Sent Out
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The fire crackles, a lyric of dry wood. I pick up the fish, a remnant of the day's catch, while studying my calloused fingers. Silas sits across from me. His eyes reflect the flames against the dark sky. Our acquaintanceship has been short, but we've been paired up. One group of two, to be sent out.
"Why do you think we were placed together?" I ask, licking a stray piece of white meat from my fingers.
"Haven't thought about it," Silas replies.
Tomorrow we will begin. Tonight we eat. Tomorrow we will take nothing. We will travel hungry and thirsty. We will eat only what is offered by those who are not wealthy. We will lay hands on the sick, and speak to them about a kingdom that is to come, a kingdom we know little about.
"We barely know each other," I decide to add.
"You seek too many answers. Why does there need to be any rhyme or reason to what the master says. Think of what we are being asked. Travel in pairs to towns foreign to us. Carry nothing, not even a spare set of sandals. No food. We are to rely on those we meet for sustenance and shelter. If this had been asked by another, I would have turned away, preferring to wander the wilderness. With all this, you are concerned about why you and I have been told to travel together."
"It's just that I don't know you," I respond. "We'll need to rely on each other. The master is asking me to trust someone I don't know. What if we are refused in a village, perhaps stoned?"
"We are different," Silas answers. "That is why he has placed us with each other. You are young. You need my experience. The master knows that. Your youth is often witnessed by your actions."
"You are not much older than me," I shoot back, letting my gaze drift back to the fire.
Silas speaks softly, "Perhaps we will have bread to eat. Perhaps we will have no need to shake the dust of a village off the soles of our sandals. Perhaps much will occur that we do not expect. You and I have both seen the lame walk. We have both seen a leper be healed of his sores. The master will change the world, one mustard seed at a time. All he is asking us to do is follow."
"To what end?" I ask.
Silas chuckles. He bites into a piece of bread. "Do you suppose," he begins, "that this piece of barley bread between my fingers is of the same bread offered to all those people who were following him a few days ago?"
"I heard there were thousands," I reply.
"Bread like this. Fish like the ones we have just fried," Silas responds.
"The bread would be moldy by now," I say. "Even the manna given by God in the wilderness was no good after a day."
"Two days when it came to the sabbath," Silas replies.
I give a shoulder shrug in response.
Silas has more to say. He speaks his words with a degree of wisdom I do not possess. "Why do you put limitations on God? Why do you put limitations on the master? Why do you put limitations on yourself?"
"I cannot multiply fish or bread," I murmur.
There is a long moment of silence between us. Silas finishes his meal. I still have a crust of bread before me. Maybe I lack faith. Maybe I lack trust. Maybe I lack the strength to walk from town to town and be rejected for what I've seen, and what I am struggling to believe.
"You are limited," Silas says as he rises from across the fire. "But do not forget, the man who called you to his side, when you were pondering the sun's glimmer on the surface of the sea, has no limitation. He feeds the hungry. He heals the sick. His own hands and words have made a paralytic walk and dance for joy. By now you must know that his miracles can, and will, flow through you, if you but trust Him."
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