This morning, while reading Mark 6, I noticed something about the disciples I hadn’t paid much attention to before.

They’re participating.

Up until this point, they’ve spent a lot of time watching Jesus. They’ve watched Him teach. They’ve watched Him heal. They’ve watched Him cast out demons. They’ve followed Him from place to place, listening and learning.

But in Mark 6, Jesus sends them out.

He gives them authority, sends them two by two, and suddenly the disciples are doing the things they’ve watched Jesus do. They’re preaching repentance. They’re driving out demons. They’re healing the sick.

Later, when thousands of hungry people are gathered around Jesus, the disciples bring the problem to Him.

Jesus responds, “You give them something to eat.”

Of course they don’t have enough. Jesus asks them what they do have, they bring it to Him, and He does what only He can do with it. But then He gives the bread back to the disciples, and they give it to the people.

They aren’t spectators to the ministry of Jesus. Jesus is inviting them to participate in it.

It reminded me of something we used to do when I was teaching: I do. We do. You do.

First, I show you how. Then we practice together. Eventually, you do it yourself.

Except with Jesus, the “you do” never really means you do it alone. His Spirit is always with us, guiding and empowering us.

“I am the vine; you are the branches,” Jesus says in John 15. Everything the branch produces comes from remaining connected to its source.

Maybe discipleship looks something like that: staying so close to Jesus that we increasingly learn to do the things Jesus does, with the life and power that come from Jesus Himself.

I consume a lot of content. I read books. I listen to podcasts. I study my Bible. I listen to worship music. I love talking about what I’m learning.

But at some point, I have to move from the sidelines and actually get in the game.

For years, I watched my husband’s family play a domino game called 42. It’s one of those games that’s easy to learn and takes a lifetime to master—and they had been playing for a long time.

I didn’t want to learn because I knew I wouldn’t be good at it. Worse, it’s a partner game, which meant someone else would be stuck with me while I figured it out. So for twelve years, I watched.

Then a couple of years ago, on a family vacation, they finally convinced me to play. I had to swallow my pride and accept something I really didn’t like: I was going to be bad at it.

I made bids when I had no idea what I was doing. I made mistakes. I asked questions. And slowly, I learned.

Now 42 is one of my favorite things we do together as a family.

I had spent twelve years watching something I could have been participating in.

I wonder how often I do the same thing with Jesus.

If I’m learning about prayer, am I praying?

If I’m learning about fasting, am I fasting?

If I’m reading the words of Jesus, am I practicing them?

Am I merely learning about the life Jesus offers, or am I actually living it?

Because sometimes spectating feels safer.

Participating means I might get something wrong. I might not know what to say. Someone may misunderstand me. Obedience might cost me something. Following Jesus wholeheartedly may even create tension in relationships I desperately want to preserve.

But Jesus didn’t wait until His disciples had everything figured out before sending them.

News flash: they never had it fully figured out. They fumbled plenty along the way (I see you, Peter).

They learned by going.

Ten years from now, I don’t simply want to know more about Jesus than I do today. I want ten years of prayer behind me. Ten years of worship. Ten years of obedience. Ten years of hearing His voice and learning to recognize it. Ten years of opening Scripture and allowing it to reshape the way I think and speak and live. Ten years of remaining connected to the Vine until His fruit becomes increasingly evident in me.

I don’t want to spend my life just watching Jesus from the stands.

I want to follow Him onto the field and learn to play.

May today just be another ordinary day of practice.