I’m not a very good fisherman. My father was, and when he died I put in my claim for his fishing gear, his rods and reels and hand-carved wooden fishing box with all of its mysteries within—flies, sinkers, leads—all neatly arranged as was his habit. In fact, one of my fond memories as a child was rowing out with my father to Manasquan River, New Jersey (this was once, mind you) and enjoying my father fishing for flounder. Dad wasn’t a fanatical fisherman, but it satisfied his need to putter with outboard motors and all the “stuff” that goes along with this particular avocation. I also admired my grandfather who was an avid trout fisherman and I had a spell of tying flies for him, one of those rainy day summer camp activities, but I never had the patience to master fly casting. As I said, I’m not a very good fisherman but admire those who are.
Peter was a good fisherman. It was his livelihood, along with a number of other disciples—his brother Andrew, James and John, and they were freshwater fishermen in the Sea of Galilee, that little jewel of a lake not so far from Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth. I’ve been to the Sea of Galilee and have in fact eaten what’s called St. Peter fish named after, I suppose, Galilee’s most famous fisherman. Parenthetically, the lake was also called Gennesaret, an adjacent region in Galilee. It is the Jordan River that flows from the Sea of Galilee, the very same river where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, and ultimately flows into the Dead Sea, so called because its saline content is so high that fish or plants or any other living thing can’t survive in it. The Sea of Galilee, however, teems with life. But we can well imagine in today’s gospel Peter’s frustration of having worked all night only to come up empty.
Now there’s a big difference between St. Peter and my father in that St. Peter’s job was fishing. None of this “a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work.” Fishing was his work, and by some accounts it provided Peter with a middle class income. I think of the vagaries of life as a lobster fisherman off the coast of New England, and how good years can be very, very good financially. In any event, on this particular occasion Peter had been fishing all night and had come up empty. And so we assume he was a tired and cranky Peter when Jesus offers some advice. “Go back out, Peter, and try one more time.” Peter says, “Really?” But he does so, and is rewarded with this great catch, his nets brimming over.
How did Peter come to stifle his cynicism when this rural preacher—now there’s an occupation that’s loaded with material success—when this rural preacher gave him the advice he did? We gloss over that small moment in this encounter between Peter and Jesus (we find it between lines 10 and 11 in the Gospel reading) but it has enormous consequences. However this decision came to be made, there is in such a reaction some level of surrender. Simon lets go, and before he can snap himself back into reality, he experiences—in this little decision to follow—the mystery of the Gospel.
Dag Hammarskjöld wrote:
I don’t know Who—or What—put the question. I don’t when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone—or Something—and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore, my life, in self surrender, had a goal.
Peter, having said “Yes” to Jesus and experiencing the amazing catch of fish, found that this life self-surrender is the beginning, not the end. It was this little instance of surrender that then lead Peter to leave everything and follow Jesus.
Surrender is not something that comes naturally to us. And perhaps on this Super Bowl Sunday something like “surrender” is a very politically incorrect subject, at least in Chicago. But the fact is that from our birth until our death God wants to be found and wants us to offer our loyalty, our love. It’s not the kind of surrender being offered on a battlefield or kind of giving up because we’re not up to the task. It’s really closer to the kind of surrender we experience when we fall in love and decide we can’t live our lives without this other with whom we would share everything.
Human pride being what it is, however, surrender does not come easily. Even in this church, myself included, I dare say following Jesus without question or reservation is a process of some steps forward and some steps back, depending upon our circumstances, and depending upon our need at any given moment.
Those people who are in recovery or twelve-step programs know what I’m talking about: admitting a powerlessness and making a decision to turn our wills and our lives over to the care of God is an act of surrender for all who find themselves trapped and enslaved by addiction. Those who have come to the end of their rope for whatever reason and find so few resources left perhaps know what I’m talking about. Those who have experienced the dark night of the soul when God seems nowhere to be found only to have the tiniest of lights or the merest shred of hope appear know what I’m talking about. Surrender isn’t for the faint of heart because I believe it takes courage to invite God into your life. It’s life-giving but it’s also life-changing, and that can be scary.
We don’t have altar calls in the Episcopal church, but every Sunday when we come forward for the Eucharist it’s a kind of altar call, a kind of surrender, opening our hands to give God the things that bother us, the things that are painful or life-inhibiting, but then to receive God into our lives. I love the song we’ll sing when we receive communion today. It is based on the first lesson, Isaiah’s call. It was also read at Josh’s ordination several weeks ago when Josh, like Isaiah, surrendered his life to God’s call.
I, the Lord of wind and flame
I will tend the poor and lame
I will set a feast for them.
My hand will save.
Finest bread I will provide
Till their hearts be satisfied.
I will give my life to them.
Whom shall I send?
And we respond, “Here I am Lord.” “Here am I, send me.”
Amen.
