Sea of Galilee

Norman Maclean wrote in A River Runs Through It, “In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.”

As a Christian and a fly-fisherman, I’ve always been touched by those words.

In a similar way, I’ve always been touched in a special way by today’s Gospel reading ( John 21:1-14). The symbolism of the Church and salvation runs deep here, but what often strikes me about this part of the Gospel lies in the shallows, in the pure literal sense of the story being told.

Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish you just caught."
So Simon Peter went over and dragged the net ashore full of one hundred fifty-three large fish. Even though there were so many, the net was not torn.

The details John provides us, especially here in verses 10 and 11, bolster my faith in the authorship and authenticity of John's gospel. Only a fisherman would have included such details as the exact number (153) of fish and that these fish were in fact large.

Being one who is inclined to ponder such things, I can imagine being hip-deep in an icy river and having the risen Lord call to me from the bank. "How are they biting?" He asks.

I shrug. "Not too well. I’ve been here all afternoon and I haven't seen a single fish rise." I would, after all, be fishing dry-flies, as any favored disciple should (at least according to young Maclean).

"Cast your fly over there, just to the left of that half-sunken log," He says, “And you will find something.”

I do as I’m told and cast my fly. It’s of course one of those perfect casts that I might make one time out of a hundred tries…if I’m lucky. The line rolls out quietly on the water and the fly just kisses the surface. It rides the current high on the surface tension in perfect imitation of the delicate mayfly it is designed to represent. As the fly drifts past the half-sunken log, a large greenish head emerges from the surface and quietly sips the fly into it’s mouth. Had I blinked my eyes I would not have even seen it happen. I raise the tip of my rod and the line goes tight. For several heart pounding minutes I feel the fish’s strength and weight but I can yet only imagine it’s size. Finally getting the fish into my net, my suspicion is confirmed that this is the trophy trout of a lifetime, a fish that by all reason should have easily broken my line.

Only then do I realize who it is that has been speaking to me from the shore! I hastily revive and release the trout so that I can go and meet the Lord, but still, every detail of that fish – size, weight, shape, color – is burned indelibly into my memory. Those details will be a part of the story of how I met Jesus on the riverbank no matter how many times I tell it. Fishermen are just made that way.

After a long cold winter, trout season opens this weekend in Pennsylvania, where my “Sea of Galilee” is.