He comes as yet unknown into a hamlet of Lower Galilee. He is watched by the cold, hard eyes of peasants living long enough at a subsistence level to know exactly where the line is drawn between poverty and destitution. […] Jesus, finding his own voice, began to speak of God not as imminent apocalypse but as present healing. To those first followers from the peasant villages of Lower Galilee who asked how to repay his exorcisms and cures, he gave a simple answer, simple, that is, to understand but hard as death itself to undertake. You are healed healers, he said, so take the Kingdom to others, for I am not its patron and you are not its brokers. It is, was, and always will be available to any who want it. — John Dominic Crossan, Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography, quoted in Ordinary Time, July 17, 2019.
What follows is a not-entirely-successful attempt at an Ignatian contemplation, or meditation, in which I imagine myself in a conversation with Jesus of Nazareth. The scene is a black-pebbled beach on the Sea of Galilee at Tabgha (which means Seven Springs in the Greek language of first-century Palestine and today is the location of several Christian shrines including the Franciscan church of the Primacy of St. Peter). It’s the scene of the story in the gospel of St. John in which the risen Jesus feeds Peter and the other disciples, and the stories in the synoptic gospels in which he calls Peter, Andrew and other disciples to be “fishers of men.” Rather than place myself in one of the gospel stories, I chose to imagine a one-on-one conversation with Jesus on a bleak, late fall afternoon.
To place myself in a first-century setting, I invented a persona who is a Roman soldier based in Capernaum (Kfar Nahum in the language of the day). He is (I am) a God-fearer, a Gentile who has served in Palestine for several years and is attracted to Judaism; occasionally attends services in the local synagogue; and has heard Jesus preach several times. (The garrison’s commanding officer was a major contributor.) Capernaum, population 1,000 to 1,500, is a border town, between two Roman provinces, a commercial fishing village lacking a theater and other amenities. Jesus’ ministry brings in crowds from all over, and it’s the most exciting thing to happen there in a long, long time.
***
So … it’s getting on toward sunset, and I’m fishing over by Seven Springs, at the bottom of the hill where Jesus comes when the crowds get too big to stay in town. It’s an odd time of day to be fishing, especially this late in November, but it’s not as cold here as it was when I was stationed in Brittania. And there aren’t as many commercial fishermen out here as usual. Too chilly for them today, I guess. So I won’t be getting in their way.
Plus I can bundle up. Besides, I have a lot on my mind these days and I just wanted to get away from everything for a while.
Anyway, where was I? It’s getting along about 4:30 or 5, and the sun’s gone down over the mountains to the west, on the way to Nazareth and Sepphoris. And up walks Jesus, the preacher from Nazareth.
“Hey,” he says, in friendly tone of voice. “Catching anything?”
Nope, I say. He seems like a nice guy when you meet him one-on-one, especially for a local celebrity. He’s not all facade like some of them are. Not as stuffy as some of the priests and rabbis I’ve seen. I smile back at him.
Jesus purses his lips and looks around. Black stones on a pebbled beach, lush growth on the hillside (even in November), a couple of little creeks flowing into the lake. He motions toward one of the streams.
“Why don’t you try over there?”
I do. And almost immediately there’s a tug on my line.
Jesus stands there, big smile on his face, as I struggle to land the fish. It’s a carp, a big one. At least 15 pounds.
That’s a miracle, I exclaim.
“Nah,” says Jesus. “Peter and the other guys say the water’s a little warmer there, and the fish like it that way. If you have ears to hear, listen to the fishermen.”
Now I’ve heard this guy preach. What else is there to do in a little burg like Kfar Nahum? I’ll admit a lot of it goes over my head. The kingdom of God is within you. What does that mean? Isn’t Herod Antipas one king too many? We’ve got enough kings around here already, thank you, and I don’t need another rooting around inside me. But then half a minute later, the guy’s as down-to-earth and comfortable as an old sandal. A sower went out to sow. Keep your lamps trimmed and burning. Happy are the poor and mild-mannered, for theirs is the kingdom. God watches over every sparrow. Go and do likewise. That I can relate to, even if I can’t make sense of it all.
His stories make me think, too. There’s alway some little wrinkle in them that makes me wonder where I fit in. Am I the sower, or am I the seed? Do I fall on the rocks or the good soil? Then I think: What about this 15-pound carp here right now? Isn’t it a miracle? What’s a miracle anyway?
“You’ll have enough for supper,” says Jesus, interrupting my train of thought.
I get the feeling he’s kind of proud of the fish he helped me catch, proud of his disciples who have fished this lake for years and know where the fish are biting. Proud of me for landing the fish right off the bat? Whatever I first came out here to think about, it’s out of my mind now. I’m thinking about this lovely fish, this lovely moment.
More than enough, I say.
I have a moment of inspiration — I like this guy, and I want to prolong the moment. We can build a fire and cook the fish right here.
Won’t you stay, I ask, and help me eat it?
[Published Nov. 24, 2023]
Ordinary Time 