Sharing and Abundance

In the Sunday Talk column of the Catholic Times, a professor emeritus writes that, in his experience, it's not the numbers so much as the method that is important when it comes to sharing.  

He grew up in a large extended family. His grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins all lived together in one house. Mealtimes were always chaotic. A single bowl of soup would be placed in the center of the table, and spoons would frantically dart back and forth. The few pieces of tofu floating in the soup were always a source of competition. As the youngest, he would often have the tofu he managed to scoop up snatched away by his older siblings' chopsticks before he could even put it in his mouth. There was soup, but there was never any tofu left for him.

At the time, he thought it was because there wasn't enough food, which was unavoidable given the many siblings. However, looking back on that scene now, hes realizes the problem wasn't the quantity of food, but the way it was shared. At a table where everyone reached for the food simultaneously, there was no waiting, no consideration for others. As a result, there was food left over, but our inner selves were always hungry.

We often remember the story of the five loaves of bread and two fish from the Gospel of Mark in a similar way. We remember it as a story in which the bread multiplied, and the fish multiplied. However, if we read the story carefully, we realize that the Gospel emphasizes not the numbers, but the method. Jesus saw the crowd and felt compassion for them, not because they were hungry, but because they were like sheep without a shepherd.

Hunger is not simply a matter of the stomach. When people don't know when they will eat, who is responsible, or what to expect, they become anxious. Their hearts break before their stomachs do. The disciples' suggestion is very realistic: "Send them away so they can buy food for themselves." From today's market perspective, it's a rational solution. It means everyone is responsible for themselves and should solve their own problems.

But Jesus' words are completely different: "You give them something to eat."

Jesus first had the people sit down in groups of 50 and 100. He calmed the chaos and prepared everyone to receive. In a disorderly setting, even an abundance of food can lead to conflict. Sharing begins only when order is established. This scene quietly demonstrates the preparation that precedes eating.

Then, Jesus looked up to heaven and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. This pre-meal gratitude is not merely a formality. It's the moment when food transforms from "my rightful share" to "a gift entrusted to me today." Possession leads to competition, but a gift opens the door to sharing. This confession is embedded in the short prayer we offer before meals.

The bread doesn't go directly from Jesus' hands to the crowd. It's passed through the disciples. The miracle doesn't remain in the hands of one person: it's completed through participation and distribution. Everyone ate their fill, and twelve baskets of leftovers remained. This isn't excess, but a sign of abundance. Having enough to eat and still having leftovers—that's the abundance the Bible speaks of.

If we apply this story to our own dinner tables today, it raises questions. Do we truly lack resources, or is it the order of sharing that has broken down? Before increasing the quantity, have we first established order? Before eating, have we given thanks?

His childhood memory of the tofu in the soup bowl now holds a different lesson. Jesus' miracle wasn't about changing the quantity of bread, but about changing the relationships between people. A ​​miracle is still possible at our dinner tables today. However, that miracle begins not with numbers, but with the way we share. 

Why Monasteries?

 

The Catholic Times conducted an interview with a priest who has led pilgrimages to monasteries for nearly 20 years. What lingered in the interviewer's mind was not any specific answers to questions she may have had, but the feeling she was left with. 

There were ample explanations for why this journey had lasted so long, but what ultimately stayed with her was the question of 'why do people seek monasteries?' This question goes beyond personal preferences or spiritual experiences and prompts reflection on what has sustained Christian faith over time.

The paths to the monastery pilgrimages were always the same. The mere fact that it had continued for a long time was not the point. A monastery is not a place for adding more, but a place where one gradually removes unnecessary layers to reveal the essence. In this sense, these pilgrimages were primarily a process of reaffirming the core, source, goal, and path of faith within the monastery.

While conducting the interview, she was reminded of the power that an old monastery holds. Monasteries began from a desire to live out perfect gospel values; the monks have repeatedly fallen, failed, and risen again. Gospel perfection is not an ideal achieved at once, but the result of choices that embrace human weakness and never gives up.
 

Viewed this way, monastery pilgrimages are not a longing for the past. In an era in which religion is often treated as a choice, it is a process of asking where faith originally began. Rather than seeking a better experience, it is closer to confirming the form of life in which faith first took root.

Seeking a monastery ultimately means asking these kinds of questions. Isn't it about asking yourself whether you can, today, choose once again the essence that the church never ultimately let go of and considered central?