The Fisherman

by Larry Huntsperger

  But the reorganization did not take place, and no matter how skillfully I tried to move my brief conversations with the Master in that direction, he never mentioned a renewed assault on Jerusalem. Our supreme victory, now so obviously within our grasp, seemed to be an issue about which the Master had no concern whatsoever.

  And so once again my Lord set me up. It was the waiting that drove me to it, the not knowing, the not doing something . . . anything. He knew it would, of course. A portion of the truth is sometimes a dangerous thing, and I still had such a very small portion.

  We were back in Galilee at the time. It was where he wanted us throughout most of those days—with our families, with our friends, out of the sight and the reach of those forces in Jerusalem who were already hearing and fearing the reports and rumors of his reappearance.

  It was perhaps three weeks after our return home. Several days had passed since our last meeting with the Master. We didn’t know what to do. It was all so unsettling. We knew he was alive, but we had no idea where he was, or where we should be, or what we should be doing. I have never been good at waiting. The truth is, it makes me crazy.

  I remember that day so well. I rose early and once again began my caged animal routine. After several days with me pacing around the house, peeking out the windows, running out to talk with the others, then returning again to pace some more, Ruth was nearly to the end of her remarkable patience. She tried reopening the same conversation we’d been having for the past several days. This time she tried using questions in her efforts to move me toward the truth. Could we trust the Master? Did I believe he knew what he was doing? Could we rest in his ability to show us what we needed to do and when we needed to do it? Her logic, of course, was flawless, but it was also powerless to calm my undirected energy. The more skillfully her reasoning pushed me toward the truth, the more frustrated I became.

  Our conversation continued until I found myself feeling trapped in the grip of the obvious truth of her words. I fumbled for some sort of rational rebuttal for several minutes, realized in the end there was none, and finally sprang to my feet and bellowed, “I’m going to go talk with the others! Maybe they’ll understand!”

  I found them grouped in Jesus’ old house. Mary was still living there, along with James the Less and Thaddaeus. The house remained our central gathering place, and I arrived to find Thomas and Nathanael already there. James and John arrived a few minutes later.

  We spent the rest of the day talking through the same unanswered questions we’d been talking through since the resurrection. My conversations with the others went no better than my conversation with Ruth had gone. It wasn’t long before a grumpy, irritable silence fell across the group.

  I hated silence. I hated inactivity. I hated not knowing what came next. I hated this feeling of having no control over my future. For some time we all sat in silence, watching the shadows grow longer in the room—another day nearly gone, another day of doing nothing. When I could stand it no longer, I finally sprang to my feet and blurted out, “I’m going fishing!”

  For several seconds everyone in the room sat frozen, their mouths hanging open, their eyes bulging in my direction. They knew my proclamation carried with it far more than a simple announcement of an evening’s leisure activity. Three years earlier Andrew, James, and John had stood with me on the shore of the Sea of Galilee as my Lord called me away from my boat, my nets, and my petty aspirations for life, and into his love. These men knew I was now making a conscious decision to return to that world in an effort to reclaim some measure of control over my own life. At the time, my decision seemed to be born out of my frustration with the inactivity and lack of direction. Looking back, however, I know it was really my frustration with Jesus. Once again he wasn’t doing things the way I thought they should be done.

  Our greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses will always grow from the same characteristics in our lives. Throughout my adult years I have known I could motivate people to follow me. At those times when I have been moving in the direction of truth and wisdom, this ability has been a great strength. At those times when I have been pursuing foolishness and lies, it has been a great weakness. That evening, as I stood among my comrades, boldly proclaiming my intention to return to Egypt, I led myself and six other men away from faith and back into the ways of the flesh.

  The brief silence following my announcement was soon broken by a chorus of six voices saying, “Yeah, me too!” “That sounds good to me!” and “Hey! Wait for me!”

  The sun was low on the horizon when we reached the boat and checked our long-neglected gear. When everything was finally in order, we pushed off and headed down the coast to a familiar location not far offshore.

  It was a perfect night for fishing—just enough moon for light, a warm, gentle breeze blowing in from the lake. It was perfect, that is, except for one thing—there were no fish.

  I tend to become intensely focused at those times when I am operating in the flesh and know it. It’s a wonderful hiding place. It keeps me from having to think. If you would have observed me from the shore that night, you would have assumed we were bobbing in the center of the greatest school of fish in the history of the Sea of Galilee. I cast my net, pulled it in, cast it again, pulled it in, then cast it yet again as quickly and skillfully as I could. The fact that each pull brought up yet another empty net in no way deterred me. For nearly ten hours I hid behind a fruitless fishing frenzy that eventually caused my comrades to drop their nets and plop down on the deck in amazed disbelief at my utter refusal to accept the truth. Funny how we so often attempt to compensate for going the wrong direction by increasing our speed.

  As the first rays of the morning sun burst over the horizon, I too finally acknowledged the truth and dropped down in an exhausted heap. I was soaked with sweat. My tunic, long since cast aside, lay beside me as the early morning sun bathed my upper body.

  I think John saw him first—a man standing on the shore, waving in our direction. His voice carried easily to us over the water.

  “Children, you do not have any fish, do you?”

  We assumed the man must be a hungry early morning customer, hoping for fresh fish to buy. I do remember thinking it a little odd for him to address us as “children.” The silhouette of his physique against the rising sun did not convey an impression of great age, but it was impossible to see his features from this distance with the light behind him.

  John stood up and called back, “No!” assuming his response would end the brief conversation.

  To our surprise, however, the man then called back, “Cast the net on the right-hand side of the boat, and you will find a catch.”

  None of us spoke a word in response to the stranger’s instructions, but the sudden light in John’s eyes and the hint of a smile crossing his lips told me we were both thinking the same thing.

  I wonder if you know what it is like. I knew I was standing where I should not be standing, doing what I should not be doing. I was just a little boy, angry with my daddy, hiding from him behind the house, hoping with everything within me that he loved me enough to come find me and bring me back inside again. Running away is such hard work. Just one night of it and my spirit was already weary, and lonely, and longing for some way back. One other time in my life, following a fruitless night of fishing, a man told me to cast my net on the other side. When this stranger on the beach spoke those words, the most glorious hope suddenly flooded into me. I wanted so much for it to be him.

  I sprang to my feet, lunged at my net, then gave it a mighty cast over the right-hand side of the boat. What then followed four of us had all seen before. There they were once again—hundreds and hundreds of fish forcing themselves into the net, each wriggling little creature fighting for the high honor of doing the bidding of his Creator.

  So many emotions flew through me in those few seconds. I remember the strange sensation of realizing I didn’t care about the fish. I didn’t care how many there were. I didn’t care what pri
ce they would bring. I didn’t care if the net broke apart and the entire catch was lost. I remember, too, marveling at the realization I didn’t really want to be here, in this boat, hauling in this net—not today, not ever again. For the past three years there had been in the back of my mind the belief that I had given up a great career in exchange for the Master. This perceived “loss” was a sturdy beachhead for my flesh. But as I strained at those ropes that morning, seeing below me the greatest success a fisherman could ever achieve, I saw, too, the utter foolishness of my fleshly mind. When my Lord called me to himself, he took nothing from me but emptiness and in return gave me purpose, and fulfillment, and life. I’d come out that night thinking I wanted fish. Now I knew—I didn’t want fish; all I wanted was him.

  As the others continued to fight with the massive catch, John and I let go of the net at the same time, stood, and faced the shore. Then John turned to me and said what we both already knew. “It’s the Lord!”

  We were only a few hundred feet from shore. I grabbed my cloak, tied it around me, and plunged into the water. A few floundering strokes brought me close enough so that my feet could touch, allowing me then to churn my way onto the beach. The others followed in the boat, dragging the bloated net behind them.

  For a few minutes I just stood there alone with Jesus on the shore, huffing and puffing and dripping. At first he didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I felt like such a fool, but he did nothing to intensify my sense of foolishness. He could so easily have lashed out at me, asking me if I really wanted to return to my fishing, asking if I had some complaint with the way he was handling my life. But, of course, that was not his way. He never condemned. He never asked questions for which I already knew the answers. He never spoke either more or less than needed to be said. And at this moment his presence with me here on this beach, following this night, communicated everything I needed to hear. His eyes twinkled, and a smile crossed his lips. Daddy cared enough to come find me behind the house.

  I shivered a little in my early morning wetness, and Jesus nodded toward the warmth of a fire kindled on the shore. The aroma of several sizzling fish cooking on the coals mingled with the wood smoke to fill the air with the most wonderful scent. I crouched by the fire with Jesus sitting across from me, and we waited until the others arrived. James and Andrew tied the net onto the side of the boat, and then everyone came ashore. As soon as the boat was beached, Jesus suggested I grab a few more fish from the net so we could all have breakfast together.

  The breakfast the seven of us shared on the beach that day was perhaps as close to perfection as I will ever know on this earth. We talked and laughed about the ridiculous fishing venture of the previous night, with lots of comments about whose idea it had been. Then Andrew got going with a vivid reenactment of my frantic net-flinging marathon, capturing my antics and utter stupidity in a way that got us all howling until I thought I was going to be sick. We ate until we were stuffed, and when the food and conversation finally ran out, we stretched out in the warmth of the midmorning sun.

  Of course, it wasn’t the food or the warmth or the laughter that made it so intensely, painfully good. It was just being there with him. He stayed with us longer that morning than at any other time between his resurrection and his final departure. He wanted us to know that though many things were now radically different than they were prior to his resurrection, one thing remained the same. His being with us was still his greatest joy and highest priority.

  I want so much for you to understand what it was like. He wasn’t just stopping by to check up on us. He wasn’t policing the troops to make sure we were ready for battle. He wasn’t there primarily to communicate some profound new truth. He wasn’t laying out battle strategies for conquering the world. He was simply doing the one thing he wanted to do most of all. He was being with us. Every one of us there that morning felt it. His sharing in our silly little jokes and joining in our laughter and conversation, poking at fish still too hot to eat and stretching out next to us in the morning sun, was as important to him as anything else we would ever share together. In a thousand quiet ways, he told us again and again that it wasn’t what we were doing that brought him joy; it was just us.

  I must have dozed off for a few minutes as I let my soggy clothing bake in the sun, because I remember suddenly opening my eyes and looking up at the Master sitting next to me on the beach. I sat up, and for a few seconds we looked out across the Sea of Galilee. Then he turned to me and spoke.

  “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” As he spoke, he motioned toward my boat and the net still bulging with fish.

  Hearing him ask the question flooded me with a tremendous sense of relief. He knew the answer to his question already, but he also knew I needed to say it.

  “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”

  Then he said, “Tend my lambs.”

  He stood, and I stood with him. Together we walked along the shore in silence. Then he said a second time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

  It surprised me a little to hear him ask the question again, but I responded immediately, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”

  And he said, “Shepherd my sheep.”

  Only a few seconds passed before he questioned me a third time. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

  At first his words brought me pain. Why, three times, would he ask me this same question? Could it be he didn’t believe my words? I felt an agonized tear tumble down my cheek. Then I remembered that awful night and my three vehement denials of my Lord. He was offering me this opportunity to replace each of those lies with the truth.

  “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”

  And Jesus said, “Tend my sheep.”

  Then the Master continued to speak. “When you were younger, you used to dress yourself, and walk wherever you wished; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you, and bring you where you don’t wish to go.”

  I knew what he was saying. The time would come when my allegiance to him would bring about my own execution. But if you think the prophecy he offered that morning created fear within me, you are wrong. On the contrary, it filled me with hope and with assurance that I would never again deny my Lord, even to the point of death. The great fear of my life was put to rest. Both my calling and my faithfulness in that calling were assured. He knew I understood. He smiled and spoke once again the two words I’d heard him speak to me three years earlier, by this same boat and these same nets. “Follow me!”

  I heard the sound of someone approaching from behind and turned to see John coming our way. Because Jesus was offering glimpses into the future, I couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “Lord, and what about this man?”

  The Master’s gentle rebuke brought with it two truths that have served me well ever since. “If I want him to remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow me!”

  First of all, Jesus wanted me to know that no man ever has either the right or the ability to understand God’s dealings with anyone but himself. No man is ever told another man’s story. No man can ever have the faith to live another man’s calling. The implications of Jesus’ words were obvious. He would lead John in the path that fit him perfectly, just as he would me. But the only path I am qualified to live, and the only one I can relate to with trust and understanding, is my own.

  In the years since I heard the Master speak those words, I have seen countless men and women living and dying in circumstances that would have shaken my faith to the core. Yet I have seen them face their callings with boldness and confident assurance in the love and living reality of their Lord. And each time, when I have found myself tempted to question the Lord’s dealings with others, I have heard his words once again in my mind: “What is that to you? You follow me!” He provides each of us with the faith we need for just one calling in life—the calling he has given to us alone.

  And there was a second treasure for m
e in the words he spoke, one that now forms the deepest foundation of my life. It came in his repetition of those words, “You follow me.” You see, he wanted me to know that the fundamentals of my discipleship were never going to change. Three years earlier my life with the King began by my response to those same words, “Follow me!” At the time it was an obvious, logical request that I physically walk with him, eat with him, listen to him, learn from him, and be with him on a daily basis. But here is the amazing thing, the thing I never could have anticipated had he not revealed it to me. Even though he now lives in his resurrected glory, even though his physical presence would soon be removed from this world, even though I would no longer be able to see him with my eyes or touch him with my hands, the basics of my life with him were never going to change. Through the gift of his Spirit, I would continue to live in the reality of his constant presence with me. My calling now is identical to the calling he first offered me on that beach so many years ago—“Follow me!” And now, each day I continue to live in his presence and hear his voice and follow his leadership one day, one step at a time.

  I will tell you something now that I don’t think you will believe unless you have known it yourself. You would, perhaps, think that once the Master was physically removed from this world, it would leave a huge, aching void in my life. The truth is, life has been so much better now that he is gone. Before I experienced this, I could not have believed it either. Before he left, he told us himself, “I tell you the truth, it is to your advantage that I go away; for if I do not go away, the helper shall not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.” I know now what he meant. When he was still with us in the flesh, he was limited to the physical body in which he dwelt. He could talk with only one person at a time. He could focus on only one individual need at a time. If he was talking with John, or with Andrew, or with James, then he could not be talking with me.