BY BILL KNOTT
E THINK WE KNOW THIS story well.
Beginning in childhood, we've heard a hundred times of that late afternoon beside the shining sea when Jesus lifted His hands in blessing over a simple meal to feed 5,000 men and multiplied thousands of women and children.
The picture draws itself, we say. Here's burly Peter, anxiously worrying that Jesus isn't using the situation to best political advantage. There's Thomas, whispering into his sleeve that bread doesn't grow on trees, that fish don't jump out of the lake, dying to be caught. Over there is Andrew, earnestly searching through the crowd for even the smallest scrap of food. Center right is that curly-haired, red-cheeked little boy who gladly offers up his uneaten lunch. At the last, there are the 12 baskets of leftovers when everybody has been fed.
And that's all. What more remains to be seen or said? It's a charming tale, set on a beautiful hillside beside a tranquil lake, and everyone goes home happy. For many of us this story has all the depth of our favorite television comedy: problem introduced in the first four minutes; a search for solutions in the next 16 minutes; problem resolved in the last four minutes.
Oh, it's true, some conscientious Adventists have secretly wondered what in the world Jesus was doing handing out pieces of fish to all those thousands of people in light of all we now know about health. But for the great majority of us, the story ends with that full, satisfied feeling we get after eating a hearty meal out in the open air. It has about it all the depth of a sigh.
It's also much like what some of us experience each Sabbath: we listen to the preaching in the morning; we eat the blessed meal in the afternoon; and then we sleep as the sun goes down, when we may blissfully forget the contents of both.
But the realignment of our lives that we propose each time we come to sit beneath the Word reminds us to never take lightly what the Scripture takes seriously. All four gospel writers record the story of Jesus feeding the thousands beside the lake. In fact, no other story from the ministry of Jesus before His crucifixion gets such complete and thorough treatment by the four evangelists as this story of hunger and thanksgiving.
They heard something more in this story than the satisfied sighs of those whose stomachs were filled. To them, this tale opened up vistas into the identity of Jesus and the mission of Jesus that couldn't have been communicated in any better way. This was a red-letter day in the story of Jesus and in the Gospels that they wrote.
Among the Many-Or the Twelve?
If there's any single reason why you and I have usually missed the deeper significance of this story, it's that we've usually thought of ourselves as members of that vast crowd waiting to be fed, rather than of that little band of disciples to whom Jesus pointedly said, "You give them something to eat." It's not that we are cowards or, for that matter, shirkers. Twenty-first-century existence creates no end of stresses, and in our imaginations, as in our daily lives, we're often looking for ways to lessen our responsibility. It's natural that we should see ourselves among the crowd, receiving the blessing of the miracle, rather than doing the hard and thankless task of putting bread and fish in the hands of hungry people.
We picture ourselves reclining on the grassy hillside, feeling the cool breeze, listening to the sweet words of Jesus. We don't usually put ourselves in the places of Peter, Thomas, and Andrew to feel the unwelcome rush of responsibility when Jesus turns and says, "You-you who say you are My disciples-you do something about this situation, and do it now."
The delightful ambience disappears. The cooling breezes all turn hot. And when it finally dawns on us that being followers of Jesus means being part of that small and powerless band of disciples instead of that big and hungry multitude, many of us are tempted to try the same objections His first disciples raised.
"Jesus," we say with a sort of patronizing incredulousness in our voices, "You can't possibly mean that it's our responsibility to feed all these hungry people. Shall we go out and buy $1,000 or $10,000 worth of bread and give it to them to eat? And even if the church treasury had money like that in it for community services, why, that would barely scratch the surface of the need we can see, never mind all the hurting, hungry people we can't see.
"Surely, Jesus, You can't be serious when You tell us to give them something to eat. Surely, Jesus, it would be more practical to send the hungry people home. The better part of wisdom tells us to spend what little resources we have on more productive ministries, rather than stretching our budget to feed all those who tell us that they're hungry."
It's a measure of our Lord's love for us that He doesn't even bother to answer all tired objections. He looks at us with kind, inquiring eyes, and with the gentlest reproach He asks, "How many loaves do you have? Go and see." Jesus knows that we will hesitate to take even the first step down the road to discipleship while we're arguing with His directions, while we're raising objections and difficulties, while we're protesting the inadequacy of our resources or the immensity of the job. Instead He simply asks of us what even a child could do: "How many loaves do you have? Go and see."
"Yes," our Lord continues, "you tell Me that your faith is small and that your bank account is even smaller. You tell Me that your own family isn't eating all that well these days, and you could use whatever extra for yourselves. You tell Me that My church wasn't designed to be a social welfare agency, that prudence and discretion urge you spend your dollars for more lasting things than morsels spread among a multitude of hungry men and women."
"I have heard you," Jesus smilingly persists, "but what I really want to know is, 'How many loaves do you have? Go and see.'"
The Gift of Obedience
There's no better cure for stressed and fearful disciples than to be put to honest work, and Jesus knows it. When the devil has raised in front of us all the reasons to decline and all the phantoms of dread impossibility, Jesus calls us to simply, radically, obey His word to us.
He knows that as we go searching through our wallets and our purses we will find some change to spare, and some priorities to change. He knows that as we talk with friends and neighbors about the plight of the world's hungry and homeless, loaves will be put in our hands that we had no part in baking.
He knows that as we commit ourselves to that seemingly impossible job of feeding the hungry and offering the cup of cold water that we will be surprised-made new-by miracles of joy. Dull-witted as we are, we'll be surprised when His word of command doesn't return to Him empty. We'll be astonished that His Spirit has gone ahead of us, doing the advance work to open hearts that we don't even count as His. Jesus knows that our obedience to the task of compassion He has given us will bring into our lives a fullness of soul and a gladness of Spirit that will make even the finest Thanksgiving dinner seem like cold oatmeal by comparison.
What Is in Your Hand?
Jesus didn't ask His long-ago disciples to do the impossible, and He doesn't ask the impossible of us, either. But He did ask them to do something they found initially difficult, and we who claim to follow Him can expect similar assignments. It wasn't first of all their understanding that He required, for understanding, like baskets of leftovers, is usually gathered later. Jesus took their obedience, and He added some bread; He folded in fish, and seasoned it with prayer. And when He was done, He served up a multiplied meal that satisfied the hungriest persons in the crowd.
Jesus only asks us to bring Him what we have. It's up to Him to do the miracle today, even as it was then. We're sometimes reluctant to respond in love to a hungry world because we've absorbed the stressful notion that the miracle depends on us, that what the Lord-or the preacher-is calling us to do is to give and give and give, as though we were the ones responsible for multiplying loaves or fish or dollars.
Friends, I believe that the same Lord who took five crisp loaves and two tiny fish and satisfied nearly 20,000 people can take your five crisp bills or your two tiny nickels and increase them exponentially. The wonder-working Jesus is very much alive and very much in control. He still delights in miracles, in satisfying hungry mouths with good things-especially when He finds faith among disciples, especially when He find disciples who will say, "Lord Jesus, You have given us this task. By Your grace, because we believe that Your compassion for all these hungry people can become our compassion, we will obey. We'll go and see just how many loaves we really have. We'll save the daily change this month; we'll skip one time when we planned to eat out. We'll tell our children and our neighbors that Jesus is calling them, too, to have a part in feeding, not just 5,000 hungry people, but 500 million hungry people."
The thankfulness that heaven counts expends itself for those who rarely get to feel grateful. Unless you've been awarded a private zip code, someone who shares your same five digits will lack for food and sustenance this week, in this Thanksgiving season. Find that person. Feed the hungry person nearest you. Illustrate your thankfulness this year by serving meals to homeless children, by volunteering at a soup kitchen near where you live, by pouring yourself out, like water for the afflicted.
There's a loaf in your hand today-at least one. For that loaf you are appropriately grateful and lift your praise to Jesus. Now let His wonder-working power that once fed thousands work in you, with what you hold, to answer other urgent prayers.
The loaf in your hand is someone else's gratitude and Thanksgiving.
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Bill Knott is an associate editor of the Adventist Review.
