I have a bit of a history of thinking I have to (should? can?) do everything myself.
This never ends well.
When reality inevitably rears its ugly head, and the Holy Spirit convicts me that I’ve totally left God out of the picture, sometimes I pout. I cross my arms like a petulant teenager, and in a tone common to said teenager, blurt out, “Fine. You do it!” Then I sit in the proverbial corner, intent on doing absolutely nothing for the rest of my days.
Very mature, I know.
Of course our infinitely patient Father — He’s well practiced, after having raised billions and billions of teenagers so far — lovingly reminds me of what I already know. This is supposed to be a partnership. He doesn’t expect me or want me to go it alone, but He also wants me to be an involved and active participant. In everything. Life. Marriage. Parenting. My career.
He reminds me of the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes (Luke 9:11-17). Jesus took the small amount that was offered up and did the heavy lifting of feeding thousands of people. Kind of like the dad who lets his preschooler put his hand on the saw with him while he’s cutting a two-by-four. The kid thinks he showed that board who’s boss, but we all know who did the real work.
Still, it seems that Jesus felt the meager contribution was important, or else he would have just done the whole thing himself. He certainly could have.
What has always struck me as peculiar with this account are the specific numbers of the loaves and fish. Five and two. They seem like strange details to include. Surely they must hold some significance?
And yes, many big thinkers in the Church have speculated on this as well, and it serves as some spectacular food for thought. (That pun was not originally intended, but then I realized it was a good one and left it there, so does that now make it intended?)
Well, I’m not in the class of Saints Augustine, Aquinas, or Jerome, but here’s how I think about those two numbers.
My teenager impersonation often goes hand in hand with the ups and downs of my journey as an entrepreneur, so that’s often the context for this application. I look at the five loaves as my best talents and skills: my art skills, my writing ability, and my gift for speaking. If Jesus is calling on me to help out with a project he’s working on, these are the first things I’m going to offer up. Granted, it’s still not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but they’re the biggest and best things I can offer.
But just like in the Gospel story, Jesus wants our all, not just some of what we have to share. When it comes to business, I’m a maker; I don’t consider myself a great promoter or marketer. I’m ok, but I know lots of people for whom this is a real gift. They have five or six or twenty loaves worth of value to offer. I’m perfectly content to delegate that area of my business to God, sticking to the areas that most move the needle.
He gently reminds me that even though not my strengths, there are things I can do when it comes to marketing. I can invite people to sign up for my newsletter. I can send that newsletter out every week. I can carry around some extra business cards to share with people who comment on my email address ending with escapeadulthood.com.
Those are my two fish.
Small things, for sure. Especially compared to my five loaves. But again, Jesus wants our all. Even the stuff that seems too insignificant to possibly make a difference.
It’s then that he can do his crazy God math, with his miraculous multiplication wizardry.
You may not have your own business, but it doesn’t matter. This math adds up in all areas of our life, as spouses, parents, grandparents, friends, employers, and employees. In all of these areas, God wants to do the impossible. He could do them Himself, but He invites us to participate. He wants us to share not just the best parts of ourselves, the skills and passions where we shine and that seem worth sharing, but also the other stuff, too. The stuff we do halfway decently, and the actions we can do, even if we’re not that crazy about doing them.
Doing the dishes even if it’s not your turn.
Inviting a lonely friend over for dinner even though you were looking forward to a quiet night.
Offering up the rosary instead of binge-watching another episode of that show.
God loves me. God loves you, too. And He loves us too much to allow us to exist in a state where we carry the weight of the world on our shoulders, doing everything alone. Or in the identity of a petulant teenager, pouting in the corner doing nothing.
He wants us to give him our five loaves, AND our two fish.
He wants our all, even if it doesn’t seem like enough.
If we do that, He will make up the difference.
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