Monday Devotional

I surrender all Over Christmas, my two youngest kids received a set of Bible cards—and if you didn’t already know, I am a cardboard enthusiast—so let me just say, they are fantastic. As we worked toward completing the set, one card quickly became my favorite: Andrew’s. I’ve always loved how Andrew seemed to live for one simple purpose—bringing people to Jesus. I recognized the passage the moment I saw it. John 6. It has always been one of my favorite sections in the entire New Testament. And while bringing people to Jesus, as Andrew did, is a noble and necessary thing, Andrew is not the true focus of the card. It is the boy who holds my attention. The boy—and his lunch. “There is a lad here, which hath five barley loaves, and two small fishes: but what are they among so many?” For years I wondered why a kid would be walking around with five loaves of bread. It seemed odd to me. Later, after talking with someone who had spent time across the pond in the Holy Lands, I learned those “barley loaves” were likely about the size of a Ritz cracker, and the two small fish more like sardines. Suddenly the picture came into focus. This boy hadn’t packed a bakery—he had packed a lunch. And if I’m being honest, one of my lifelong struggles has been food. I’ve gotten better, but I can still be selfish when it comes to what’s on my plate. I used to loathe sharing French fries. If you wanted some, why didn’t you order your own? I’ve asked that question more times than I care to admit. My wife and kids have also accused me—fairly—of being what you might call a “hangry” person. We often talk about Jesus feeding the multitude, and rightly so. But the real miracle in this passage might be something else entirely: convincing a boy to give up his lunch. If I were that boy, I would have hesitated. I would have calculated. I would have guarded what was mine. But once he surrendered it, the miracle followed. God is still in the miracle business, if we’re willing to be like that unnamed lad. I struggled for years because I refused to surrender. I loved this world. There’s a book from the 1950s called The Sinner of St. Ambrose. When I left Bradford, I took it from an old stack of library books, mostly as decoration. It sat on a shelf for years until one day—by God’s providence—I felt compelled to pick it up. The story centers on a Roman struggling with Rome’s turn toward Christianity. He was a good pagan. In conversation with St. Ambrose, he says, “If Christ conquers, then Rome must die, and I love Rome.” When I read that line, I saw myself. I knew that if Christ conquered, self must die—and I loved my Rome. I fought that truth for years. But one day, at the end of my rope—lost, exhausted, and out of answers—I found myself asking the same question so many in the New Testament asked: What must I do? And no, I'm not crazy, I heard that still small voice speak to my heart as clearly as I have ever heard anything: There is nothing you can do. I have already done it. That was the moment I surrendered everything. Rome died. I gave Him my lunch, so to speak. And the miracle He worked in my life—if you had known me before—was right up there with feeding the multitude. So if you’re struggling with something today, lay it down. Let Rome die. Give Him your lunch. And just like that boy we still read about 2,000 years later, you will never regret it. I hope you all have a blessed week. -Eric Hampton