The Fisherman (23 page)

What we were seeing could of course not be true. And yet it was. I knelt down and slipped my arm through the neck hole, feeling the emptiness within, to confirm what I now already knew—Jesus was alive! I had no idea where he was. But I knew he was alive.

I sprang to my feet, grabbed John around the chest, and then bounced him around the tomb in a mighty bear hug, screaming, “He's alive! He's alive! He's alive!”

Following my exuberant outburst, we both headed back to the city to report our discovery to the others. We walked together, talking over the deluge of still unanswered questions that now flooded our minds. The question that troubled me most deeply, though, and the one that now mattered more than all the rest combined, was a question I dared not put into words, a question for which I knew John could never give me an answer. If, indeed, the Master was alive, and if we were ever to see him again, how would he relate to me, the one who failed him utterly, the one who publicly, repeatedly denied him, the one who deserted him in his greatest hour of need?

Less than four hours later I had the answer to the question I feared most of all.

John and I literally exploded into the silent, dimly lit room in which our fellow disciples still lay sleeping. We were both blasting forth our accounts of the empty tomb and the linen wrappings before the door closed behind us. Our entrance caused several of our comrades to sit suddenly bolt upright out of a deep sleep, terror in their eyes, assuming the early morning chaos meant their own arrest and execution was now upon them. By the time everyone was awake and alert enough to hear what we were saying, they were all so irritated with us that no one was taking us seriously. Someone flung back a less than flattering proverb about the offensiveness of loud greetings early in the morning, and several others mumbled comments about the dangers of drowning our pain in too much wine. Within a matter of minutes the only thing we had successfully accomplished was to reduce the room to a collection of grumpy, muttering, half-awake men tossing insults back and forth at one another.

John and I continued our urgent efforts to convince the others, but trying to tell them about the resurrection of Christ introduced us to a principle we would see reconfirmed countless times throughout the rest of our lives. Facts alone can never successfully communicate the truth about the resurrection of our Lord. Only when those facts are combined with the work of the Spirit of God can the hearer ever make the transition from facts to truth.

In the end John and I decided it would be best for us to keep any additional comments to ourselves until our fellow disciples were better equipped to relate to our discoveries in a logical, rational manner. Having successfully roused the entire room with our entrance, we then fell silent and joined the others in the morning routines of life.

We were just finishing our morning meal together when the women arrived. Mary, Jesus' mother, was there, as was the mother of James the Less, along with several other loyal followers of the Master. The group was lead by Joanna, the wife of King Herod's steward. Throughout most of the past four years her social prominence in the Jerusalem community had not prevented her from boldly proclaiming her support of Jesus. The first words out of Joanna's mouth sent a jolt throughout every man in that room.

“We just saw Jesus! He's alive! He's whole! And he's coming to see you!”

A few seconds of stunned silence were followed by everyone in the room bursting into speech at once. All the women launched into vivid accounts of their encounter with the Master, and all the men pelted them with questions. The room quickly broke into four or five little clusters of shrieking men and women, all trying to hear and be heard above the noise. Gradually the account took shape.

The women had gathered at sunrise, planning to go to the Lord's grave as a group to mourn his death and, if they could find someone to help them move the stone at the entrance of the cave, to anoint his body with spices. When they arrived at the tomb, however, they found the stone already removed. They entered, expecting to find Jesus' body, but found instead two young men sitting at either end of the empty linen wrappings. The men were dressed in glistening white clothing, giving off a radiance that immediately convinced the women they were in the presence of supernatural beings. The two men stood as the women entered, and one of them spoke. “Don't be afraid; for I know that you are looking for Jesus who has been crucified. Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, for he has risen, just as he said. Come, see the place where he was lying.”

At this point he encouraged the women to gather around the empty linen cocoon, and, to my immense satisfaction, the women gave a description of the empty shell identical to the one John and I had been trying to present to the others a half hour earlier.

Then the angel spoke again. “And go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead; and behold, he is going before you into Galilee, there you will see him; behold, I have told you.”

But the best was yet to come. The women took off out of the sepulcher, heading back to town as fast as they could go. But before they'd gone a hundred paces down the trail, suddenly there he was! He wasn't a ghost. He wasn't a product of their imaginations. He was real and he was alive! They dropped to the ground in his presence, but he opened his arms wide and embraced them in what was certainly the most wonderful group hug of their lives. Everything about him proclaimed victory. The first word he spoke to them was the single word “Rejoice!”—not that they needed any encouragement. Jesus did not stay with them long, but he did not depart from them before he personally confirmed the same message given to them by the angels a few minutes earlier.

“Don't be afraid; go and take word to my brothers to leave for Galilee, and they will see me there.”

I will not say the others believed the women's report. Grief and loss can do strange things to people. It can cause some to see and hear what they want to see and hear. It can cause others to fear the reentrance of hope, believing it will lead in the end only to greater pain. I will say, however, that I have never seen a group of men pack more quickly for the journey home than we did that morning.

For me, however, there was one more tiny piece of information given to me by Jesus' mother, information that overshadowed all the rest. The room was still buzzing with a dozen different conversations when she approached me. No words had passed between us since before the crucifixion. When I saw her coming my way, I found myself unable to make eye contact with her. My sense of shame and failure was still so raw, so intense. What defense could I offer for my actions? What explanation could justify my failure? If I could have met her gaze as she approached, however, I would have known she was seeking me out not to bring me condemnation but rather to bring me hope.

“Simon, there is something else I think you need to know. Joanna did not quote the angel's words exactly as they were spoken. The exact words spoken by the angel were these: ‘But go, tell his disciples and Peter, “He is going before you into Galilee; there you will see him, just as he said to you.”' He mentioned your name specifically, Simon. He wants you there.”

“‘And Peter'? You're sure he said, ‘and Peter'? He really said my name?”

“Yes, Simon, I'm sure. I heard him speak. The message the angels gave us mentioned you by name. And Simon, if you could have seen him, if you could have seen the way he is, you would know . . . everything is all right. In fact, it's not just all right, it's wonderful as it has never been wonderful before. Go to him, Simon. He wants to see you, and you very much need to see him.”

And so I went, not because Mary told me to go, but because I knew I had no choice. Until I saw him, until I knew where we stood, he and I, nothing else mattered. The deafening babble of the dozen bellowing voices around me continued, but I no longer heard them. I walked in silence out the door and into the early morning Jerusalem street. I didn't know where to go, of course, but I also knew it didn't matter. I didn't have to find him; he would find me. I would return to the tomb and wait.

As I walked along the quiet lanes winding through the city, the angel's words kept running through my mind. “But go, tell his disciples and Peter . . . and Peter . . . and Peter . . . and Peter.” Could it really be? I would have expected the angel to say, “But go, tell his disciples, except Peter,” but that was not what Mary said. And why did the angel use that name—Peter? Why didn't he call me Simon? Surely that other name, that other wonderful name given to me by the Lord so long ago, the name that meant “The Rock,” surely I lost any right to that name forever when I proclaimed to all the world, “I do not know him!”

My mind was so full of lies back then. It still is in many ways, of course. But at that point in my pilgrimage, even the basics of the faith eluded me. After four years with the Master, I still believed the serpent's lie that my past determined my future, my sins defined my true identity, and the limitations of my flesh designated the boundaries of the life of Christ through me. I was yet to discover that his declaration of me as “The Rock” was not and never had been based on anything I could do for him. It was, rather, his prophetic affirmation of what he would one day accomplish in and through me.

If I was permitted to retain just one memory of the risen Lord, it would be the memory of that first encounter. The garden surrounding the entrance to the tomb was deserted when I arrived. I had some vague notion of waiting for his arrival on the bench inside the cave, but I never made it that far. As I approached the doorway, without warning he was there, standing just a few feet in front of me. Until that instant I had not known how much pain, how much shame, how much fear and unresolved agony still remained within me. At the sight of him, I dropped to my knees and then to my face at his feet. Through uncontrolled sobs I spoke the words I most wanted him to hear. “Oh, my Lord, forgive me . . . forgive me . . . forgive me.”

There was no question about it being him or about his being real. The thought never crossed my mind. I could feel his feet in my hands. Even through my blurred vision, I could see where the nails had been driven through his flesh.

Then, as I lay there on the grass at his feet, he knelt down, and I once again felt his strong grip on my shoulders, and I heard his voice speak my new name. “Peter!”

When I finally looked up into his face, I saw what until that instant I believed I would never see again. I saw him smile. And I saw in his eyes not just forgiveness, though certainly that was there in abundance, but something else as well. I saw victory—both his victory and mine.

He did not remain with me long, but it was long enough. Everything I needed to know he communicated with absolute clarity. He was alive. I was forgiven. He still loved me. He still wanted me by his side. And I did not have to be afraid anymore.

And so the longest night of my life at last came to an end as the risen rays of his love once again flooded my soul.

Those weeks between the resurrection and the day of Pentecost were exciting days for me, but they were difficult ones as well. Relating to the truth of the resurrection without the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit drove me to all sorts of strange behaviors. I was flooded with truth about my Lord, but I did not understand what to do with it. That Jesus was alive was obvious. He threaded himself through our lives, appearing to one person here, to two or three there, to a small group in Jerusalem, and then to another gathering in Galilee. He touched us, ate with us, talked with us, and responded to our questions, making certain every individual within his tiny band of faithful followers knew beyond any doubt that he was alive.

That he lived was now the central truth of my existence. But I didn't know how this truth was to impact my life. My heart was healed, but my mind was still immersed in blindness, ignorance, and confusion. It was a strange time in my life, a brief time between two worlds, a time when I possessed huge quantities of truth about the Master yet continued to relate to that truth through the mind of the flesh.

We spent most of those days back in Galilee. I kept waiting for Jesus to reorganize his people for a second assault on Jerusalem. At the time it seemed to me to be the only logical plan. In my mind I could see it all so clearly—the excitement among the masses at Jesus' miraculous reappearance, the terror in the eyes of the high priest and his cohorts as he stood before them in his resurrected majesty, the immediate submission or panic-driven desertion of all those who once opposed him.

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 price 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.