In yesterday's gospel lesson, we rounded out three weeks of
parables yesterday, and now we move to three weeks of miracles. Some of us
might celebrate that transition—no more picking apart enigmatic sayings of
Jesus and attempting to apply two-thousand-year-old wisdom to contemporary
life. But I think the miracles are even tougher to understand than the
parables.
Parables are supposed to be picked apart. I’ve only heard
one person tell me he interpreted parables by reading them as literal truth—an
interesting hermeneutical approach that is worth considering another time. For
the most part, people read parables as hyperbolic or allegorical or exemplary
teachings of Jesus. When we read the parable of the mustard seed, no one goes out
and plants mustard seeds, expecting the kingdom to grow out of the ground. But
people read miracles as if the whole point of the story is the thing that
happened. But that’s not good enough.
Miracles need to be picked apart just as much as parables
do—probably even more. We get trapped by the “feat of wonder” and forget that
there’s a deeper, more important teaching hidden in the text. Yes, part of the
point is to show us that Jesus is able to do amazing things, but that’s only
the beginning. “What else?” the preacher is supposed to ask or else she ends up
preaching a dull sermon.
Take this week’s parable for instance: the feeding of the
five thousand. As you can see, the narrative is brief. Jesus goes off by
himself, but he is pursued by the crowd. When he comes ashore, he has
compassion on them, cures their sick, and, when the day is done, urges the
disciples to feed the multitude. They raise the natural question: where will we
get enough food? Jesus asks how much they have, and then he multiplies five
loaves and two fish into enough to feed everyone with twelve baskets left over.
What’s the point of the miracles? That Jesus can take five
loaves and two fish and feed five thousand? Or, to take it a tiny, still-too-small
step further, that Jesus is able to provide abundantly? Yes, sure, but what
else? There is a tension between physical needs and spiritual needs—what have
the people really come to Jesus for? There is a tension between wilderness and
civilization—where will the people be taken care of? There is a tension between
the disciples’ materialistic focus and Jesus’ spiritual insight—who will give
them what they need? There is a Eucharistic prefigurement with the taking,
blessing, breaking, and distributing. There is a ridiculous amount of leftovers—so
much so that any priest or altar guild would blush at the wastefulness of
twelve baskets full—that points to something more than abundance. The danger
isn’t in over-interpreting this miracle. The danger is in leaving the miracle
unmined for its multiple meanings.
I’ll suggest that in order to get to the heart of any
miracle story we have to suspend our belief in its literal truth long enough to
glimpse its real meaning. That does not mean that we cannot and should not
cling to a literal reading of any of Jesus’ miracles! I believe in the literally,
visually verifiably empty tomb, and that leads me to believe in the physical
historicity of just about every miracle story in the gospel. But the literal
truth is only the beginning. Try putting it on a shelf for a few hours. Pretend
that the story was an exaggerated metaphor that developed within the Christian
community to point to a bigger truth about Jesus. What does the story say to us
then? What is the evangelist trying to get across? What happens to Jesus when
we stop thinking of him as just a miracle worker? Then, after you’ve read and
reread the text and gathered all you can from it, bring the historicity back to
the story and see what happens. Let the miracle mean more than the miraculous.
Let it teach you something else about Jesus and the Christian faith.
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