Creativity Days

Our Community sets aside a few days during the year for "creativity" time. Sometimes we get an entire week, sometimes a few days. But the time is usually scheduled in advance, and it provides a break from the normal routine. Any activity a Sister finds creative is appropriate. Some write poetry, some compose or perform music, others sew or knit. Some do yoga or dance. And then there are those who do a little of everything. (That would be me.)

I have the dubious honor to have been born creative. And yes, it was, and continues to be an enormous blessing; but you know the saying: "to those to whom much is given, much is expected"? Well they aren't just whistling Dixie. And… as I grow older I find that I can no longer do a lot of what I used to. I can't pull all-nighters anymore and I can't turn the inspiration on and off like a faucet any more. Those days are long gone.

So here I am, gifted this week with three days to do whatever inspires me, and what have I done with my first day? A load of laundry, cleaned my room, sorted and tossed a wastebasket full of papers, and pried out tacks from the seats of three kitchen chairs. Aha! at least one creative project looms on my horizon. I plan to cover the seat cushions of all the kitchen chairs we hauled over here during Long Retreat. Originally they were covered with some kind of wash and wear ghastly green vinyl, and all but two of the chairs have split where you sit. Subsequently the rips were taped with gray duct tape. Now I admit that duct tape and WD40 are my two favorite alltime fix-its, but they are meant to be temporary fix-its. After a couple of years, the sticky goo on duct tape corrodes into a hardened crusty mess. Thank heavens for Goo Gone. (Another fine product on my never-to-be-without list.)

One of my Sisters questioned the validity of this project. "It sounds like work to me," she said, "not something creative." She may be right. There are more than fifty tacks per seat, in over a dozen chairs. But it's the result I'm looking forward to… matching chairs all lined up at the table when we have our next big gathering.

I get to be creative every day of my life. I get to cook, sing, knit, write, and practice my graphic design skills. I may even do some or all of those this week too. But those kitchen chairs will be my project. Wish me luck.

Choice Points

"Do not lay up for yourselves treasure on earth, where moth and rust and thieves can destroy..."

The Bible study reading this morning prompted discussion of our culture's need to acquire. Whether it be more material possessions, more friends, more responsibilities, more brownie points in heaven, there is a conditioning in us all that urges us to gather. One member thought it could be traced to prehistoric times, when hunting and gathering was a life and death issue. True enough. We still manage to function as human beings on many of the same instinctive levels as we did then. The need to eat, the drive for sex, flight or fight, all these are ancient instincts. But when does gathering become hoarding? When does need transform to greed? Is our mentality one of scarcity or abundance? Whether the conditioning comes from a DNA strand or Madison Avenue doesn't much matter. We are called to look at our choices more thoughtfully. Do I need this or want it? And if I want it, why? What is the unseen and underlying motive?

"But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." If all my stuff is stolen or destroyed, will my heart be broken? And what will replace that emptiness I worked so long and hard to fill? These are questions human beings are asking themselves amidst the destruction and desolation left in the wake of the earth's current natural disasters. We are all at choice points: those who have lost everything, certainly. But those of us who still have, what is our response? Dig deep and share? Or hoard that much more stringently?

Goofing Off

Today is a goof-off day, a cleaning day, a meeting day. As you can see, I'm in the goofing-off phase. Found this stupid quiz on one of the blogs I read regularly, and am trying to figure out how to give you a link, just in case you want to goof off too.

The Quiz: Which Saint Are You?
(Always a good thing to know, right?)

Mine said: "You are Julian of Norwich! It's all about God, to you. You're convinced that the world has a happy ending. Everyone else is convinced that you're a closet hippie, but you love them anyway."

1821 other people got this result!
This quiz has been taken 5683 times.
32% of people had this result.


Which Saint Are You?
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Ground Apple Muffins

This did not start out to be a cooking blog. It began as a way to interact with my family: my two sons and their families, and then it took on a life of its own and extended to my… well, extended family… (friends from before my convent days and those who came after, including my Sisters, a few who actually read my blog.)

But here I am, two days in a row, taking pictures of FOOD. I never used to love to cook. I liked to make things I could decorate and make pretty, and that included food. Maybe it was the artist in me, but decorating was way more fun than cooking. But now the whole zen process of interacting with the essence and substance of food has me hooked. Spices that come alive in a frypan, sauces that simmer for hours and undergo a mysterious alchemy… these all have my attention. So today's offering (including a recipe) is muffins.

The original recipe, which started out as banana muffins is from a book called Quick Breads, Soups & Stews by Mary Gubser. I have a tendency to page through several recipes, find the common denominator of ingredients, and then substitute and add my own, so now any fruit that might be composting on the counter becomes the main ingredient. Today it's apples. When I first started making these they were dubbed by one of the Sisters "rotten muffins" because I was saving the fruit from going rotten. These are ground apples. (they fell off our tree to the ground) and are a little tart for eating, but great for cooking.

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1 rounded tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 TBLSP cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground cloves or allspice
1/2 cup unsalted butter softened
1 cup raw sugar
3 large eggs
3/4 to 1 cup mashed/mushy or cooked fruit
1/2 cup fresh fruit finely diced (optional)
1/2 cup chopped nuts (any combination of almonds, pecans, walnuts)
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/2 cup granola
1-3 TBLSP sour cream or plain yogurt
more granola
brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease pans for 12+ muffins (sometimes it yields 14, depending on fruit) Sift dry ingredients together in a bowl and set aside. In a large mixing bowl cream butter with sugar til fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and beat well each time. Switch to a big scraper spoon and add the flour mixture, fruit, nuts, raisins and granola. The batter will be pretty stiff at this point. Add the sour cream or yogurt a tablespoon at a time till it moistens and fluffs up the batter. Fill muffin cups to just below rims. Add a pinch of extra granola and a pinch of brown sugar to the top of each. Bake at 375 appx 20-30 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean.

Campbell's does not rule

We are innundated with tomatoes from the garden. I've made so many batches of salsa, spaghetti sauce, enchilada sauce, and today— tomato juice and tomato soup. Cooking down the tomatoes seems to always start the same, but every batch is different. I'm learning to let the fruit speak for itself instead of deciding beforehand what it's supposed to be. (Now if only I could apply that lesson to my interactions with human beings.)

Today I learned that tomato soup takes a whole lot more tomatoes than spaghetti sauce. For one thing, to get the smooth rich texture, I couldn't just whisk the cooked pulp in the blender and be done. It took four strainings/scrapings through a sieve and the stuff cooked on low for about ten hours.
Amazing. Three gallons of tomatoes made about eight bowls of soup. But it was awesome. Campbells does not rule here.


The cooking always starts the same.

Eating Crow

I've been in what they call the "desert" place for several days… feeling pissy about a number of things, and acting it out in less than appropriate nunlike ways. For one thing, any sense of compassion seems to have deserted me. (Is that why they call it desert?) I want justice, restitution, people to say sorry, I want them to get it. When in fact it's me who's not getting it. It doesn't seem to help that I know that. It doesn't seem to help that I'm more than willing to eat crow and admit I'm currently incapable of living up to God's call. I confuse feeling with being. I expect to feel compassionate, and when I don't, then I'm not. I might have a lovely meditation in the early morning and by 10:00 I'm arguing and snapping at somebody.

Compassion, like Love, is a decision, not a feeling. Why do I keep forgetting that?

Rites of Passage

Yesterday our Community clothed a Candidate. Clothing is one of the rites of passage for a religious: you walk into chapel in not much more than an underdress with a belt. Other Sisters actually dress you with additional items (a scapular, cross and veil) and you walk out a changed person. It's an incredibly moving ceremony to receive a habit; for the one being clothed, of course; but also for every other Sister participating. Like so many of our culture's rites of passage, (Baptism and Marriage come to mind immediately) witnessing another's passage is much more than going through the motions.

As I watched each item being blessed, sprinkled with Holy water, and the symbolic meaning expressed in prayer, I was reminded of why I now wear a habit… what it all meant (and still means) to me. Ritual is an integral part of symbolic meaning, and symbolism is how we make sense of the spiritual world. Without symbolism we cannot express the inexpressible nature of God, faith, love, commitment. We just don't have the words.

I was on rest time with a good friend over the weekend. She had asked me early on what she should pray for as I started this journey on the convent path. I had told her "discernment". I've not been especially good about discerning difficult or important decisions in my lifetime. I've made impetuous choices and have had to live with the consequences. I got used to jumping off cliffs, financially and emotionally, but I made a lot of stupid jumps. Now, as a candidate for a religious order, I'm in a four year discernment process… certainly a world record for me. Questions questions questions, and very few straightforward answers. At my age I'm finally learning to look before I leap. Who'd have thunk it? Not me.

Everybody Has an Opinion

In the aftermath of disasters like Hurricane Katrina, everybody has an opinion. There are many who cry like Chicken Little that "the world is ending!!" They may be right. Certainly the world as we've come to know it is ending.

Then there are those who have to find somebody to blame. "God did this because you were bad" is a favorite theme: either New Orleans was a bad city, or we (Americans) are bad people, or Humans in general are a bad species. Any one of these claims is probably true in part, but none of them tell the whole story. Jesus Christ wasn't big on blame, although many of His followers have since become so.

Anyway… I'm no exception to the rule, I have opinions too. My first opinion is that blame may make us feel better for awhile but it doesn't get in there and solve any problems. So while I also believe Bush had his head up his a-- during this disaster, pointing the finger over and over wastes time. People are dead. More are still dying. My brief CNN glimpses of the horror do not do it justice. I'm sitting here in Brewster dry and well fed, with only my prayers at this point to aid the victims.

My younger son, on the other hand, is a policeman deployed to Mississippi as part of the rescue operations there. (New Orleans wasn't the only place where people lost lives and property.) I remember him telling me after 9/11 how frustrated he was that the sheriff in his city chose not to send personnel to New York. He wanted to put his emergency training to use and couldn't. Now he can. I'm very proud of him. An outstretched hand can't point any one finger. There's no room for blame.

And this hurricane disaster is not an isolated event. We are witnessing the earth's upheaval all over the globe. Whether it's global warming causing erratic and severe weather conditions or our Mother undergoing her own brand of chemotherapy to rid herself of the human cancer is not yet known. It may not even be that important, because the answer only leads back to blame. What we do with and for each other in the face of crisis is what's important. "When did we see you hungry and feed you? Thirsty and give you something to drink?" Now. Now is all we really have. That's another opinion.

Rule of Life

I had a Rule of Life long before I entered a convent: Do it for love. Do it with joy. Learn from every situation. That was it; developed sometime during the years after my second divorce, and it held me in good stead for the longest time.

Now I'm studying the Rule for this Community, and working to understand what the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience will mean in a larger context, a deeper context than those of economics, sex and powerlessness. Every book I read has its own opinion, even the Community members hold differing views on what each vow means to them. Whatever I finally come up with will probably change. It's the nature of things… to change.

A Whole New Culture

Still adjusting to the new culture… The Sisters at Melrose dance to a different rhythm than in the city. I think I'll come to love it eventually, but now it is just alien. I sleep fitfully: new house noises, new plumbing, new outdoor sounds. For several years I have awakened to the sound of simulated waves (when you can't afford an oceanfront condo, you make do.) But here the outdoor sounds are authentic: rain dripping from the eaves, birds calling their morning greetings. I end up turning off the alarm before it ever sounds.

I'm finding the Bible study more authentic as well. We do a form of African Bible Study where the selected passage is read three times, each a completely different translation. After the first reading we go around the circle and each Sister repeats a word or phrase that jumped out. It definitely keeps you listening… you can't space out during the first reading. The second round goes deeper. It's the same story but the words have changed. Sometimes the emphasis shifts a little, sometimes a lot. We go deeper too, offering whatever insights we gained from hearing the story again. Insights vary from Sister to Sister, based on her past experience and what she might be dealing with internally. The final round is the clincher. The question to answer after the third reading is: What is God calling you to do? At this point any Sister could spout platitudes…… "I think God is calling me to be more tolerant of my Sisters…" but I've not heard that happen. By the third reading, we're in a pretty real place with the story, and our answers reflect that. Sometimes I know immediately what God wants from me; sometimes I haven't a clue.

Yesterday's insight was "Wait (translate: hold out) for more information before you judge." What, ME jump to conclusions? In a New York minute I'm sorry to say. Yet that insight was confirmed a few hours later in a way I'll never forget. Pray I'll never forget. Additional information came to me regarding a situation I'm involved with. It (the information) was unsolicited and unexpected and it turned all my preconceived judgments upside down.

How often does this happen to us? Not often enough to make a difference obviously. But the man who cuts you off in traffic may have just buried his wife. He is actually distraught and careless; we assume he is a total jerk. The cashier who snaps at us in the grocery line may be facing breast cancer. We think she should be reported to the management for her lack of customer service. It's a whole new culture to consciously and mindfully give each other the benefit of the doubt. It takes practice. I'll keep working at it because I think I'll come to love it.

Interrupted discipline

I was never any good at the discipline of exercise. I am basically a quitter when things get painful or tiresome. I'd always quit working out before I came within a mile of the endorphins, so I never got the reward to encourage me to come back for more.

But I do know something about other disciplines, and any interrupted discipline is hard to get back into, once you've stopped. Blogging is no exception. For an entire week our Community was in silent retreat. No talking, no phone calls, no newspapers, no email… We essentially lived an enclosed monastic life for a week. The purpose: to eliminate any worldly distractions… to give each Sister the space to be with God in her own way. A lovely theory. However, that much silence turned all my thoughts inward, especially the dark ones. There was no outward way to express (translate: get rid of) any judgments, irritation, anger or discomfort I might be feeling about anything or nothing, so it all convened inside. It was not a pleasant experience to be hostess to a committee of irrational feelings that were ricocheting off the insides of my stomach. But the experience of going through rather than opting out had to be similar to finally feeling the endorphins. I got over it. I was peaceful toward the end of the week. Then it was time to talk again, write again. Now I had nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. I could barely participate in a coherent conversation. Was there a point?

One of these days I'm going to learn how not to swing like a pendulum. But not today.

Tunnel's End

An overwhelming job divided cannot conquer. It may try to divide us for a time, but not forever.

It is Friday night. Tomorrow the city Sisters will arrive and Long Retreat will begin with Vespers in the refurbished chapel. There are new seat cushions in every chair, the slate floor was washed at least three times, windows are clean and wood is oiled. It is a bit dark because we have no electricity, so it is not perfect, but it is holy space again and that is enough.

The old convent has been thoroughly cleaned, stripped down and rearranged: new plumbing installed, trash hauled again and again and again to the dumpster. (The dumpster people have been called a half dozen times; their promises to pick up… still unkept.) So that is not perfect either, but still… enough. St. Cuthbert's has also been cleaned and rearranged, cozy sitting areas laid out for reading, meditation or quiet contemplation. The refectory is clear of all the potatoes and garlic and seeds which were drying on the big tables. It stands waiting for delicious meals, healthy organic vegetarian meals from the burgeoning garden. Fresh cheese cools in the fridge. Freshly harvested tomatoes, squash, greens, beans, potatoes and herbs are tucked on windowsills, in the cold room, in the root cellar. All has been made tidy and beautiful.

We are tired, but it is a good tired. One of accomplishment and joy. There was always light at the end of the tunnel.
Now even I can see it.

Hit the Ground Running

Even when I anticipate something like this happening, I'm never really prepared. I got a day and a half to settle in (one spent cleaning the bathroom) and then hit the ground like a greyhound after the tin rabbit. No time to adjust to the new schedule, new Office prayers, readings: everything familiar enough to be misleading, different enough to trip me up when I assume I know what's coming next. I find myself in a state of chronic dis-ease.

Long Retreat begins at the end of this week and everything here is in upheaval. The old convent, recently vacated by two Sisters who have moved to assisted living/nursing facilities is a mammoth glory hole. Not only deep cleaning, but tedious going through, sorting out, throwing away is required, since four of the city Sisters will be staying there. We've been at it since Monday (no Sabbath this week) and empty boxes and giant black garbage bags litter the hallways. It was a good month-long job crammed into five days. The small chapel, unused except for storage of garden tools for the past two years, has been opened up and is being cleaned out… another task requiring more time than we have.

As each day counts down the pressure mounts. We are too few battling the clutter and dirt on too many fronts. Everyone is already exhausted, but nobody is (as yet) cutting corners. One Sister struggles to make cheese. It is her thing. She wants fresh cheese for the Sisters to enjoy on Long Retreat. But every sink is full, every large pot in use. There's nothing to cook supper in, no place for anyone to wash a dish or their hands. Tension is thick, nerves are frayed and tempers flare up like fatwood. We end up stepping on each other's toes and stomping on each other's feelings. Another Sister arrives on the scene in the middle of my second meltdown of the morning. "What's wrong?" she asks sympathetically. I have no energy to go into it. "I's been a bad morning!" I growl. I don't want her sympathy, I want her to change her clothes and haul garbage. She doesn't even get the day and a half.

Other People's Dirt

Whenever I move, one of the first things I do (besides unpack at least enough to make my bed) is clean the bathroom. I like metal taps to glisten, no unsightly rings in tub or toilet, baseboards free from dust, medicine cabinets free from scum. ( Possibly the result of too many Mr. Clean commercials?) The truth is it will never look like this again as long as I live here, but that is not the point. The point is: other people's dirt. My first conscious memory of doing this was when I moved into a trailer with two other girls my third year of college. Someone had moved out and I was the replacement roommate. I had only had dorm roommates before, with a bath down the hall (cleaned by a cleaning crew), so this was my first real encounter with other people's dirt. I spent the whole afternoon cleaning their bathroom. I even bought a new shower curtain. EEEuew… other people's mildew! The other roommates returned and were suitably impressed, and life went on. But I've found that folks are not always as receptive to my cleaning sprees. They can assume a kind of guilt-induced snottiness, as if I were deliberately pointing out certain flaws in their housekeeping abilities. Not true! I just like the dirt to be mine. And I realize that sharing a bathroom with other women puts me in a tough spot: the dirt is often not mine. But at least from now on some of it is mine, and that's all I need to know. Besides, cleaning it once down to the bare scum-free surfaces lets me know just how hard I have to work the next time. Not to mention all the interesting information I have gleaned from this last episode: toothpaste over time will etch glass. Now who knew that?

Grace

You hear about grace all the time in the Bible, especially in the New Testament. And, no, I'm not talking about what you say before meals. Different grace. God's grace: the unfathomable capacity of an unknowable entity to grant undeserved blessings… that kind of grace. Lots of "uns" there—simply because it's too big to comprehend.

Anyway, here's the really hard thing about grace... especially God's. You can't earn it. You can't seek it. Well, you can, but it seems that it's never where you look for it. It appears somewhere else. (I think God likes saying "Boo! Surprise!") One nice thing about grace is it keeps popping up in unexpected places, and so if you are on the lookout for it you may be able to recognize it.

Most of us don't understand the grace of God (I don't) for a couple of reasons: it isn't fair. We think we want life to be fair. We also want God to kill the other guy for us, punish him for his sins, but forgive us for ours. So when a good guy gets cancer we say "Hey! Not fair! God! You made a crummy world!" But, that same cancer could be an opportunity for extreme contact with God. What do we know? Diddly-squat.

Survival

I was thinking about the word survival and all the unspoken baggage that word entails. In my own lifetime I have "survived" a rich assortment of ugly things: alcoholic parents, child molestation, divorce—my parents' and my own, rape, suicide attempts, (um yes, that's plural), car wrecks, abuse, betrayal, the World Trade Center attack. And these are only the things I know about… how many other near-misses have I breezed through with no indication whatsoever?

Given similar circumstances, what makes one person survive more emotionally intact than another? Why will one rise from her ashes fighting mad, another cringing in fear? Once betrayed, some never trust again, while others go on to be eternally vulnerable.

Is it the gene pool or the luck of the draw? Is it a pact we made with God before we were born to learn something as yet unexplored? I am one of the lucky ones. At this point in my life nobody's out to get me, I have people who love me, any major physical problems have been patched up with medications, and I wake up each day wanting to live. There were times when this wasn't true, sure. (which may explain those suicide attempts) But that was then, this is now.

Survivorship places unspoken responsibilities on the one surviving: if you survive trying to kill yourself you have to ask why. Was I crying for attention? Was my attempt just a major botch job? Or… was there a saving intervention from some outside source (yes, I mean God). If I answer yes to that, it only leads to more questions. Good questions. Questions that help me survive the next ugly thing to come along.

Overcoming the bad things that happen to me is one thing. I can feel pretty smug about myself. Living when someone else dies is another. Now the questions require way more thoughtful answers: Since I don't deserve the gift of time, didn't earn it, can't pay for it, what can I do to make it worthwhile? For me, big questions sometimes need small answers… one small answer at a time. Every new day gives me another chance to make good on the gift. Some days I can.

More than much fine gold.

I was recently in touch with a dear friend from my past. We only get to talk from time to time, and he is often in a funk about his life. He worries about his spirituality mainly, but it's all related: physical, emotional, spiritual. This man survived one of those childhoods that can beat a person into the ground: erratic dysfunctional parents who used their three children as pawns in the wargames; two of the kids bounced around to foster homes, trial reconciliations, more foster homes. In between the periods of hell were brief glimpses of normality, but those were always short-lived. Still a child, he finally left home to make his own way in the world. He carried an empty toolbag for relating to that world.

His childhood was rotten. His life since has been an uphill climb. He is often depressed and feels he has nothing to show for himself. Any achievements are viewed with a cynical eye and any failures are magnified to damning proportions.

I know him to be one of the kindest men I ever met, someone who knew he had limitations but was willing to work hard to overcome them. He was honest, hardworking, loving. He had in a word: character.

Character—what does that mean today? How can we acknowledge it as a valued asset in an ordinary person when we overlook the lack of it in our superheroes? How do I communicate to this man that he is "more precious than gold… more than much fine gold"? I have no answers. Only prayers.

walking on water

Today was my last Sunday to venture out to "parish churches" and once again a thoughtful sermon challenged (and stayed with) me. Taking the Gospel of Peter's disastrous walk/stumble/sink on water, the preacher gave a variation on the theme of imitation vs skill. She spoke of her own experience with floating vs sinking at summer camp… how she had tried hard to imitate her friend the floater, with about the same results as Peter's.

Likewise, Peter, trying to imitate Christ, was a sinker not a walker. Then she went on to examine the differences between imitation and the real thing where faith is concerned; how you can't watch someone else's faith and automatically be able to see those same results in yourself.

Somewhere towards the end I got sidetracked. I was trying to imagine a universe where imitation would work… what that would be like. Decided it would take too much brain power to imagine, so went back to listening to the sermon. So much of life requires our actually experiencing a thing to get it. Yet we do watch. We do imitate. I was once told that "fake it til you make it" was a valid way to approach something out of my comfort zone. And sometimes it worked. But it worked not so much because of the faking aspect as the believing aspect that I could and would expand that zone. It all comes back to the importance of belief. Jesus was constantly chiding his friends "why didn't you believe? Where was your faith?" and constantly reminding others that their faith was the very key to their healing. Good information. Why can't we get it?

Mystery everywhere

Every time I do something "brand new" (like this whole blogging thing) I find out more about my subterranean personality. Mostly I discover things I already knew and would rather not think about… my insufferable arrogance for one, but occasionally it's good stuff: like the delight in building a different and stronger relationship with someone who loves someone I love.

Case in point: my daughter-in-law. By reading her blog, I feel like a fly on the wall at their house, seeing a whole new dimension of her and of their lives I would never have known. Technology, in and of itself, has distanced us as a species: we isolate behind our computer screens rather than get stranded in the chaotic messy fray of life lived in each other's faces. We don't tell each other our deepest dreams and ideals because they look pretty silly next to our everyday behaviors.

Yet the same technology that allowed us to escape has found a way to connect us. There's mystery everywhere. This is just another example.

Interpretation and Nuance

It never ceases to amaze me how a Gospel reading can be interpreted in so many ways, with so many nuances. We didn't have a priest to celebrate yesterday morning, so all the Sisters went out to church at various parishes in the city. A friend of mine was preaching; in fact we had discussed his sermon earlier in the week, so I thought I knew what he was going to say. But I was wrong. (I am often wrong; at my age I'm grateful that embarrassment is not so keen as it once was.)

The Gospel reading was a familiar favorite: the feeding of the five thousand. When we first talked about the sermon, he planned to focus on ordinary people faced with a daunting task. He was going to point out that, like those disciples, some people are willing to take the first step toward an overwhelming problem, trusting that God will somehow provide the resources. Five loaves of bread and two dinky fish: over five thousand hungry mouths to feed: definitely a daunting task.

The point was also that the disciples weren't just onlookers to this miracle, but active participants. He had a specific man in mind as an example: a legend in his feeding program: an ordinary guy who cared so much about feeding the hungry that he stayed up at night inventing new ways to spread peanut butter more efficiently, to cut hotdogs in exactly one-half inch pieces. Not that this guy was anal retentive (which he may have been) but because he cared so much. This same man could be a royal pain, but that didn't alter the fact that he was in the middle of the action, participating in the miracle.

The sermon I heard mentioned most of those points, but it was not the thrust. Yesterday the focus was on Christ's commission to FEED the hungry. Our job was to keep doing this, even when the statistics pointed to an endless, thankless succession of hungry mouths. The focus shifted from inviting ordinary people to take the first step in faith, to a reminder that the church (the body of Christ) had been commissioned by The Man Himself, to keep feeding the hungry. So many interpretations, so many nuances. All variations of the same Gospel truth.