Sometimes some people talk about believing as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s as natural as breathing. And some days I agree with them.

But some days my soul feels asthmatic. As if each breath of faith must be fought for while trying not to panic.

Is really important. Perhaps that goes without saying, but we don’t always do it. We skim. We try to get the gist of it. We scan for keywords. But there’s nothing like reading the whole thing.

Take this single sentence from Jesus as a case study.

“Do not work.” This might be just the kind of good news you’ve been looking for if you’ve wanted an excuse to quit your job and sleep in more.

“Do not work for food.” Of course not! We also work for shelter and clothing and taxes and all the fancy amenities of modern life. Some of us even work because the work itself is gratifying. If we get all of the above, we’re the real winners.

Everyone realizes in their own time.

Everyone arrives at their own speed.

Everyone searches out of their own hunger.

My job is to be patient.

To be present with people in such a way that when I am gone, there is a lingering sense that something significant must have happened. Because Jesus was with me.

To welcome those who arrived “too late,” who missed the big thing that others are still buzzing about. Because Jesus did something amazing, but he is not done doing.

To help people along their journey, to help them get from here to there (wherever “there” might be) in just the right boats. Because they will find Jesus if they keep searching for him.

This is long, patient work.

Not just in the destination. And not because the journey is so easy, but precisely the opposite: challenge brings its own kind of joy.

The longer I try to live a life of faith, the more I believe this to be true. And the more I see the story John tells about the feeding of the 5,000 and the subsequent travel as a prime metaphor for what a life with him is like: challenging and joyful.

Off into the mountains, and there’s nothing left for you to do at the end of the day but head home. So off into the dark you go. Without your dynamic leader. And, of course, of all the nights, a storm is brewing. Heading home exhausted and alone, with the wind blowing the rain straight through your clothes, thinking about how Jesus brought you out here to perform such an amazing miracle only to ditch you in the cold wet dark after you’ve faithfully served him and others all day long, well…

That’s the worst kind of way to head home. What a buzz kill.

Is hard work these days. Maybe it’s always been hard work, but I can’t help but believe that our hyper-connected, image-obsessed culture has raised the game mode from normal to brutal.

There is always someone—or a crowd of someones—eager to make you in their image. To force you into a mold of their design. They have strong opinions about who you are, about who you could be. They’re here to help you become the next big thing. And it may actually sound quite enticing. But if it sounds too good to be true, it’s because it is. If it feels like they’re playing on your insecurities, it’s because they are. If the means seem sketchy and the end seems fake, it’s because they are. If it feels like a trap, it’s because it is.

Sometimes it’s all just loaves and fishes. The most we have to bring is less than the bare minimum needed. But it’s what we’ve got. 

The good news is that God is a God of miracles and multiplication. In giving away the little we have, more is received. 

That you bring to the table. Your meager resources. Your scraped-together offerings. Your thin margins of time. Your few ounces of compassion. Your seemingly-insignificant good deeds. Your whispered kind words.

He takes them and gives thanks. Just like the little boy’s lunch.

That you pack for your kid, that hardly counts as enough to nourish a growing body, that looks super lame next to the Super Mom lunches the other kids bring, that you had no intention of being shared with anyone else, just might be the beginning of a miracle.

The real ignored hero of Jesus feeding 5,000 people at one sitting is the boy’s mom (or dad, or grandparent, or whoever) who packed that meager lunch, having no inkling of imagination that it might fill any more than that single belly.

The behind-the-scenes, no-name, no-fame people who simply do the faithful day-in, day-out work of packing kids’ lunches (and all the budgeting, and planning, and shopping, and clean-up that goes into it) are the unsung heroes of the Kingdom of God.

Turns out Jesus doesn’t really need our big dreams or fantastic plans of spreading his ministry. All he needs is our simple faithfulness. Every small, insignificant, humdrum thing we do is potentially a seed of something truly beautiful and life-giving when placed in the hands of Jesus.

In the end, it’s all just loaves and fishes.

Are holy gifts. Jesus has already done the math on whatever it is he has asked you to do, and the bottom line is clear: you’re in the red. Which sounds like really bad news. But Jesus is somehow not as shaken as you might be.

Limitations are gifts because they create occasions for obedience and miracles.