Today in the Gospel reading we have the account from Matthew (14:13-21) of Jesus and the feeding of the 5,000. It reminded me that it has been awhile (quite awhile) since I offered up any musings on Sparks through Stubble about bread, fish, baskets, or anything in particular. Life has been busy. Thankfully, the good Lord has the ability to cut through my busy-ness on days like today to encourage me to stop and reflect on his sacred scripture and Word. I’ll offer one, new musing that came to me today while in morning meditation on the gospel reading, and encourage you to leave a comment with your own thoughts:
“Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over – twelve wicker baskets full. Those who ate were about five thousand men, not counting women and children.”
In past homilies and articles, and, in most Christian literature/commentary, much has been said about the feeding of the 5,000, the miracle of the multiplication of the five loaves and two fish, the role of the disciples in handing out the fish, and the gaze of Jesus heavenward when offering the blessing.
Today, my attention was drawn to this part of the reading, however:
“They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over – twelve baskets full. Those who ate were about five thousand men, not counting women and children.”
In my imagination, I could visualize the crowds – men who were tired, dusty, hungry – reclining on the grass and consuming miraculous bread that seemed to go on forever, and fish that never ended. I could just see the disciples, first cresting the top of the hill with arms full of bread and fish, gloriously and happily passing them out to those with outstretched arms – and then disappearing over the hill – only to re-emerge a moment later with more food clutched in their arms. I could see the faces in the crowd – men, women and children, young and old, happy and confused and grateful – taking in the scene before them, consuming a hearty meal of bread and fish and delighting in this new prophet who seemed so eager to meet their needs. To speak to them in a way that opened up the teachings of past prophets and shed new light on their meaning and mission. To voice his desire to heal them, counsel them, serve them…teach them.
At the end of that scene, though, there is work to be done. There is a time for gathering up the fragments. Serving was a role typically held for the women in the household, and I imagined that small band of those-not-counted who begin scooping up pieces of bread and fish scattered across the grassy hillside. I imagined toddlers, clinging to their mother’s side, reaching down to scoop up a crusty piece and deposit it into a makeshift “basket” made from her thin wrap, tugged quickly around her waist to catch every piece, every morsel of that bread. Every bit of that fish. Not just because food was precious and priceless and the journey back to the village was a long one – but because the women knew they had witnessed a miracle, and they wanted to carry away a piece of that miracle home with them when this mysterious man named Jesus had once again elusively slipped away from the crowds to pray in a deserted place.
I could picture one of the women murmuring to another woman – someone whom she had perhaps only just met that day, there on that hillside, as they sat listening to Jesus, amazed by his words – asking quietly, “Who has a basket? There is so much left over, that I fear my apron will be too full to carry it all away!”
I imagined young men, emptying out the contents of a basket they had brought with them on the journey – for what? We don’t really know. Perhaps they had been on their way with scant supplies from the market that they were carrying home to families. A bit of oil, a bit of flour. A wineskin full of young wine. Perhaps the women offered up baskets that they had been using to take precious weavings of beautifully colored cloth to sell at the market. Perhaps there was a child, patiently sitting next to his father on that hillside, who was learning a trade – plying grasses into a solid weave to form a small basket while his father listened to this young Jesus – the one who seemed so kind and attentive to children. The one who didn’t push them away, but beckoned to them to come to him, sit with him, speak to him about basket-weaving and bread-making and what it was like to be out on a boat, fishing with your father in the night-time. Maybe one of those children shyly asked Jesus earlier in the day if he had ever gone fishing with his own father on a boat.
Maybe Jesus answered, “Oh yes, many times. When I was just about your size! And he was a fine carpenter, too.”
Maybe, at the end of that day, many hands gathered up many fragments. Men, women, children. Disciples. Strangers who had met that day and shared a meal before they slowly faded away at dusk to return home, after forming new friendships built on a miracle shared there on the side of that grassy, green hill.
Maybe that young woman murmuring to her friend, “Who has a basket? There is so much to carry and I fear I cannot carry it all,” turned to meet the gaze of our Savior as he straightened up and handed her that small child’s clumsily woven basket – offered shyly to him as a thank-you gift just a moment ago – and filled it to the brim with bread and fish from his own, makeshift apron tied around his waist.
Maybe he said to her in reply, “You don’t have to carry it all. That’s why I’m here.”
Maybe. Just maybe.
Have a wonderful week, friends. And if you need help carrying that big basket of yours full of worry, anxiety, chaos and the fear-of-not-being-strong-enough – hand it over to Him. He can carry it all.