Five Thousand and Counting

"What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?" (Luke 15:4).

Not so very long ago after a long hard day of watching movies on Netflix I called up Momma for a little chat. Our incredibly stimulating conversation basically consisted of me complaining. She listened sweetly like a good mother. I knew it was coming but after just a few short weeks walking the dusty streets of a small Ecuadorian fishing village I was already impatient by the questionable quality of health care, mediocre local government, mosquito-borne illnesses, the lack of animal control and seat belts, and ineffective trash pickup.

On this particular day I was suffering with the rest of town from bouts of fatigue and arthritic sensations brought on by my unfortunate contraction of chikungunya. By the time I finished unburdening myself to my poor mother my irritability levels were higher than my fever. The roosters are waking me up too early, those trucks are so loud when they drive by, I’m sick of eating plantains and rice, I wish my host would stop telling me I need a tan, my chest hurts, my back hurts, my head hurts, and oh those awful, violent dogs; ouch! My rash itches. I have a rash, when did I get a rash, has that always been there?

After staring at my ceiling bitterly for a while I pulled out my Bible to Matthew 14 and started reading about John the Baptist—the part where he gets beheaded. Except for maybe Herod’s crazy wife, everybody loved John, even Herod liked John. John was incredible.  He prepared the way for the Savior of the world; then with some provocative dance moves and a fickle king one of the greatest friends in history was killed. 

And his disciples came, and took up the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus.

Jesus loved John. He said there was none greater. Surely many tears and prayers were offered for John while he was in prison and many more at his death.

When Jesus heard of it, he departed thence by ship into a desert place apart;

I wasn’t with Jesus to ask where he was going, but in my personal desert places I grieve, recuperate, or regenerate and seek to enjoy those revealing and private conversations with the Father. I let few people come with me.

and when the people had heard thereof, they followed him on foot out of the cities.

As an irritable and grumpy introvert the idea of thousands of needy people following me into the desert is terrifying; the Master does not get irritated or grumpy. He doesn’t roll his eyes before going to help the helpless. He just goes.

 And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick.

I don’t know how often I am moved with compassion toward anybody. You could probably move me a lot faster with food or a beating stick. I know I am not a bad person, but that doesn’t mean I am always a good one. As I once heard said, we are all good and we are all bad. I realized after my pity party that I am the lost sheep, I am the sinner, and I am one of those five thousand plus that can’t let the Savior go to his desert place apart because I’m too needy and desperate for his help. It relieves my guilty soul to have a chance to repent of all my bad attitudes, unkind criticisms, self-centered complaining, incorrect choices and lack of effort. 

And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away…

I am so grateful for my patient, compassionate, benevolent Savior who, though tired and heavy laden, said to more than 5,000 hungry souls: They need not depart; give ye them to eat…And they did all eat, and were filled.