furious you aren’t paying attention.” “I’m copying in my colleague” translates as “this isn’t my problem and I’m thrilled about it.” And isn’t that true? Don’t we often jump at the chance to shift responsibility from our shoulders to someone else’s?
“I’m hungry.” Well, there’s a church down the street—
“I’m sad and could use someone to talk to.” There are these grief groups—
“Could I get some advice about this?” Oh, I read this really good blog—
It’s not enough to send people food. It’s not enough to point people to resources or encourage them to do something that might help them. Jesus is in the business of meeting the immediate need in the moment with Himself and those who serve Him. There will be no outsourcing here, no depending on anyone else to get the job done.
The greatest lie of the internet age is the promise of presence. Connected to your phone, it can seem that you’re more present to more people than you’ve ever been before in your life. Facebook! Insta! Every kind of social media! You can send your neighbor flour from Amazon and they’ll probably get it before dinner! You can pop a sad emoji onto bereavement announcements and leave comments on the obituary!
And yet we are, simultaneously, more absent from relationship than we have ever been. The access becomes an excuse, a way to walk away.
Do you know what loaves-and-fishes generosity looks like in the modern era? It looks like picking up that call when it comes without stamping a mental end-time on the conversation. It looks like visiting someone or setting up a time to talk rather than sailing by with a social media comment or a text. It looks like abandoning binge-watch nights to tend to the small details of people’s lives in extravagant ways: to wrap the birthday present for an acquaintance, to take extra time at coffee with someone having a bad day. It looks like abandoning the tendency to box people into when and how they might fit into your busy life and instead giving them first priority in the moment.
Something that I’ve been considering for Christmas this year—in addition to whatever gifts I’m buying—is what sort of gifts of relationship I might be able to give to the people around me. What would be meaningful for them? What would meet their needs? What is an act of relationship I refuse to outsource? What will my loaves and fishes be?
I hope you’re able to consider the gifts you might be able to give as well. May the holiday season inspire generosity in you in every way.
Samaritan's Song 