Fishing has never been my thing. I’m sure it must be wonderful to trudge out into the frozen countryside and park yourself in a canvas cubicle at the side of a murky river for three days. There you will sit, unwashed and therefore helpfully alone, your rod cast hopefully, feverishly anticipating the nibble of passing aquatic specimens. On the few occasions that I have ventured into fishing, I caught little, which didn’t bother me, because I expected little. Fishing just isn’t my thing.
But for a huddle of exhausted, confused professional fishermen (plus a few other team members who came from other career paths) there was huge disappointment. Fishing usually took place at night in ancient Galilee, which enabled you to sell your catch first thing in the morning - if there was a catch, that is.
One very dark night, (it’s described in John 21), at the end of hours of back-breaking toil, the nets were empty. Worse still, as they neared shore, they faced the potential embarrassment of being quizzed by a total stranger, standing there on the beach, asking them how they’d done. What was the fruit of their night shift? Nothing, pal, actually, and thanks a lot for asking.
How different it would have been had I been asked to choreograph the resurrection appearances. I’d have hired a whole herd of angels. There they’d be, tap dancing on the beach, bedecked in fluorescent yellow Doc Martins, singing the Hallelujah chorus prophetically, since it hadn’t been written yet. Oh, and the Red Arrows swooping overhead, billowing red and blue smoke that spelled out the words, ‘Yep, He is risen!’ across the sky.
But behold, He comes quietly. The stranger was Jesus, yet they don’t recognise Him. And this subtlety of His is consistent, because in the garden on Easter morning, the One who has just triumphed in the greatest cosmic battle in history is mistaken for the gardener. The hapless pair who were weary on the Emmaus Road find him intriguing enough to invite in for supper, but are fooled by His pretending to go further. He waits for their insistent beckoning.
After following Him for a few decades, my conclusion is that God is not as obvious (or chatty, for that matter) as we sometimes depict Him. He whispers, hints and nudges, weaving prophetic riddles through dreams. At times, this makes me feel less like a disciple, more like a detective on the hunt for clues. There are those epic occasions when His voice is booming and earth shattering, but then when that happens, someone usually makes a movie starring Charlton Heston as a result.
Let me be frank. I wish He’d speak up.
Here I brace myself for some kickback, even an onslaught. Some will gently advise me that I’m not listening, hard-hearted, or that mine is the wrong kind of spirituality. They may be right.
But while we might wish that, once in a while, He would kick the door of our lives in and make Himself at home, He stands at the door and knocks, not with a pounding fist, but with the lightest of taps. When His knuckles rap my door, I want to be swift to answer.
Meanwhile, back on that beach, an Easter breakfast was shared. Fish and bread was served, past shame was resolved for Peter, calling was reaffirmed, and when the meal was over, their course was set to change the planet. Bewildered, overwhelmed disciples, who hadn’t even been able to deliver on what they were supposed to be good at - fishing - were charged with the awesome business of taking the Easter news to a world that, as yet, didn’t know that death was finally done with, and that everything was different.
Angels are real enough, and surely play a vital part in the unfolding fight between darkness and light. But this much is true: God calls humans, tired, bleary eyed, often doubting humans like us, to carry the Easter newsflash in a day when it’s so desperately needed.
Let’s look for Him, listen harder, trust when He can’t be seen or heard, and yet still share the story in word and life.