Back a good few years now, I went on a fishing trip with my father-in-law. It was one of those sort of last minute situations where someone else was not able to attend, and I quickly volunteered without waiting to be asked. It was a trip down the Deschutes River in Oregon over several days, and it was all fly-fishing catch and release. There were a good number in the group, and most had been doing this trip for quite a few years. It sounded great to me. I had never been fly-fishing before but how hard could it be? I had seen it in the movies, and it looked pretty easy. A few flicks of the wrist and suddenly you caught a fish.
So we set off. The guides were not that impressed that I had never been fly-fishing before, but were determined that they could teach me fairly quickly. After a few casts where the fly got caught in a tree, or the back of my head, or the bow of the boat, I started to gradually get the hang of it. Like everything in life there is an art to it, knowing where the fish might be, trying to get the fly to land in the best spot, slowly pulling the line in and all sorts of other things that I won’t bore you with. But what struck me most, I think, was that while standing in about two feet of water which was flowing past at a good current, with the other fishers scattered all down the river away from me, there is this mystical quiet and calm that descends. Fly fishing is pretty quiet. There is a slow and gentle rhythm to it. There is a sense of peace and appreciation of beauty. There is a deep link with the river, the wind, the trees around and of course with the elusive fish in the water. It is serene and peaceful; it is a time that allows for contemplation and reflection. The world seems far removed as one gently pulls the line back toward you, anticipating a fish or simply an empty tied fly ready to be sent back into the river again. There is room for thankfulness, perspective, prayer, and possibility that is so often needed in the crush and busyness of this so-called modern world. There is room for silence and an appreciation that in that silence, you can often hear a word from God.
That’s the image I often return to when I consider the word fishing. It carries me not to industrial nets and massive trollers but the quiet and calm of being by the edge of a river. The silence… save the movement of water across rocks, riverbank and sand. In the work of sending the fly out on the water, there is a sense of the Holy One not far from thought and prayer.
Jesus walked by the Sea of Galilee and spotted two folk out fishing. They were casting their net into the sea in anticipation of catching food for the table and food for the community. Two brothers, Simon and Andrew hard at work. And Jesus, according to the Bible, simply said, “Follow me,” and they dropped everything and began to follow.
And a little later, he came across two other brothers, James and John, who were mending their nets in preparation for another fishing expedition. They too heard the simple words of follow me, and they left the nets behind and began to follow Jesus.
They were all in the midst of all that kept them busy; they were just trying to earn a living. And yet. And yet… follow me. That was all it took. Two simple words that changed the lives of four people long ago. People who clearly worked hard each day and yet had room for the holy in and amongst the ordinary. The words “follow me” clearly spoke to something within each of them that they had discovered in the silence, that indeed God still invites us to come closer and draw nearer. They looked deep into the word follow and saw
that they needed to pattern their lives on a depth of life that spoke of what was most important. They were invited on the way of Jesus, and they knew that it was what they had been seeking all of their lives.
By the side of a river, with a fishing rod in my hand, the sun shining, the breeze blowing, the river flowing and a silence that seems hard to find, hearing that same voice and that same invitation seems to make sense to me. Slowing down enough to reflect that what we hold in our hands, the oars of the boat or the nets that need mending or work that needs to be done or overwhelming grief or deep sadness or loneliness, or the desire to find a greater purpose or meaning or the search for that voice that links to the beginning of the universe and our own living… in all of that the words “follow me” suddenly can break in and awaken us to something more. And it opens us to a whole new way of life.
Last Monday in the United States, Martin Luther King Day was celebrated in many places. Martin Luther King was also someone who had been mending his nets, so to speak, and heard a voice say, “follow me,” and he left all else to begin the work of following. And it cost him much of who he was. For he discovered that this faith thing is not simply believing in God’s presence but coming to know that we are called to follow the one who challenged how we live in this world. Asking us about who is most blessed, who is the first and last, who is our neighbour, who is the one receiving food or drink from our hands, who is the peacemaker, for they will be called children of God. Martin Luther King discovered all of this as he followed Jesus, as might we, but he also discovered a few other things along the way.
Martin Luther King once said, “Life’s most urgent question is: what are you doing for others?” He once said, “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” He said, “Everybody can be great… because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.” It certainly feels like we need to hear these words these days.
This Jesus, who turns our thinking upside down and inside out, changed Martin Luther King’s priorities from revenge to love, from hatred to compassion, from darkness to light. It was a lifelong journey that began with the simple words follow me.
And I wonder if this is what brought each one of us here this morning. For we could be home simply mending our nets, so to speak, but here we are. I wonder if you have in some way or some moment or some place heard that voice inviting you closer, nearer, into your vision. I wonder if you have heard the encouragement to seek a different path, a different way, a different pilgrimage than many might follow. A path that began with water splashed upon you and then formed into the shape of a cross. On the day of your baptism, a lifelong pilgrimage began in you, just as it was for James, John, Andrew, Simon and Martin Luther King… and now Jill. A beckoning to step onto a path not simple and straightforward, but one that winds and turns and shifts and meanders. It is a path centred on a simple promise that Jesus affirmed with fisherfolk of long ago and to all of us here this morning. That he will be with us no matter what happens. No matter what. And so when grief comes to us, or illness, or fear, or hope seems erased, or despair fills too much space, we know those words of follow me once again.
John O’Donohue wrote this poem, For Longing it seems fitting today:
Blessed be the longing that brought you here and quickens your soul with wonder. May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire that disturbs you when you have settled for
something safe. May you have the wisdom to enter generously into your own unease to discover the new direction your longing wants you to take. May the forms of your belonging – in love, creativity, and friendship –be equal to the grandeur and the call of your soul.
May the one you long for long for you. May your dreams gradually reveal the destination of your desire.
May a secret providence guide your thoughts and nurture your feelings.
May your mind inhabit your life with the sureness with which your body inhabits the world.
May your heart never be haunted by ghost-structures of old damage.
May you come to accept your longing as divine urgency. May you know the urgency with which God longs for you.
Follow me, Jesus said. May it be so.