Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. – Matthew 14:13-14

Where is he, then? This Jesus who is my
last hope of healing from this bitter rash?
It lingers and it spreads; my friends all know
that without healing, I will be cast out.

So where is Jesus? Yesterday I knew
he had returned from Nazareth to learn
of John the Baptist’s execution. Then,
they say, his weary face dissolved in tears.

He took a boat, they say, and so my son,
his wife, and daughter, shepherd me along
the rutted hillside trails above the beach
so we can see the sails of Jesus’ craft.

We’re not alone. The path, though trampled firm,
shows sign of feet ahead, and we can see
that others follow us behind, and more,
I’m sure, beat down the trail I cannot see.

He sailed, this weary disappointed man,
to weep and grieve in peace, and I regret
that he will find a multitude of us
awaiting his attention and his care,

Yet not enough regret to risk my health
and home and loves and place to “it will heal,”
for healing’s failure ends the life that I
have known and cherished deep within my soul.

My son cries, “Quickly, father, come! The sails
a-shiver! Look! The boat has turned to shore!”
We stagger down the pathless bluff. Now I
can see the spray-flecked face regard us all.

Just for a moment, graven deep, I see
the hollows of the skull beneath the skin
worn thin by weariness and grief. “He’ll turn
the boat,” I whisper, “out to sea, away.”

He gestures to the sailors and they strike
the sail, then bring the boat ashore. He stands,
he leaps upon the strand. He takes three steps
and people gather all about him there.

First one, then five, then ten, then dozens more
present their bodies’ and their souls’ dis-ease.
He comes to me; he sees my skin, he sighs,
and tells me not to fear. I will be well.

Before he turns away, I have to ask,
“You could have turned your craft far from this shore.
Why did you stay?” He gently says, “My friend,
I’ll always be with those who follow me.”

The day has drawn toward dusk. Somewhere they found
a heap of bread, and even some dried fish
to share about this seething crowd. My skin
is softening. I know I will be well.

Soon we shall follow once again the ruts
along the bluffs, this time toward hearth and home,
but not the same. For any path I take
to any place from here: I follow him.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 14:13-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 13 (18).

The illustration is Feeding the Multitude from The Life of Jesus of Nazareth, Eighty Pictures by William Hole (1908) – http://www.jesuitas.org.co/documentos/dominical/GabrielPerez/100705.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3222948.

Author’s note

Like a lot of clergy, I tend to identify primarily with Jesus in this story. We have something of a self-narrative that we are people who get asked to do many things. If I’d been in the boat, I’d have wanted to sail to somewhere else that the people seeking me couldn’t reach. This poem takes the perspective of those who tracked those sails along the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee, and helps me understand why Jesus didn’t do that. In a very real, embodied sense, those thousands of people followed Jesus.