See the Whole Story

Just about any event can be told from multiple perspectives. For example, the Olympics have just started. In any competition, the basic story of what happens is the same, but different perspectives will emphasize different things. The winning side will understand the event differently than the losing side; the view of the coach is going to be different from the view of the spectators. Perspective matters, and to see the whole story, you need to hear each perspective.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the miracle of Jesus’s multiplication of the loaves and the fish. It’s the only one of Jesus’s miracles that is attested to by all four Evangelists: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John each relate this story. They do so in their own way, with slightly different emphases and details, but all relating the same central event: Jesus did something unexplainable in human terms, miraculously feeding thousands of people, and it affected them so greatly that they wanted to carry him off to make him king. While that is the basic story of what happened, to fully understand this Gospel perhaps we should consider it from different perspectives.

The first perspective we might consider is that of the crowd. They have been following Jesus around the Sea of Galilee, and we are told why: “because they saw the signs he was performing on the sick.” These thousands of people came out from their towns and villages to encounter healing, or better, a Healer – someone who could cure them of what ailed them. Often that was physical illness, but maybe in other cases it was something in their soul: a world-weariness, a tendency to despair, even forgiveness of their sins. They recognized in Jesus someone who could meet their deepest needs, so much so that they apparently were willing to risk staying out late in a deserted place with nothing to eat.

From this viewpoint of the crowd, we might ask: What are my needs right now? Where do I need healing? Can Jesus help me with that? Do I believe that he can?

Another perspective in the Gospel is that of the disciples. Jesus makes it clear to them that he is concerned about the crowd’s welfare; he wants to give them something to eat, and he invites the disciples to help him. Philip responds with skepticism; they have nowhere near enough money to be able to buy food for all the thousands of people. Andrew begins doing what he can, offering the meager resources of a few loaves and fish, but he also doesn’t see what good that will do. Importantly, though, once Jesus begins to act, they respond with faith. They trust that Jesus will be able to meet the need that is before them, even if they don’t understand precisely how. And Jesus uses that trust, just as he uses the loaves and the fish. The disciples help him to distribute the food and to gather up what is left over, and only then is the true extent of the miracle known.

Based on the disciples’ perspective, we might ask: Where is the Lord inviting me to help him to meet the needs of others? Will I respond with skepticism or reluctance? Or will I respond with trust, doing what I can and trusting him to provide the rest?

Anton von Perger, Multiplication of the Loaves (1838)

And, of course, there’s a third perspective from which we can look at this miracle: that of Jesus himself. While we can’t presume to know the mind of Christ, perhaps today’s psalm give us some insight into what he must have thought and felt as he performed this miracle: “The hand of the Lord feeds us, he answers all our needs.” As man, Jesus knew the Scriptures intimately; as God, he was their very author. In the miracle of the loaves and the fish, he makes the meaning of Psalm 145 come alive in a very tangible way. He is the Lord God in the flesh, feeding his people and providing for their needs. Of course, Jesus wanted to provide for the needs of his people in a way far beyond physical food; he wanted to give them himself, his own Body and Blood to meet their deepest spiritual need, his own Presence. It’s for that reason then that this Gospel is full of Eucharistic imagery, and over the next several weeks, we will continue to hear from the sixth chapter of John, as Jesus explains the teaching of the Eucharist, his Body as true Food and his Blood as true Drink.

Perhaps we might consider: is the Eucharist at the center of my faith? Can I look beyond outward appearance to see Jesus meeting my needs? Do I understand it to be Jesus himself, feeding me with himself?

Friends, there is one last perspective to consider, and that is ours. This Gospel gives us a way of looking at life, because it’s not just Gospel stories and miracles long ago that demand a deeper perspective. At every moment, in every situation, we should strive to see the whole story, to understand the spiritual meaning of what is happening. For any event, we can ask: Where is the Lord at work here? Whose need is he meeting, mine or someone else’s? What is he asking of me? How does his Presence, especially in the Eucharist, help me to do what he asks?

May the Eucharist that we will celebrate – in which Jesus himself will feed us as truly as he fed the crowds, not with loaves and fish, but with his Body and his Blood – may this Eucharist lead us in all things to a deeper trust and reliance upon him. “The hand of the Lord feeds us, he answers all our needs.”

Resting in Jesus

The human body needs on average somewhere between seven to ten hours of rest each night, depending on one’s age and health. We know scientifically how important that rest is: it allows the body to be restored and rejuvenated, and it allows the mind to remember, process, and even learn from the experiences that happened that day. Rest is not just something we should do; it is something we must do to function well.

In the Gospel today, Jesus calls the disciples to come away with him for a while to rest. Remember how last week we heard that he had sent them out to evangelize: to go out to the towns and villages, to cast out demons, and to preach repentance. Apparently, they were successful! When they come back to tell Jesus what they had done, the people follow them and continue to appeal to them, to the point that the disciples don’t even have a chance to eat. If they were too busy to eat, they certainly were too busy to rest.

Jesus Commands the Apostles to Rest (c. 1894) by James Tissot

Taking time to rest is important; Jesus himself says so. But what kind of rest really benefits us? We need physical rest, obviously, but what about mental and emotional and spiritual rest? In reality, we often trade that kind of rest for relaxation: just zoning out, surfing the internet, scrolling social media, or binge watching TV. We may enjoy those things, but I think we also know at a deeper level that they’re not really restful. In fact, they can have the opposite effect, getting us worked up or stressed out, pushing us even farther away from being truly rested and restored. Other kinds of rest that we might think of – taking a day off, enjoying the company of friends, getting away for a vacation – those things are good, but even they don’t fully restore and rejuvenate us.

What we need is the kind of rest that Jesus calls the disciples to – a rest that is with him, in his company. Jesus commands this of every disciple, anyone who wishes to follow him, just as he commanded us last week to go out and bring his message to others. Both are necessary: to work and labor in his name, bearing his message to others, and to come away for a while and find rest and repose in him. This spiritual rest is what we call prayer. Sometimes we think of prayer only as something we *do*: words that we recite, or intentions that we speak to God. But prayer is also essentially a disposition, a way of being, a spiritual demeanor aimed at recognizing God’s presence and resting in him.

To do this, we have to eliminate distractions. Notice how Jesus invites the disciples to come away to a deserted place; that is because it is easiest to pray in quiet, in silence. When we try to pray in the same place that we spend most of our day, in the crowded, busy spaces – physical or spiritual - that we are accustomed to, we’re going to have difficulty. When we are unwilling to put down our phones, or put away our other devices, when we can’t pull ourselves away from the endless chatter that we listen to, it is going to be hard to rest in Jesus. That’s why he calls us to come away for a while – to leave those other things and even persons behind so as to spend time with him, resting in his presence. It is not always possible to do this. We may not be able to find that deserted place, physically or spiritually, that is most conducive for an encounter with the Lord. When that happens, try to pray anyway; it is better to have imperfect prayer than no prayer at all. But we should try to carve out each day some time – even if only 15 or 20 minutes – where we can put ourselves into silence and solitude, and rest in Jesus. It is not always easy or enjoyable, but it is what he asks of us as disciples.

Of course, the greatest prayer we have is the Mass, and for that reason the Mass should be the place of our greatest spiritual rest. Notice I said "spiritual" – Mass is not the place to catch up on sleep! But how important it is to see the Mass, the Sunday Mass especially, as more than just something we do out of habit, even more than just an obligation. It is an obligation; Jesus commands it, but he does so because he knows we need it. We should wish to come to Mass because we see it as the place of our deepest rest, our opportunity be spiritually restored and rejuvenated, to contemplate and understand better the experiences of that happen to us in the world. The Mass is our spiritual rest, because it is where we encounter God most nearly in this world. Jesus himself is our peace, as St. Paul tells the Ephesians, and so in the Mass we are most clearly in the care of our Good Shepherd. It is here in the Mass where we hear his words spoken to us and where his loving mercy is brought near. It is here in the Mass where he ministers to us, as he did to the people of the towns and villages of Galilee who came to him. It is here in the Mass that we – the Lord’s friends, his disciples – come away for a while from all that wearies and worries us, to step out of the world for a time to rest with him, so that refreshed and rejuvenated, we can go back to once again labor in his name.

Perhaps you heard that this past week Pope Francis issued some changes about how the Mass can be celebrated. Specifically, he restricted the celebration of the Mass in the way it was celebrated before the Second Vatican Council, the so-called Traditional Latin Mass. This form of the Mass isn’t very common in our diocese, and it won’t affect us here; but still, the pope’s decision has been controversial and is very painful for many Catholics who prefer that way of worship. While the particulars of the decision might be debated, I think what is important for us is that clearly the Holy Father desires that there be greater unity in how we worship at Mass: a deeper reverence, a fuller conscious participation, and a more loving appreciation for how the Mass puts us in communion with the Lord who is our spiritual rest. Perhaps we each can reflect upon how we approach the Mass, as individuals and as a community. Do we prepare well each week for the chance to meet Jesus, our Good Shepherd? Do we pray each day in preparation for the Mass, striving to make this the sum of all of our prayer? Do we come to find rest here – not relaxation, not entertainment – but rest, rejuvenation, communion with the Lord?

Friends, the Lord who calls us to rest and to pray will also help us to do that if we ask him. Like St. Paul tells the Ephesians, just as Jesus broke down the dividing wall between mankind and God by his Cross, let’s ask him now to break through all that keeps us from resting in him: our daily cares and responsibilities, our distractions and drudgery, even the disunity that sometimes appears here in his house. May the Eucharist that we will celebrate strengthen and unify us in body and in soul so that together we may find in him, especially in his Presence here, our peace and our rest.

Open or Closed

You might remember that in May our diocese ordained five men to the priesthood, and within the last few weeks, those new priests all have begun their parish assignments. They are doing so in parishes different from the ones they are from. Some people find this strange; they think it makes better sense to have a new priest begin his ministry in his home parish, where he already is known and has a base of support. But in reality, the opposite is true: it is usually much better for a priest, especially a new priest, to serve in a community where he is not well known.

We see the reason why in today’s Gospel. Jesus goes to his native place, his hometown, where the people have heard that he has become famous for his preaching and miracles. When he preaches in their synagogue, however, rather than be impressed with him, they become contemptuous. We are told “they took offense at him,” either because they don’t see the practicality of his preaching mission, or perhaps because they think he’s become too high and mighty. They know his background, the members of his extended family. Just who does he think he is, pretending to be a man of God?

The irony, of course, is that the people of his hometown *don’t* know who Jesus really is. Their very familiarity with him is an obstacle to seeing his true identity, which comes not from his earthly family from his heavenly Father. Because they prejudge Jesus, they are not able to hear in his voice the voice of God speaking to them, and so they are closed off from seeing his power. We are told Jesus only worked a few miracles among them because their faith was so greatly lacking.

Christ in the Synagogue at Nazareth (1658) by Gerbrand van de Eeckhout

This Gospel should prompt within us a certain cautiousness about our own openness to hearing God’s voice and how that openness relates to our faith. Most of us think, “I’d be glad to hear what God has to say, if only I knew!” That’s surely true when what he has to say is pleasing to us, but what about when it isn’t? When the Lord wants to speak something more challenging to us – forgiving that person that we don’t want to, or turning away from that sin that we like and have become accustomed to, or trusting him in a way that seems scary – it’s then that we might be tempted to think, “No, God couldn’t possibly be speaking to me in that way.” We end up thwarting the voice of God, and thus limiting what he can do with us, precisely because we think we know better. 

I find this often happens in relation to how we listen to the Church. As Catholics, we believe that the Church is not just the collection of believers; it is the community of faith, the Mystical Body of Christ guided by the Holy Spirit, in and through whom God really does speak to us. The question is whether we are always open to believing that. When our pope or our bishop teaches on a topic that we don’t want to hear about, we might be tempted to think: “That’s just the man talking, not God!” Or when the pastor preaches a challenging sermon, we might be tempted to say, “Oh Father, it’s so nice that you actually believe that, but that’s just not very realistic to how life really is.” Or if a friend or fellow parishioner invites us to reform our life, and embrace what the Church teaches rather than the culture, we might tempted to respond, “No, I just don’t think God would ask me to do that.” In all of those situations, and more, we have the choice either to open ourselves to what the power of God can do simply via our faith in him, or else to close ourselves off by believing that we know better.

I remember a particular encounter that I had shortly after I was ordained with a man who had fallen on rocky times. He was having trouble seeing God’s will for his life, and frankly, was doubting that God really cared much about him at all. I gave him some counsel that I knew would be difficult for him to hear but which was in accord with Church teaching and what I knew God wanted him to hear. A few months later he came back to me, and he said, “Father, thank you so much. You know, I didn’t believe you at first – I thought, ‘What does this young priest know about it?’ But then I did what you said, and you were exactly right.” God worked a miracle for that man, precisely because he was humble enough not to close himself to what was difficult to hear.

Friends, may we always have that same openness – to hear what we need to, even when it is hard. Like the people of Jesus’s hometown, foolishness and hardheartedness can be obstacles of our own making that prevent us from hearing how the Lord speaks to us. The truth is that he often does so in surprising ways, through unexpected voices, and even in that which may be difficult to hear. But if we trust in him, if as members of the Mystical Body of Christ we humbly open ourselves to what he is saying and not close ourselves in on our own presumptions, we can be sure that he will make his power known to us. Perhaps he may even do that which is miraculous – “What mighty deeds are wrought by his hands!”