February 4, 2007
TEXT: Luke 5:1-11
Fishing for Repentance
Southeast of Syria, where the plains
of Gennesaret are lapped up by the waters of the lake, some boats are being
dragged ashore. It’s a busy, heavily
populated area – townspeople, lake people, and just people for whom the lake is
more than scenery: it is their very
life. More than a stock tank or a
semi-secluded duck pond, the water stretches some 13 miles long and 6 miles
wide, and day after day the fishing boats from the villages nearby bob like
corks along its surface.
This day has provided little
reason. Sifting the waters all day long,
the nets had consistently come up empty.
Now, as the boats were dragged ashore, the grating of the sand beneath
the hull gave voice to the mood and the hollow fatigue. It had been a long day for nothing, and they
didn’t care to hear of others’ successes.
And we know how they felt. We, too, have wrenched an empty boat back
onto the trailer and stowed clean coolers in the trunk of the car. Whether we step away from an assembly line,
click at an office computer or snap shut a brief case; whether we are answering
ads in search of a job or shaping and spending retirement hours, the experience
is common to us all. Knocking on doors
that quickly close; listening for “yeses” but only hearing “no’s”; struggling
for poetry, but managing only prose; drilling for oil, but finding a dry
hole. We know what it’s like to pull
into the driveway at the end of the day with nothing but fatigue to show for
the hours. We know what it’s like to
come up empty. Depending on how often it
happens and the importance of the hoped for catch, the feeling is
disappointment or frustration; panic or a numbness that hardly noticed. We, too, have folded empty nets and hoped for
more tomorrow. We, too, have been in the
fishermen’s shoes.
And then this landlocked tenderfoot
arrives with presumptuous advice: “Why
don’t you try it again and this time fish a little deeper.” A carpenter advising a fisherman; an amateur
tipping the master. Give a guy a
screwdriver and he’ll think he can fix the world.
I’m a little surprised that they
agreed. Tired, discouraged and
empty-handed, they had to be ready for home.
And, after all, having been this way before, they knew the fickle favor
of the deep. But still, on a word from
this wandering teacher, they pushed back into the waves – willing, trusting,
trying. And, after all, he wasn’t a
total unknown. They had watched him in
the days preceding – had heard him speak and seen him work. Peter’s own family had been touched by his
healing hand. And so there was some
foundation.
“We have worked here all night and
haven’t caught a thing. But if you say
so, I’ll let down the nets.”
“If you say so, I’ll turn and look
again.”
And this time, fullness was found
where only emptiness had been before.
Imagine our lives if we could know
such a miracle – to reach into those very places that we, on our own, have
found vacant, this time to find teeming with life and gift and food. Wouldn’t that be miracle, indeed?
We are masters at locating emptiness:
Ø We bump into people – strike up a
relationship – but finally give up, finding nothing of value really there.
Ø We inch open the door of our
prejudices – we hire people different from ourselves, we try to integrate our
circle of friends – but despite effort and desire and the good old college try,
we pull up and fold up our nets and head for the shore without a catch.
Ø We make a stab at environmental
concern – we buy recycled paper, we collect a bag full of cans; we save up the
newspapers – but it doesn’t seem like it could really make any difference, and
the next time we forget to even bother.
Ø We sit in worship, we take in a
class; we try out a fellowship group, but it doesn’t seem any big deal.
Ministry? Sharing the faith with a friend? Spending my money in more “Christian”
ways? We’ve tried it. “We’ve been fishing all night and haven’t
really caught a thing.”
But as Peter realized when he pulled
up bulging nets, it has little to do with method or technique or practice or
skill. Whether we are talking about our
individual lives or our life together as a church, the cause of our “coming up
empty” isn’t a lack of training. Peter, in
the face of success that he had not engineered, fell to his knees and spoke of
sin. Oh, I know it’s not a popular
word. It gets too close to shame and low
self-esteem, and we try to avoid all that.
And yet it is the inescapable awareness of ourselves when we stand in
the shadow of God’s perfect love and perfect will.
And ironically, it is the single
most important pre-requisite to wholeness, and fullness, and peace. To stand in God’s presence and repentantly realize
my sin. We can read all the best-sellers
– how to succeed, how to manage, how to become a better self. We can attend all the seminars and subscribe
to all the newsletters analyzing all the nuts and how crack them. But while there is always more to learn; are
always new and more methods with which to become proficient, until we bend an
humble knee and speak a confessional word, we will pull our oars through
fishless waters and pick only moss from our nets. Abundant living is not finally a matter of
skill or good instincts, but obedient, submissive faith; of seeing with eyes
made sharp for life by the source of life itself; of reaching into vague and
shapeless moments and people and feeling with the fingers of Christ.
“We have been fishing all night,
dear God, but we haven’t caught a thing.
But if you say so we’ll drop once more the nets.”
It had been that kind of day for
Joe. This was several years ago, before
things began to change for the better. All
day he had been piloting the subway through the tubes that honeycomb the earth
beneath New York City. The graffiti-covered
walls had long since become a blur; the opening and closing of doors an endless
drumbeat marking the rhythm of the day.
And now, as the rush hour crowd signaled the approaching end of his
shift, his eyes coaxed the hands of his watch forward.
A glance in the mirror showed the
familiar sea of newspapers raised as shields against each other. Weary from a long day at work, they are also
slightly on edge because they know that subways are not always safe. Avoiding each other’s eyes, they try hard to
be unnoticed until the door opens at their stop and they step silently, quickly
into the dark.
A familiar crowd; a common day for
Joe who glances again at his watch. Only
30 more minutes until the subway doors open for him. For 25 years Joe had driven the subway and
watched the people – speaking to only a few; mostly smiling politely as they
stepped on to his train. But out of this
ordinary night came a scream. A woman
cried out, “Someone help me. I need
someone to help.”
Stopping the subway, Joe ran back to
find a woman in great pain. I’m going to
have a baby,” the woman cried.
“No you’re not,” Joe responded – one
part reassurance, one part command. He
took her hand and tried to calm her. She
cried again, “I’m going to have this baby.
Please someone help.” Once again,
calmly and with confidence Joe said, “Don’t worry, you’re not going to have the
baby here. Everything will be alright.”
Just then a calm but assertive
Haitian woman stood behind Joe. “You’ll
need something white to wrap the baby in.
What are you going to wrap that baby in?”
Joe quickly slipped off his white,
starched shirt. “Will this do?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said assuredly. And within minutes, Joe was wrapping a
newborn baby boy in his white uniform shirt.
He smacked the baby on the bottom of his feet and the wailing of a
newborn filled the subway car.
The people on the subway began to
celebrate. They put their newspapers
down. They put their fears away. They shed their nameless, faceless existences
and hugged one another. The celebrating
continued with cheers and hugs and tears.
And Joe reflected, “For ten minutes, the people on that New York City
subway loved one another.”
An ordinary ride home on a dingy,
dark subway – transformed. The ordinary
made extraordinary. Color in a world of
black and white. Fish where only water
had been before. Looking again – looking
deeper – and this time finding life.
“Put out into the deep water,” Jesus
tells us. Into your neighborhoods and
legislative hearings; into your own living rooms and break rooms at work. “Put out into the deep water. Look again and let down your nets for a
catch.”