A friend called a couple hours ago, inviting me to the port. I passed the commercial fishing vessels and jumped aboard a sailboat with a quite a haul of hand caught mackerel, each fish stripped a stunning greenish-blue. They loaded my plastic bag until bursting, despite my polite protests, and I waved goodbye and thank you.
Walking up the hill with enough fresh catch to feed five families—nearly more than I could carry—I thought about how wealthy I am. I have family, friends, food, shelter. My life is overflowing with good fish things. I asked a man who’s travelling through town and lives in a tent if he could use some fish—someone had already given him some. My gratitude deepened. I shared the fish with a few neighbours, only returning the favor they’d often afforded me. And as I cook up that bountiful and bountifully shared harvest tonight I’ll continue thinking how wealthy I am.
It seems to me that Jesus is still sharing fish and bread. The people who received that feast he handed out would have lived a very different life to what we live, but the challenge was the same—to seek beyond physical nourishment. Yet I wonder how much harder it is for us to hear, we whose lives are cluttered with machines, agendas, screens and stuff. Those people followed Jesus for a whole day to hear him and were fed from him. Maybe I need more days like that. Following Jesus, being fed from his abundance. To see the fisherman and enjoy his fish.