Did you ever wonder about the person sitting in the grass, partaking of fish and bread (perhaps gingerly biting into the small piece of fish and then more voraciously into the slightly larger piece of bread), avidly listening to the voice emanating from the man at the seashore? And the more the person listened, the less aware of eating they became, not realizing that the basket was coming around for the fourth time. The chewing was less urgent, the hunger was subsiding. And as the words soaked into their soul, the dry, parched places began to come back alive. After a time, the basket would come around again but they would pass on the offerings. Too full to think of more food. Too engrossed in words that were bringing life to thoughts once stifled. Answering questions long held captive through shame or unbelief.
The physical chewing had long stopped but the mental chewing had only just begun. Because for the first time, there was permission to believe in something different. To hope in something bigger.
But for this moment, in this time, at this place, a young man or woman sits and ponders. They are completely unaware that they will forever be etched in history as one of the multitude who experienced a miracle.
And here we thought it was only about loaves and fish.