When I was a kid, my great aunt Mildred owned a cabin on the lake with her friend, Polly. I loved visiting them because I could spend all day, sitting on the dock, fishing. I remember one time, not much was going on, then, bam! I’d hooked a mighty catfish and had it within feet of the slippery bank when my cane pole snapped clean in half, and that monster disappeared back into the troubled waters.
Well, I couldn’t just let that injustice stand, so I rustled up another cane pole, grabbed some particularly enticing and wriggly grub worms, and set up shop to exact my revenge.
I cast out into the mess of logs and broken bobbers, and waited, pulling on the line with playful jerks and still, mesmerizing slowness. This same motion repeated for hours, and it only ended as night fell.
Of course, the only thing I caught that day was the cloud of mosquitoes gathering around my sunburned wrists. See, I think that fish was smarter than me, at least that day. The catfish leviathan grabbed what it wanted and taunted me from the deep. All I did was wear myself out and crust the corner of my eyes with the dried salt of hours sweating in the sun.
Now, I haven’t been fishing in years. I enjoy it, but I’m not really a fisherman. I know there are different baits for different fish, and I sort of remember how they pair up. I know sometimes you want flashy lures, and sometimes you want hand-tied flies. I know that, for catfish at least, a messy grub is just as good as sweet corn out of a can. But, then again, catfish are like the goats of the fishing world. I’m convinced they’d eat the sweet corn can itself if you put it on a hook and prayed a little.
When I was a kid, I remember the joy of piling up in my grandaddy’s surprisingly reliable pickup and head up to Aunt Mildred's, cramming into the cab with a mongrel dog, and dodging the gear shift as grandaddy deftly navigated ruts in the dirt road. The cattle blocking the way were in no rush to ease our trip, and we’d stare down empty bovine eyes until they decided to mosey along and clear the road.
My job was to jump out at every gate and swing it wide. It was best to ride the gate as it swung open, in part for the thrill but also to keep your little feet from getting stuck in the slats of the cattle guard.
Finally, we’d hit pavement and take the quick jog down to the gas station to buy a couple of tubs of worms. We’d already collected crickets and grubs the night before, and worms were easy purchase in the garden behind my grandaddy’s house, but he’d long since learned that, however much bait you think is enough, double it, especially when a clumsy kid's hands are involved.
Those half-pint styrofoam containers were a treasure for me. I loved the look of the damp, dark soil pressed up against the underside of the lid, and was entranced by the mystery that there were worms in there too, but you couldn’t see ‘em. It was bait for fish, but it was bait for me, too.
Now, I’m sure y’all know how the rest of the story goes, more or less. We'd wander around the bank of the lake, while I’d spend a solid ten minutes trying to pick the best spot. I’d waste another ten making sure all the snakes had slithered away so I could have that prime spot to myself. And then I’d plop down on top of a cooler or the occasional decaying lawn chair, and wait.
Clumsy casts would tangle in trees somewhere behind my right shoulder, or even snag the occasional finger, but none of that fazed me. Fishing was about getting dirty, getting gunk under my fingernails, getting plum tuckered by a day of not much of anything, and then feasting on whatever my grandaddy caught during the course of the day. It’s nothing shy of a miracle that he’d caught anything, given the ruckus I'd make and the time he spent untangling my line.
But he knew something about bait, knew something about patience, too, and he knew that teaching me all these things would one day bring more than just sitting. And, soon enough, that one day came. I caught the biggest bream this world had ever seen, which is to say, it was about the size of my child's hand.
Now, bream are not big fish, and they can be tasty, if you pan fry ‘em with enough butter over a crackling fire, but they’re awfully bony things. But eating that fish I’d caught, for all I cared, it could’ve been made of worms, and it still would’ve been the best thing I’d ever eaten. It was a miracle sprung up from the waters, and I’d helped.
I wonder if that joy is still there for seasoned fishermen. I wonder if casting nets or tying flies or even buying a new generation styrofoam cups of worms still has that magic. I wonder if it’s always had that magic, if we landlubbing people have always had this near magical relationship with meals plucked from the deep.
And I wonder if that’s what’s going on on the banks of the Galilee. I wonder if Jesus knows that wonder, knows the messiness of buckets of bait, knows the magic of fishing. I wonder if he knows what bait he wants to use for which people. Sure, he tells those fishermen to drop their nets and come with him, tells ‘em he’ll make them fish for people, but I wonder.
Simon and Andrew, really all the disciples, all those apostles that got sent out, maybe even us, we’re involved in this big fishing trip, but I wonder if we’ve got the right of it. What if we’re God’s bait? The right folks in the right place for the right catch? There’s a whole lot of us, a whole lot of different kinds of us, and there’s a whole lot of catches out there.
We may not be the right bait for all of ‘em, but one of us just might be the right bait for one of them. We’re cast out on lines into the far reaches of the world, sometimes into beautiful scenes but sometimes into thick, dark places. And there we do our work, being our own selves and baiting a tantalizing line back to God. I wonder.
I mean, I gotta be honest, the idea of being less in control than the fisherman on the bank is a little unnerving, and being bait really makes me squirm, but I wonder. I wonder if that’s what’s so lovely in Jesus’s call to us to lay down our nets and dive in.
There are times when my spiritual life feels more like my grandaddy rushing around untangling lines, and there are no shortage of days where I stare back at whatever God has cast my way with bovine stupidity. Either way, I don’t think we’re in control enough to be responsible for holding that pole on the banks.
I think we are at my best when we’re out there on the other end of the line, telling tales and tempting folks to take the bait, even a nibble. And once in awhile, we just might land a catch, just might help to pull a miracle from the waters. I wonder.
Maybe that’s our part. Maybe that’s how we fish for people. Maybe that’s how we love and serve the Lord. Maybe that’s how we’re bait.
Amen.