Guest Preacher Julia Baker

Backward Miracle

Every once in a while

we need a

backward miracle

that will strip language,

make it hold for

a minute: just the

vessel with the

wine in it—

a sacramental

refusal to multiply,

reclaiming the

single loaf

and the single

fish thereby.

• Kay Ryan

I am often asked what my poems are about.

I usually stumble around a bit,

speaking of how I mostly use nature imagery and metaphors,

Maybe I quote a poet mentor of mine who say, “all poems are about love and death.”

I then come to what feels most true,

Each poem is seeking to put words to what is beyond words.

As the poet Mary Oliver says, “the world is too full to speak of.”

But we try…

to describe the thick honey of late evening light,

the sudden stillness of the body the moment after the last breath,

the smell of a newborn’s skin,

the gift of moments that feel woven with the Spirit’s thread,

the very mystery of being here at all.

—

This week my sister had a baby girl. Alamere Mae. And I was there.

And in many ways still very much there, in the poetry,

unspeakable wow of that moment.

Through this week of baby cuddles

and the sacred cocoon of close family time,

on the back burner of my being this gospel passage —

Jesus’s feeding of the 5,000 — has been with me.

The utter wow of it.

—

During Jesus’s years of active ministry

he taught through many words spoken,

through parables and teachings.

And also, there was quite a bit of poetry’s “show don’t tell”

The feeding of the 5,000 was one of those

a silent physical act of beholding.

Imagine with me…

You are on that grassy plain, maybe you had been following of this Jesus guy for a while, saw when he turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, had been there when he turned the tables at the temple, had heard talk of his time in Samaria, his confusing and intriguing words about being the Living Water to the woman at the well, and the incredible healing of the paralytic man on the Sabbath of all days.

And now you are here along the sea with the immense crowds. You all know that Passover is fast approaching, but you stay, everyone is staying, you don’t want to miss a thing.

Maybe you crane your neck and see that a little boy is bringing a basket of food to Jesus.

“Well, at least they will eat you, think.” Your own stomach is empty. And then you see Jesus kneel and pray over the small basket of bread and fish, and the next thing you know his followers are passing out food, and the food keeps coming.

You eat with your family, delicious barley loaves and fish. Everyone eats, the whole crowd, no one holds back, there is enough, more than enough. The food tastes so good.

The sun is setting and you gather yourself to leave and you notice the disciples collecting the extra food — baskets and baskets, a dozen leftover!

There is murmuring in the crowd, a wonder within you — “what just happened? who is this man?” This must be the prophet, the Chosen one we have been waiting for. Make him King!”

The excess of those baskets full, the lavish scandal of it. The abundance. The miracle.

Taste and see.

Behold this, take it into your body.

This manna.

This love.

This provision.

God working through the vessel of Jesus.

This act bears the undeniable stamp of God.

What have you just been a part of?

In our world of science and reason

we can fall into the impulse to downplay the miraculous, explain it away.

Maybe make this a story, about sharing or the importance of table fellowship.

Which, yes, of course, to both of those things.

But, I wonder at the deeper invitation to really be stunned by the miraculous

and through it to take in more of who Jesus is.

The people walking away from the sea, having been fed, were ready to put a crown on Jesus, that alone tells us so much. The significance of who Jesus was and is, what just occurred. This is more than just a simple story about sharing.

___

The Gospel of John is such an intentionally crafted book.

Centered really around this “thesis statement” of sorts in John chapter 20:

“So that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah and in believing you might have Life in his name.”

The book starts with beautiful framing poetry:

The Prime Mover in John 1

“In the beginning was the Word

and the word was with God

and the word was God…”

Jesus, the Word, “all things through him” right there from the very impetus.

And then chapters of very intentionally curated stories, glimpses from Jesus’s life, teaching,

death and resurrection. All pointing towards the invitation to believe and have life, life abundant, to be saved by it.

John ends the book with, “There are many other things that Jesus did. If all of them were written down I suppose the whole world would not be big enough for all the books that could be written.”

But this miracle of bread and fish, of more than enough from hardly anything at all, is included.

Maybe John knew we could use…

as Kay Ryan’s poem says,

a backward miracle

that will strip language,

make it 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 for

a minute

The stripping of language, of prose,

stripping of reason,

and all our mental roadblocks

to nudge us towards the good news

of Jesus, stamped by God, of one being with God,

here giving of that Life in the tangible of nourishment.

____

It is not hard to pair this miracle with the Last Supper

this ritual of remembrance,

of Holy nourishment, where through this physical act we behold

and are held as we take into our bodies the earth elements of grain and fruit,

the simple — in that it is right here and now always — and scandalous Love of God.

____

I think of miracle meals I have shared with others…all carrying the undeniable stamp of God.

Moments of lived-poetry, that opened wonder for me, through which I felt the Living God, the Living Christ, the Living Story here and alive….

A cup of orange Tang and a scrap of corn tortilla. Blessed, broken, shared in a barrio church in Flor del Campo, Honduras. The tortilla soaking in the bright orange fizz.

This week, witnessing Alamere’s first feeding.

And later in the week at the very same hospital, where I work as a chaplain, accompanying a patient who was malnourished and anorexic drink Ensure, tears brimming her eyes.

I think of this poem I wrote years ago during a season of being a barista, this poem written after hours of serving hot chocolate at a holiday event:

Velvet Communion

I fill each cup with velvet.

Chocolate topped with cream,

SwissMiss and Cool-Whip—

the elements.

They come to the table—

red-nosed toddlers,

permed grandmothers,

and lanky tweens given

to expectant night.

Light stains cloud breath,

yellow-green-red

wink in rhythm with “Santa Baby.”

My vestment of bedazzled antlers

dip low as I place warmth

in each cupped hand.

For less than a breath

the skin of our lives

brush against our separation,

only cells between us.

We are so close to the Body.

We are so close to the Blood.

—

We are indeed so close to what most satisfies.

Oh and goodness I get amnesia to this often,

gripping and clinging to false nourishment and my own effort-ing.

May we open our hands to the True bread of Life.

Allowing the Light of God’s presence to heal our striving.

Where are you being called deeper into nourishment,

to open yourself to the wow of Jesus’s baskets-brimming love?