This week’s lectionary text focuses on a well-known story from the Bible. It combines two famous events involving Jesus’ reported miraculous acts: feeding the five thousand and walking on water. But within these amazing acts are details that may reveal more than we first realized.

I am an introvert, and those who know me have seen how difficult it is for me to interact with large groups of people. This is a bit of an issue at times because I love teaching and facilitating discussions. Seeing people challenge their ideas and ask questions brings a smile to my face. However, when I am done teaching, I feel extremely tired. I need to retreat to my room, be in silence, and recharge my social batteries. Sometimes, it can take me days to recover my energy.

I know that I’m not the only one who faced deep anxiety during the last year and a half. For that reason, I want to invite us to bring our anxiety to the lectionary reading this week.

When I was a child, I had these racing thoughts of horrible things happening to me or my loved ones. I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of a lifelong struggle with anxiety. So, when Guatemala closed its borders and lockdowns began in March 2020, my anxiety got worse. I had nightmares that the pandemic would last forever and that the world might end. 

I’m a worrywart, but I tried to play it cool. For those who know me, it was obvious that I was struggling. I turned to my idiosyncratic coping mechanism — consuming books and knowledge. I went through hundreds of pages of heavy reading every week, but it didn’t help.

“I wish you would let me cook for you.”

These were the words of a neighbour of ours, a widow and mother of 5 children. She had lost her husband about a month before the pandemic exploded in Montreal. We connected through the food bank at the ministry I directed, the only activity we were allowed to run in person.

I’m fascinated by this entire exchange. “Not far” means the scribe is near, and possibly still on the way, but hasn’t quite arrived. I know for me “not far” is not close enough. Somehow, relating to Jesus and knowing the right answers didn’t quite do it. So what are we to take from this exchange? If we listen closely, I believe we can hear an invitation to reside inside the very heart of God.

To the embarrassment of those around him, the blind beggar yells and screams until Jesus decides to stop, inviting Bartimeaus to a public meeting with him in the middle of the street. Those around Bartimaeus had tried desperately to shut him up in an attempt to save him from impending shame. Bartimaeus, however, sees (discerns) something special in this moment and refuses to let Jesus pass him by.

One has to admire James and John’s audacity, as misguided as it was. But it appears they had either forgotten, or missed, what Jesus had already told them about the nature of power and where it resides. I empathize with them. I get it. They probably felt justified in their request.

On the surface it seems perfectly obvious. Jesus tells a wealthy man to sell all he has and give it to the poor. When the rich man hears this he is “shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” It seems Jesus’ words also shocked the disciples too, who wondered, if this is the expectation, then “who can be saved?”

I don’t believe this is a text just to people who are divorced or considering divorce. That’s not who Jesus addressed it to, and we shouldn’t relegate it to a limited audience either. Jesus is speaking to all of us as he calls forth a way of being that is one flesh, one humanity. This, I believe, is a word of compassion for us all. Yes, compassion.

There was a pause, some nervous laughter, and then a recognition that she had named something important: as long as we are more focussed on finding new followers for our own project than on the faithful work to be done, we will always be divided rivals competing for the victory of our mission.

Imagine if just one of the disciples had been able to set aside their insecurity to ask Jesus if he would say a little more? Would that have freed up the others to ask their questions? What kind of conversation might have ensued? Would it have fostered more trust and greater understanding between the disciples instead of competition and the need to posture with one another?

The house, the house, the house! We finally had it, and yet the deeper impulse behind the desire remained elusive. After a few months of living crammed together, we began expanding our home’s footprint. It wasn’t just going to be sufficient, it was going to be the biggest house in the whole development. The yardstick for our desire, our success, had moved.

This goes beyond my own sense of security and self-judgment. I’m paying attention to how the Pharisees move so quickly from self-righteous to judgmental, granting themselves the authority to deem others as “defiled.” 

How often do we do this, too? After all, society is made up of formal and informal groups that have their own rules about what makes somebody “good,” even if they don’t use that exact language. Whether you’re judging someone for using the social safety net, or because they don’t recycle enough, it’s hard not to find ourselves in the Pharisees’ shoes.  

Food sustains our bodies but also draws our communities and families together. It feeds our needs at many levels. This week’s lectionary text, with Jesus addressing a crowd, tackles this truth.

I’ll be honest, today’s passage makes me cringe. The language Jesus uses is cannibalistic; it’s scandalous. “Eat my flesh. Drink my blood.” Yuck. Am I right? As someone who presides over the communion table, hearing Jesus speak about His body this way makes me super uncomfortable. 

Fear, it appears, has just as much to do with our own disposition as it does with the message itself. The headline of 300 murders solicited a fear of destruction and violence. Jesus’ headline of a new, albeit very diiferent kind of life, released a fear of change among those listening: a fear of letting go of beliefs that bound them, a fear of what might happen if the way of Jesus really was true. 

There is a unique pain associated with this brand of dismissal, akin to the sting of rejection but accompanied by shock and disbelief (“I thought of all people they would understand!”).

At first glance, the fifth chapter of Mark is full of stories that appear to be mostly about healing. At the beginning of the chapter, Jesus casts out demons from a young man; and today, we see him heal a woman and raise a girl from the dead. Healing is clearly an important and wonderful part of the narrative.

Life had been slowly bleeding out of her for 12 years, so in one final act of desperation she reaches out to touch her last remaining vestige of hope: the edge of the robe of a great teacher in whom she would now put all the faith she had left. Note here that Mark emphasizes the woman’s faith rather than Jesus’s power.

On the eve of a battle in the year 312, Constantine had a vision. He saw a cross in the sky and he heard God say, “By this, conquer!”

The city where I serve is no different than any other city in this country. A litany of the same issues show up on the city council agenda every two weeks: violence, unemployment, immigration, disparity in the education system, community safety, homelessness, policing, economic development and housing issues, just to name a few.

Joyful thoughts come to mind whenever I see my niece Shaianne; none of them begin with the prefix “dis.” She uses a wheelchair, but I never think of her as disabled or disadvantaged. She’s just an amazing person. Her life voyage sails upon waves of joy, creativity, hope and humor—a beauteous assemblage of graces fit to humble those of strongest limbs.

Shaianne schooled me early on in what it means to be “able.” As a kid, she watched as my children grabbed boogie boards to chase the Atlantic’s waves. As chilly waters began to wash over their bodies, Shaianne gave me a “look” that screamed, “where is my boogie board?” She wasn’t about to settle for being a Jersey Shore spectator.

“Love God. Love People. Nothing Else Matters” became my mantra during my single, young-adult years; life seemed simple without the tether of expectation coming from academic degrees, job titles and the financial responsibilities of parenthood. Those words from the mantra of my youth are a paraphrase from Jesus in our Gospel text this week.

Beautiful questions yield beautiful answers. They open space for the Spirit to work, and involve us in our own transformation. Ultimately, they free us to see in new ways and act creatively. On the other hand, small questions yield small answers. The Japanese word “mu” can be understood to mean “un-ask the question.” Mu is the appropriate response when the question is too small fortruth to emerge. Throughout the Gospels Jesus is, in effect, saying “mu.” He is helping us find larger more beautiful questions, and he uses questions of his own to get us there.

I currently spend my days assisting staff at a nearby elementary school. Our team gets the call when students have serious issues with behavior or cooperation. This week, I was summoned to a normally tranquil kindergarten class, where a five-year-old was out of his seat, hiding in plain sight behind a giant smart board.