The other day I was looking at
a career aptitude test on the Internet with one of our kids.
It offers suggestions of what you might enjoy doing as a job
on the basis of your personality. A number of the questions focused
on whether you operate mostly on the basis of logic or intuition;
cold hard facts or gut feelings. Are you a realist or a visionary?
Our daughter, who was taking the test, wondered which one is
better. But of course there's
no right or wrong on those tests. It's just trying to see
what you're best suited for. Larissa's a little on
the wild side, and she scored well on "Hang-gliding instructor."
But as people of faith, we want to claim the value of both,
and to some degree to integrate the realist and the visionary
into our own lives. Ideally, followers of Jesus are able to look
squarely at things as they are, and understand the challenges
and the need without going into denial or sugarcoating the situation.
Philip was good at that. He did the math. He said, Lord, by my
calculations, it would take somebody working for six months to
buy lunch for this crowd, and even then they'd barely have
enough for one mouthful. Philip was a realist. And he was right.
That's the thing about realists. They're usually
right. And often enough, realists and visionaries are attracted
to each other, as friends or partners. They get together, and
then they can spend the rest of their lives fighting because
they see the world in completely different terms. One is always
balancing the checkbook, while the other is at the store maxing
out the credit card. One wants to build a mansion by the ocean,
the other just wants to get the grass cut and the oil changed.
Philip, the realist, saw very clearly what they could not do.
If this was just about lack, there wouldn't be much of
a story here. They had no money and no food, so everybody went
home hungry. End of story. No inspiration there. But that's
not all. There has to be a vision, too. Somehow, there always
has to be a vision. Most people have some kind of vision for
their lives. For instance, in order to go from being a student
in high school to being a businessperson or a nurse or a doctor
or in one of the trades, most of us have had to see ourselves
changing from what we are to what we shall be. To get from being
an okay athlete to a really good one, we have to have some kind
of picture or vision in our minds. We see ourselves crossing
the finish line in victory—the crowd goes wild—or
hitting or passing or dunking or putting that ball perfectly.
If we're in a negative mode and say, "Oh, that can never happen,"
then we're probably right about that too. If we never get a vision
for possibilities in our life because of low self-esteem and
other factors, then we get stuck. A vision can help us change
and improve our reality. We can be too realistic, and never leave
any room for God to bring change by inspiring us with a vision
of what could be. And one of the best things we can do for the
people in our lives is to encourage them to become all they can
be, all that God intends for them.
Too realistic? Okay, is it possible to be too visionary?
It's not usually a problem for Presbyterians. We tend to have
both feet planted firmly on the ground, while an extreme visionary
has both feet planted firmly in midair. But an out-of-control
visionary is like the one in a story Jesus once told about a
man who didn't count the cost. A king started construction
on a huge palace, but couldn't finish the job. It got about
half done, and there it sat, birds roosting among its masonry
and doing their thing, the roof crumbling, people snickering
every time they walked by. "Mr. Bigshot couldn't
follow through." I wonder how much of the horrible mess
we see in the world today has been created by out-of-control
visionaries, who didn't really count the cost before they
launched. They didn't count the cost. And now a whole lot
of people are paying the price.
And there are dreamers who only dream—they never actually
get anything done. Yes, we can be too visionary. Especially when
our visions are not God-given, but ego-driven.
But the best thing is to have a creative combination of logic
and intuition, of realism and vision.
Jesus was a realistic visionary. He saw things as they are,
clearly. But he didn't just see things as they are and
ask, why? He saw things as they could be, and asked, Why not?
Let's do it. Let's go with what we've got.
And there were two main motivators for him. One was human need.
The other was the power of God.
Human need: Philip saw the lack of money, Andrew saw the lack
of resources, but who saw the fact that people were going to
need something to eat? Jesus did. He was sensitive to people—to
growling tummies and to hidden tears and to chronic disease and
to despair. Who truly saw things as they were? Philip and Andrew,
with their facts and figures—6 months wages, 5,000 people,
five loaves, two fish—or Jesus: they'll need something
to eat. He was trying to teach his followers: put people first—find
out what the needs are—then make it your mission to meet
those needs. In our lives, are we putting people first? When
we do, then we are in line with God's plan for us. When
that's our focus, there's a divine power that kicks
in to make it happen.
Jesus is realistic in his sensitivity to pressing human need.
He is visionary in his belief in God's power to help meet
that need.
There was a point where it all came together. There was a person
where it all came together. It was that little boy. Don't
ever underestimate the ability of children to have faith, to
know Christ, to serve willingly. The boy must have been willing
to share what he had. Jesus wouldn't have just taken it
from him. "Gimme your picnic basket, kid." Jesus
doesn't work that way. He must have explained what he needed
it for, and what he was going to do, and how that little boy
would have plenty to eat, but he, Jesus, just needed that boy's
lunch to get things started. And you remember how Jesus said
we have to become like a little child to enter the kingdom. This
boy was the living embodiment of it. He trusted Jesus with his
lunch. It was a small thing. Maybe we start by trusting him with
the little things, and increasing our trust bit by bit.
Couldn't God have worked the miracle without a starter
lunch? Of course. But it always seems that God chooses to act
through people who step out in faith with what they have. God
doesn't do magic out of thin air. He does miracles through
faithful people, through people who offer their lunch and their
time and talents and their income. As Christians we aren't
the owners of what we have—we're the stewards of
it—it's been entrusted to us, in order to make it
available as God calls upon us.
When we do that, in faith, it seems the added dimension comes
in. Jesus took what the boy had and gave it to the people. But
there was an intervening step. Jesus gave thanks. It was a step
of faith. Thanks for the food itself, and thanks that it would
be enough. Follow the unfolding miracle: Jesus like a good commander
issues an order: make them sit down on the grass. And Peter or
whoever was lieutenant that day said, Company, sit! And
we get one of those little details that sometimes make us a smile: "There
was a lot of grass there, so they sat down." If it had
been sparse grass, or sharp little pebbles—they wouldn't
have sat. (I'm not sittin' on that stuff!). But this
was green pasture for the flock. Very symbolic. There was a lot
of grass there. It was lush. These sheep wouldn't be eating
the grass, but they'd be fed there. He leadeth me in green
pastures.
And I was going to say there was an awed hush that fell over
the vast crowd as they realized what was happening. But no, it
was more of a party atmosphere. All you can eat. Or, as they
put it more delicately sometimes, all you care to eat.
Don't feel compelled to stuff yourself, but don't hold back,
either. That's what a fish fry in Wisconsin is all about.
For a lot of people the best part of a fish fry is when the server
says—there's plenty more where that came from. In eight
years I probably went to a fish fry 30 times. That's pretty low
by Wisconsin standards. But I don't ever remember asking for
seconds, never mind thirds or fourths. I don't think I ever actually
ate more than what they brought out on the first plateful. But
the nice thing was I knew that I could if I wanted to. That's
part of the feeling of contentment.
Part of the ache of poverty is always having the feeling of
running out. Most of us don't know a thing about that feeling.
Sometimes in our household it seems we just get back from the
store and we find we're running out. How can we be out
of milk when we just got back from the store? How can we not
have orange juice? Now with the price of gas, it's getting
to be an expensive thing to forget something at the store and
have to go back. It's not good for the environment either.
But that's not real deprivation. What about real shortage,
of the kind a lot of people have to live with? What's that
like? There's never the sense of surplus, of plenty, of
abundance. But ultimately that's injustice. People shouldn't
have to live that way. It's what the Lord rails against
in Old and New Testaments.
It says they were satisfied. They were satisfied. "Satisfied" is
a good word. They had a wonderful feeling of well-being. And
they didn't run out, either. To be truly satisfied, it
seems, you need to know there's the option of another helping—I
know some cooks who are proud to prepare just enough—no
leftovers. But here we see—leftovers are good. There was
a lot remaining when they were done. Their fish runneth over.
But how long do you hang on to leftover fish? It was dried fish.
Lutefisk is the Scandinavian version.
There was a great custom among the Jewish folks: you don't
waste food. It's a gift of God. Pick up the scraps. Collect
the leftovers. This is honoring the Giver. It's respecting
the good earth. It's reverence for life. Our sense of abundance
is directly related to our appreciation of the value of earth's
simple gifts.
Well, what's your basket of fish? How many loaves of bread
do you have? What do you and I have to offer? Too little to offer
up for God's blessing? Do we see lack or lavishness? Is
it ever too little to make a difference? Are we willing to offer
it to God and ask him to multiply it?
I don't know what happened out there. People ate—that's
all we really know. They were filled—and then it slowly dawned
on them: how'd he do that? There's a part after it
where it says Jesus ran away because they wanted to make him
king. Well, that would have been a very dangerous thing to do.
The Roman governor would have put a stop to it immediately. Rome
tolerated a variety of religions and lifestyles, but they would
not tolerate rival kings, except those puppets who did things
their way. Who's our king? And why is Jesus our king? Jesus
said, I'm the bread of life. They wanted Jesus for what
he could do for them: a meal ticket—free food, every day.
Well, Jesus does a whole lot for us. It's okay to receive
him for the blessings that he alone can give. But if it's
just for what we can get from him, then he's not our king,
he's our servant. And we're supposed to be serving
him.
There was plenty of food, there were plenty of leftovers. What
do you do with leftovers? How do you feel about leftovers? I
love certain leftovers—stew and spaghetti and turkey and
pot roast get better with age—up to a point. Salad tends
to wilt and needs to be eaten sooner rather than later. The leftovers
are a sign of abundance, but also of stewardship. Let nothing
be wasted. That is a great word for our age. S5econd Harvest and
other organizations distribute perfectly good food that would
otherwise be thrown away. The leftovers stand for all the valuable
resources and people that have been overlooked. They're
not to be thrown away. They are to be collected for the kingdom
of love, God's work of restoring and putting to use all
that he's made.
Be realistic about the challenges, visionary about the potential,
and trusting in God, who can do more than we can ever ask or
imagine.
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