The Fisherman Read online

  The wedding celebration we attended was for one of Jesus’ cousins, the daughter of his aunt on his mother’s side. His mother, Mary, was obviously pleased with Jesus’ arrival. She had been deeply involved in the planning and preparation for the celebration and, though we all received a quick introduction as soon as we arrived, during the next several hours Mary was little more than a flying blur in and out of the kitchen. There appeared to be a far greater turnout for the event than the family had expected, with people standing, talking, eating, laughing, and sitting in every available corner. Though I didn’t know the couple, it was evident everyone felt very good about this union. I heard snatches of a dozen different conversations; people took credit for getting the couple together or for helping their relationship along at critical points during the engagement. Cana was Nathanael’s hometown, and he seemed to know at least half the people there. He introduced us to a number of his friends, and we spent several hours enjoying the food, the wine, and the celebration.

  Then late that afternoon something happened that altered our perception of Jesus forever.

  The seven of us were all in a group talking and joking when Mary came up to Jesus, obviously deeply concerned about something. She nearly had to scream to be understood above the noise of the party, and all six of us heard the one sentence she spoke to her son.

  “They have no wine!”

  The family had underestimated the size and length of the celebration, and the wine was all gone. Unless something could be done quickly, it meant embarrassment to the newlyweds and a premature end to the festivities, though I couldn’t imagine what she expected Jesus to do about it.

  I remember at the time puzzling over his response to Mary’s words. His tone was not harsh, but his mother’s statement seemed to face him with a difficult choice. He told her this was not his concern because it was not yet his time.

  Then he glanced up at the six of us standing there, eavesdropping on their conversation, and made his decision. When he turned back to Mary, a tiny smile crept across his lips, and he gave her just the slightest nod. She immediately called several servants and instructed them to do whatever Jesus told them to do.

  Just behind us, lined up against the wall, were six empty thirty-gallon water containers. Jesus told the servants to fill them to the top with water. The servants were not pleased with this added responsibility right in the middle of their other duties at the feast. Filling those pots involved more than forty trips between the well and the house. They were able to recruit several other servants to help, but even then it took more than half an hour to finish the job.

  When the pots were finally filled, Jesus told one of the servants to draw some of the liquid from the pots they had just filled and take it to the headwaiter. I could see the servant from where I was standing, and as he drew out the liquid, the strangest expression crossed his face. He looked up at Jesus but said nothing, then went straight to the headwaiter. We all followed behind him to see what was going on. When the waiter tasted what had been brought to him, his face reflected first amazement and then irritation. He grabbed the pitcher from the servant, then charged over to the groom and began scolding him for saving the really good wine until so late in the feast.

  The waiter’s words brought two immediate responses. The groom whirled around and stared at the waiter with a look of helpless confusion on his face. At the same time six friends of Jesus grabbed goblets and bolted back to those pots. We must have looked ridiculous, pushing and squirming our way through that crowd, like a footrace mistakenly routed through the center of a public market.

  One taste of that wine was all I needed. It was good—as good as any I had ever tasted in my life. But it wasn’t the wine I was excited about; it was the future. I didn’t know how he had done it; I just knew he had. And the implications were staggering. If he could do it again, we could sell this stuff and be rich overnight. If ever Jesus needed a partner, it was now, and I was clearly the man for the job. I could handle the whole business wing of the thing, and he could devote his time to the production side.

  It was Andrew who finally jolted me back to reality. I glanced over at the pots and saw him sitting next to one of them in a sort of stunned silence. I went charging over, cup in hand, and blurted out, “Wow, little brother, did you see what he just did?!”

  Andrew looked up at me and said, “No, Simon, did you see what he just did? This man just accomplished the impossible. Listen, Simon! This man isn’t just a prophet. This man just performed a miracle. Prophets preach. Prophets exhort. Prophets don’t change 180 gallons of well water into wine. And Simon . . . Simon, he didn’t do this for them, for all those people out there laughing and having a good time. They don’t even know about it. Simon, he did this for us, for you and me and James and John and Philip and Nathanael. He wanted the six of us to see his power. Use your head, Simon. Even the great King David never did anything like this. And when our God performed miraculous works through Moses and Elijah, he did it to meet some critical need affecting our entire nation. But not like this! Not at their cousin’s wedding! And certainly not simply because someone forgot to order enough wine.

  “Listen, big brother—what just happened here isn’t about wine. It’s about him and about us. This man doesn’t need us. This man turns well water into wine without even speaking a word. What in the world could we offer him? And yet, for some reason he wants us with him; he wants us to see the supernatural power God has given him. Something just happened here today that hasn’t happened before in the history of our nation. And, Simon, I’ve never felt so honored in my life.”

  After hearing Andrew’s words I decided to put my wine-selling scheme on hold for a little while. Somehow it just didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. I knew Andrew was right about one thing—Jesus planned this miracle for our eyes only. What a day! It began with a neat little bundle of expectations and assumptions about what it meant to be a disciple of this fascinating new prophet. Those expectations now lay in a shattered heap. In their place I was left with a man I couldn’t even begin to understand.

  The feast continued until well into the night. When things finally quieted down, we all found a corner in which to sleep for a few hours. We regrouped in the morning to discover that our little band was now considerably larger. The miraculous appearance of all that wine the night before demanded some explanation. Though Jesus said nothing himself, the servants were more than willing to fill in the blanks. Rumors flew throughout the crowd, and Jesus became an instant object of fascination.

  Our trip back to Capernaum took on the look and feel of a caravan. Along with a number of fascinated followers, Jesus’ mother and several younger brothers and cousins also joined the pack. Though Mary’s permanent home was still in Nazareth, she was determined to stay as close to the Master as possible. Her husband, Joseph, had died several years earlier, leaving Jesus as head of the household and directly responsible for her care.

  Andrew, Philip, Nathanael, James, and John all did their best to stay close to Jesus. I, on the other hand, was well content to follow at a distance. Too much was happening too quickly. I needed time and space away from this man. I just wanted to get back to my boat, my business, and my wife and leave all this prophet stuff to someone else. I felt suddenly trapped in a world I didn’t understand and couldn’t control. I needed to get back to real life. I needed to feel the spray of the sea on my face and hear the squawk of the gulls above my head. I needed to be free.

  5

  Jesus found a house in Capernaum for himself, his mother, and several other family members. Word of this fascinating newcomer swept through the city. His popularity increased daily as he taught publicly in the marketplace. Though he chose not to perform any additional supernatural acts during the days immediately following the incident with the wine, his teaching alone was more than enough to draw the crowds.

  None of us had ever heard anything like it before. Our nation was well acquainted with the teaching of those within t
he religious mainstream. It consisted of little more than an ever increasing list of rules and regulations defining, expanding, and applying the law of Moses to the most intricate and obscure areas of daily life. How many yards could a person travel on a Sabbath day without it being considered “work” and thus violating the commandment? Was it necessary to count the exact number of mint leaves from each plant harvested and tithe exactly one-tenth of them, or was it permissible to simply count the number of whole plants in order to determine the required tithe? And they wondered why I had trouble staying awake!

  The Prophet John, on the other hand, brought a dramatic contrast. His simple, clear, powerful call to personal repentance and submission to God deeply impacted those who heard him speak.

  Jesus’ teaching, however, was unlike anything we had ever experienced before. He didn’t yell. He didn’t plead or whine. He just talked, the way you would talk with a good friend in your own home. It was impossible for us to listen to him without feeling as if he was reading our minds. He knew what we feared. He knew what we lusted after. He knew all the things we were clinging to for security. He didn’t excuse. He didn’t condemn. He simply, powerfully pointed us back to the only source of true freedom, forgiveness, and security—to God himself. John was calling us to repentance before God. Jesus now called us to trust in God. And he did it in a way that made trust seem like the most natural, logical, reasonable thing a person could ever do.

  I tried to stay away. I really did. There were so many obvious reasons why it would be ridiculous for me to get involved. I wasn’t the student type. I didn’t have the temperament. I had a family to support. I had a business to run. A disciple like me would ruin Jesus’ reputation. I had a way of blasting and blundering that didn’t work well in the religious world. Any further close personal involvement between me and this man was clearly out of the question.

  Andrew, James, and John, on the other hand, lived for their times with Jesus. They were always pushing to bring the boats in early, and once the duties were done for the day, they nearly ran the few miles between Bethsaida and Capernaum. I encouraged them to do it. But not me. I could be an excellent support person for people like them who were more the disciple type. After all, somebody had to work. Somebody had to make a living. Somebody had to feed all of us. That was the best role for me. Of course I was impressed with the man. Who wouldn’t be? But he surely understood why my pursuing any greater involvement with him was completely out of the question. It wouldn’t be good for either one of us. And so what if I happened to go for a walk after the others left? And so what if I did happen to walk toward Capernaum? And so what if I did end up at the marketplace . . . at the back of the crowd . . . listening to this man? That proved nothing. Several hundred other men and women were doing the same thing. I simply wanted to stay well informed about the important events in our community.

  I had no further direct contact with the Master for several days following our return from Cana. No, that is not precisely true. It would be better to say that it appeared as though I had no direct contact with the Master during those days. He and I both knew different. Take, for example, that thing with the little flower.

  That particular day the fishing did not go well. We went out early, tried all our tricks in all our best locations with almost nothing to show for it. In the end we packed up and brought the boats in early. I told the others I’d finish putting things away so they could begin their evening sprint to Capernaum. When I arrived in the marketplace about an hour later, Andrew, James, and John had all squirmed their way up to the front of the group. I hung around the back of the crowd listening but trying to stay inconspicuous.

  The Master was once again talking about the reasonableness of practical trust in God’s care for us. Andrew piped up and asked him to explain what he meant. Jesus was sitting on a low stone wall as he spoke. He glanced down at the wall and noticed a tiny flower growing out of a crevice between two rocks. He reached over, cradled it in his hand, and said, “Do you see this tiny flower? It doesn’t toil. It doesn’t spin garments for itself. And yet Solomon at the height of his glory could not clothe himself like this little flower. If your heavenly Father dresses this forgotten little plant in such beauty, don’t you think he knows your needs and cares about you?” Then he turned and looked across the several hundred people gathered around him, straight into my eyes.

  That look jolted me like a sharp stick jabbed into my side. He knew the turmoil his entrance into my life was causing within me. He knew the fierce grip I maintained on my precious future. He knew I needed time to think, time to trust, time to let go. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. But neither did he leave me alone. I heard him use that illustration numerous times during the next few years. That first time, however, he used it for me. He wanted me to trust him. He wanted me to trust God. And he wanted me to know that I could not do one without doing the other.

  The annual Feast of the Passover was just a few days away. Andrew, James, John, Philip, and Nathanael made plans to travel with Jesus to Jerusalem for the celebration. I had never seen any of them so excited. The Passover in Jerusalem was always a great time, but Jesus’ presence at the Feast this year created an even greater sense of anticipation. He was still unknown outside our immediate area, and this promised to be his first direct exposure to our nation’s center of power.

  I knew I was invited as well, but I just couldn’t bring myself to join the party. Nothing had yet been resolved in my life, and I was in no mood to pretend. Watching the little group head out of town left me feeling empty and irritated. I couldn’t stand not knowing where he was or what he was doing. I ran home and helped Ruth pack up the things we would need for the journey, and a few hours later we joined the growing stream of travelers heading south.

  I didn’t see Jesus again until after we arrived in Jerusalem. We found a place to stay for the celebration. Ruth renewed annual contacts with family and friends, and I took off on my own. Though I couldn’t admit to myself that I was looking for the group, I did end up taking the most direct route I could find to the one place they were most likely to be—the temple.

  By the time I arrived on the temple steps, the crowd was incredible. I inched my way along through the outer court where people were lined up to exchange their unsanctified Roman currency for the approved, holy temple currency they could then use to purchase the sacrifices they would offer in accordance with the law of Moses. Everyone knew that the exchange rates being offered by the money changers and the prices being charged for the “approved” sacrifice animals and birds were outright theft. But it was the way things were.

  I tried to use my height to survey the sea of faces surrounding me, but any hope of finding Jesus in that mass of humanity was absurd. He had invited me to join him. I had refused. There was nothing I could do about it. As I stood there in the middle of the temple courtyard, with people pushing and bumping up against me from every direction, I felt lonely. I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.

  I couldn’t have traveled more than a few feet when it happened. Suddenly the table of the money changer nearest me went flying up on end and then came crashing down on its side, sending a shower of coins in every direction. At first I thought a sacrifice bull must have broken loose. Then a second table went over, and a third, and a fourth, each time sending more coins flying and hundreds of men and women scurrying around on their hands and knees, clutching at the tiny rolling treasures.

  Then I saw him standing there, a small whip in his right hand, his left hand clenched and raised above his head, an expression of controlled rage on his face. When the others around me also saw him and realized he was the cause of all the commotion, a silence filled the courtyard as people turned and stared in stunned disbelief at this stranger.

  When he knew his voice could be heard, he looked first at the enraged band of money changers and then at the sacrifice sellers and commanded, “Take these things away; stop making my Father’s house a house of merchandise.�
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  The authority and intensity with which he spoke made it clear his request was not open to discussion. For a few seconds no one moved. Then Jesus brought his whip down hard on the table nearest him, splintering the wood and sending the money merchants scrambling for cover. Jesus then turned to the animal stalls, smashing cages and corrals, setting hundreds of birds free and sending bulls, sheep, and oxen charging in every direction. Some people cheered. Others ran. Still others just stood in amazed disbelief. The entire temple courtyard was in total chaos for nearly half an hour. No one dared challenge the Master—not with that whip in his hand.

  When things finally settled down a bit and Jesus made it clear he had no intention of allowing business as usual to resume for the rest of the day, a group of six or seven distinguished-looking temple officials approached Jesus and demanded that he provide them with some sign, some evidence of his authority to do what he was doing.

  His response came without hesitation. He drove his clenched fist into his chest and said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

  At the time I remember thinking how unfortunate his response to those men had been. It seemed to simply confirm what they already believed, that an overstressed pilgrim had gone over the edge and run amuck. The whole group laughed in his face, and one of them responded by saying, “It took forty-six years to build this temple, and will you raise it up in three days?” It was not until after the resurrection that I recalled his statement that day and understood he had been talking about the only true temple in existence at the time he spoke, the one temple that literally housed God on earth, the temple of his own body. He understood, of course, that there was no acceptable sign he could ever offer those who had already chosen to reject his authority. It is not the validity of the message or the persuasiveness of the messenger that determines our response to God. It is the attitude of our heart.