Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Shock reverberated over the huddle of twelve men. Mouths hung agape. Astonished gazes met across the circle. This had to be a dream. It felt like deja vu. Not so long ago they had stood in another place, before another group of thousands, and heard Jesus ask them to do the same thing. Feed the people. 

The disciples were unaware they were serving a buffet. They were unprepared. They had brought nothing to eat, either. No grocery bag of snacks slung casually over a shoulder. No bottomless knapsack of breadsticks. No bursting kreel from a nearby lake. Not even a long-forgotten candy found in the deep recesses of a lint-infested pocket. How exactly were they supposed to feed the people with nothing?

Clearly believing lunch was on their tab, the disciples looked around for viable possibilities. There were a few options. The countryside was full of villages. There were food stalls and inns where they could obtain sustenance. Houses and farms where folks might be persuaded to aid in the prevention of starvation. If they dismissed immediately, the people could go find themselves something to eat. Yet, when they presented the idea to Jesus, He turned it down. 

Instead, He sent them out to find out how much bread was in the crowd. It was a tedious job. There were a lot of people. Walking among the rows turned up only a child’s lunch–five bread loaves and two fish. The result wasn’t worth the effort. The discovered groceries wouldn’t feed one grown man, let alone 5,000! Until Jesus touched it. Lifting the bread toward Heaven, Jesus blessed it, broke it, and handed it to the disciples with the same instructions He’d given before. Feed the people. And they did. (Mark 6:33-44)

But that was last time. There had been options had they needed them. Homes and towns and farms. This time, there was nothing. Not one house, one hut, one hovel. The desolation was so profound, there was absolutely nothing edible in that place. Yet Jesus asked them to do the same thing He’d asked them to do when teaching near the villages. Feed the people.  

Frustration bubbling to the top, they fire off questions and arguments in rapid succession. Was Jesus unfamiliar with their location? It was barren, the land inhospitable. Nothing edible grew there. Literally nothing. Where were they supposed to get food here? Where would anyone find food here? Any food? Enough food? From where the disciples stood, the option of sending the people home had a slightly higher survival rate. Even if they fainted on the way, perhaps someone with an extra loaf tucked in his satchel would stop to help. Here it was hopeless. 

Jesus wasn’t having it. Not the excuses. Not the questions. Not the arguments. If He wished, even for a moment, that His disciples would remember how He’d fed the 5,000 with five bread rolls and two fishes, He never mentioned it. He simply got down to business. The business He had called the disciples to do. Feeding the people. 

Seven bread loaves appeared from somewhere. A few fish were scrounged out of the bottom of someone’s sack. Seating everyone on the ground, Jesus held up the bread and blessed it. Breaking the loaves, he gave the pieces to His disciples and sent them out to do His bidding. The same bidding as before when the crowd had been larger, the resources less. Feed the people. Keep feeding them until they are full. Pick up the leftovers. Send everybody home. (Mark 8:1-9)

Why didn’t they think of that? Why didn’t the disciples, in that reminiscent moment, just ask Jesus to do it again? Why didn’t they immediately set out to count the remaining bread loaves and search for the final few fish? Why did they take time to question and argue and create bottomless excuses? Knowing what they knew of His ability. Seeing what they had seen. Hearing what they had heard. Why didn’t the disciples simply ask Jesus to do it again?  

Perhaps it is human nature. They certainly weren’t the first to come up with questions and excuses and disbelief when God set out to feed His people. Beleaguered by belligerent Israelites weeping and wailing over the lavish food they’d left behind in Egypt, Moses cried out to the Lord for strength to carry the burden of leadership. The people wanted meat. Moses didn’t have any. They were in the wilderness. There wasn’t meat. There was manna. Only manna. It was how God was feeding His people.

Angry with their complaining and the wantonness of their hearts, the ease with which they would have turned back to Egypt for a filet of fish and a cucumber leek salad, God spoke a message to Moses, “Tell the people they will eat meat tomorrow. And not just tomorrow, but the next day as well. And the next. And the next. And the next. They will eat meat for an entire month. They will eat so much meat they will be sick of it. Loathe the sight and smell. Refuse to eat it. But if meat is what they want, meat is what they will get.”

Like the New Testament disciples, Old Testament Moses sputtered out explanations, questions, concerns. Did God realize how many of them there were? Hundreds of thousands. Where was the meat coming from? Were they to slaughter all the flocks and herds? Trek to the nearest body of water and eradicate its inhabitants? How exactly did God expect Moses to make this happen at all, much less by tomorrow? Clearly Moses thought the responsibility of providing meat for several hundred thousand people was his alone.

It wasn’t. If God wished for even a moment that Moses would look back, remember all the miracles God had worked, and wait expectantly for Him to do it again, He doesn’t mention it. Patiently waiting for Moses’ litany of questions and concerns to exhaust themselves, God answers when he stops to suck in a breath, “Is there a limit to the power of the Lord? Watch and see what I will do. See if I will fulfill the words I have spoken or not.” 

He did. Standing in the center of the camp, facelifted into the wind, Moses watched God do what He always does. Feed the people. The wind snapping his cloak and blowing hair in his eyes also blew in quail from the sea. Not just a few. Not just enough for one meal. Thousands. They littered the ground. Stacked nearly knee-deep. And surely Moses wondered why he had worried and doubted in the first place. Why hadn’t he simply asked God to do it again? (Numbers 13; Exodus 8:1-9:7; 14; 16:1-7; 17:1-7)

Why don’t we? When facing an impossible, improbable, insurmountable problem, why don’t we turn to God and ask Him to do it again? Do another miracle. Make another way. Forge a path where there isn’t one. Feed our dry, desperate, decrepit souls again. Why do we grab on to God’s promises, but act like their fulfillment is up to us? Why do we worry and work as if it is up to us to do God’s job? Why do we so arrogantly think we can? (Luke 18:27; Mark 10:27; Proverbs 3:6: Matthew 17:20)

We can’t, you know. Do God’s job. And He’s not asking us to do it. He’s asking us to be obedient and willing to follow His plan, even when we can’t see the path ahead. He’s asking us to have faith in Him, even when we don’t understand how He’s going to work. He’s asking us to look back at all the things He has done, miracles He has wrought, desert moments He’s turned into springs, place our dwindling hope in Him, and trust Him to do it again.

I hope you do. I hope you take those cares and concerns, worries and fears, frustrations and doubts to God. I hope you roll it all over on Him. I long for you to latch onto the promise of Romans 8:28 and truly believe from the depths of your being that He will work all things for good. Then let Him work. Don’t try to do His job for Him, micromanage Him, instruct Him. Trust Him. Obey Him. Just bring that impossible, improbable, insurmountable request to the Father, place it in His hands, and cry, “Lord, do it again!” (Romans 8:28; Isaiah 26:3, 55:8-9; Matthew 21:21-22; Deuteronomy 8:2; Isaiah 46:9, 59:1; I Peter 5:7)