We lectio the John passage where Jesus appears to his disciples one last time. They are fishing.
As we spend one cycle entering the story with our senses, imagining ourselves as actually there, I immediately identify with Peter – not as a person, but as a man . . . I have never even imagined myself a man before – in my imagining, it happened something like this:
It’s been a rough week – actually, a horrible week . . . Jesus – dead . . . friends and followers – scattered . . . me – unable to even lift my head let alone meet anyone’s eyes for I know what I will see there . . . even his coming back leaves me jittery . . . on edge . . . unsure of everything – my skin literally crawls with it . . . I have been wanting out of this body ever since that horrible night with Judas and the soldiers – I . . . want . . . out . . .
And the boredom of the waiting is nearly driving me mad . . . so up I jump, eager to get out of that damned room that stinks with our fear and announce that I am going fishing. What I really want is to be alone, so of course they all follow along – I suppose they’re as unnerved by it all as I am . . .
As soon as I think of the sea and the boat and the nets, I feel my whole body relax – this is what I was made for, this is something I know and can do in my sleep . . . it’ll be nightfall by the time I get there, but the boat will be ready – it always is . . .
The night is still young as we pull away from the shore and so am I – young and strong – the muscles in my back and arms rejoice at the familiar effort as I holler at the guys to go further – but they have not the heart for it, so I relent and we stay close to shore – it doesn’t really matter what we catch – I just had to – do – something . . .
Nothing calms me like being on the water on a calm night – that and Him . . . but even He does not calm these days – scares the snot out of me, actually, coming and going like he has been – who knows when we’ll see him again . . .
I shake my head sharply to clear it of such thoughts and laugh at something one of them says – whispering – these days, they’re always whispering . . . and tonight, it makes me laugh and I slap him on the back – hard – and ask who can hear us here? And I laugh again and haul the net out of the water and furl it out on the water, watching reflections from the moon off its knotting as it settles down and down and feel a tug to plunge myself down there . . . I jerk myself back from the edge and plop down on the deck . . .
The boat’s gentle sway comforts and I laugh out again realizing it is my mother I am wanting – as if she could help me now . . .
But here, now, there are no soldiers, there is no Him . . . and for the moment, I am actually glad to be shut of both . . .
At some point we doze off and I am gentled by the snoring and farting – the night sounds of my companions – usually so annoying but now so very comforting . . . and I slip down on the deck resting my head into the crook of my arm, feeling my own pulse beat to the rhythm of the water against the boat . . . smelling the familiar odors of fishes past and the salt catching on the hairs of my nose as I breathe in and out and in and out and slip into the first true sleep I have had in weeks . . . I am home . . . and for now, all is well . . .
Daylight cracks the sky awakening me and as I stand and stretch and scratch away the night (no fish) and the annoying little one who likes to tell us how he was His favorite points and shouts that it’s Him . . . I squint (out of habit) towards the shore and there in the dim dawn, I see a figure . . . and in that brief second of before, I see them all groggy with sleep looking to me to see what I will do and I know there can be no more hesitation, no more running, hiding, denying, for me . . . wearily, I jump in to the water and make my way, half swimming, half walking, to the shore and whatever awaits – Him, Roman soldier, old man walking the night away – doesn’t much matter to me, but it matters to them . . .
The water’s coolness brings me full awake as I plow its resistance, my strength returned . . . I breathe in deeply morning’s air and begin to look more intently and wonder . . . and there I am, standing on the shore – first face to face and then beside Him (there is a faint smell of spice surrounding us), both of us still looking to the boat, when He shouts instructions – fish from the other side – I smile – risen or not, He is no fisherman . . .
But of course, there are fish – when has he ever been wrong?
And there is the fire with fish already crackling in the coals . . . when I see it, I begin to laugh – big laughing – not crazy, not joy – it’s going to be a good day laughing . . . and so we eat . . . and all is well . . .
Resting on elbows by the fire, I see the rest of them sneaking their furtive glances towards him and I scratch myself in disgust and then laugh some more, kicking a little sand beloved’s way – just to let him know I read his silly mind. . .
And then He ruins it with all the talk of sheep and feeding and like always, He makes me mad to make His point – why He always has to do that, I do not know – dying has not mellowed Him, not even a little bit . . .
I sigh and sit up and pay attention and answer His questions and He will have none of it . . . we both know this, then, is our last time . . . can we not simply lie by the fire? Feel its warmth in our bones? Smell the salt spray? Watch the lapping of the waves on a fine day? Be silent? Why does he always talk so much?
I know He had much to say that couldn’t get said, but I would have liked more silence . . . I think with my arms and legs and they need time to sort such things . . . you’d think He’d know that . . .
But this is the kvetching of a man who will never live long enough to be truly old . . . then, I was just . . . happy . . .
It was a beautiful day . . . it still is . . .
As we spend one cycle entering the story with our senses, imagining ourselves as actually there, I immediately identify with Peter – not as a person, but as a man . . . I have never even imagined myself a man before – in my imagining, it happened something like this:
It’s been a rough week – actually, a horrible week . . . Jesus – dead . . . friends and followers – scattered . . . me – unable to even lift my head let alone meet anyone’s eyes for I know what I will see there . . . even his coming back leaves me jittery . . . on edge . . . unsure of everything – my skin literally crawls with it . . . I have been wanting out of this body ever since that horrible night with Judas and the soldiers – I . . . want . . . out . . .
And the boredom of the waiting is nearly driving me mad . . . so up I jump, eager to get out of that damned room that stinks with our fear and announce that I am going fishing. What I really want is to be alone, so of course they all follow along – I suppose they’re as unnerved by it all as I am . . .
As soon as I think of the sea and the boat and the nets, I feel my whole body relax – this is what I was made for, this is something I know and can do in my sleep . . . it’ll be nightfall by the time I get there, but the boat will be ready – it always is . . .
The night is still young as we pull away from the shore and so am I – young and strong – the muscles in my back and arms rejoice at the familiar effort as I holler at the guys to go further – but they have not the heart for it, so I relent and we stay close to shore – it doesn’t really matter what we catch – I just had to – do – something . . .
Nothing calms me like being on the water on a calm night – that and Him . . . but even He does not calm these days – scares the snot out of me, actually, coming and going like he has been – who knows when we’ll see him again . . .
I shake my head sharply to clear it of such thoughts and laugh at something one of them says – whispering – these days, they’re always whispering . . . and tonight, it makes me laugh and I slap him on the back – hard – and ask who can hear us here? And I laugh again and haul the net out of the water and furl it out on the water, watching reflections from the moon off its knotting as it settles down and down and feel a tug to plunge myself down there . . . I jerk myself back from the edge and plop down on the deck . . .
The boat’s gentle sway comforts and I laugh out again realizing it is my mother I am wanting – as if she could help me now . . .
But here, now, there are no soldiers, there is no Him . . . and for the moment, I am actually glad to be shut of both . . .
At some point we doze off and I am gentled by the snoring and farting – the night sounds of my companions – usually so annoying but now so very comforting . . . and I slip down on the deck resting my head into the crook of my arm, feeling my own pulse beat to the rhythm of the water against the boat . . . smelling the familiar odors of fishes past and the salt catching on the hairs of my nose as I breathe in and out and in and out and slip into the first true sleep I have had in weeks . . . I am home . . . and for now, all is well . . .
Daylight cracks the sky awakening me and as I stand and stretch and scratch away the night (no fish) and the annoying little one who likes to tell us how he was His favorite points and shouts that it’s Him . . . I squint (out of habit) towards the shore and there in the dim dawn, I see a figure . . . and in that brief second of before, I see them all groggy with sleep looking to me to see what I will do and I know there can be no more hesitation, no more running, hiding, denying, for me . . . wearily, I jump in to the water and make my way, half swimming, half walking, to the shore and whatever awaits – Him, Roman soldier, old man walking the night away – doesn’t much matter to me, but it matters to them . . .
The water’s coolness brings me full awake as I plow its resistance, my strength returned . . . I breathe in deeply morning’s air and begin to look more intently and wonder . . . and there I am, standing on the shore – first face to face and then beside Him (there is a faint smell of spice surrounding us), both of us still looking to the boat, when He shouts instructions – fish from the other side – I smile – risen or not, He is no fisherman . . .
But of course, there are fish – when has he ever been wrong?
And there is the fire with fish already crackling in the coals . . . when I see it, I begin to laugh – big laughing – not crazy, not joy – it’s going to be a good day laughing . . . and so we eat . . . and all is well . . .
Resting on elbows by the fire, I see the rest of them sneaking their furtive glances towards him and I scratch myself in disgust and then laugh some more, kicking a little sand beloved’s way – just to let him know I read his silly mind. . .
And then He ruins it with all the talk of sheep and feeding and like always, He makes me mad to make His point – why He always has to do that, I do not know – dying has not mellowed Him, not even a little bit . . .
I sigh and sit up and pay attention and answer His questions and He will have none of it . . . we both know this, then, is our last time . . . can we not simply lie by the fire? Feel its warmth in our bones? Smell the salt spray? Watch the lapping of the waves on a fine day? Be silent? Why does he always talk so much?
I know He had much to say that couldn’t get said, but I would have liked more silence . . . I think with my arms and legs and they need time to sort such things . . . you’d think He’d know that . . .
But this is the kvetching of a man who will never live long enough to be truly old . . . then, I was just . . . happy . . .
It was a beautiful day . . . it still is . . .
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