The Rev. Keri T. Aubert    January 25, 2009

John 3:1-5, 10

Psalm 62:6-14

1 Corinthians 7:29-31

Mark 1:14-20

Third Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B, RCL      

I’ve never been much of a fisherperson. That might be because my childhood fisherperson training was quite minimal. I went fishing perhaps twice during my childhood, both times with my father, both times in the unbearable heat of sultry south Louisiana, and both times without success in actually catching any fish. My father’s fishing history is the stuff of family lore, for while he was only an infrequent fisherman, he was also an invariably unsuccessful one. When I consider his lifelong fishing record, I have to wonder whether he really wanted to catch fish.

I may be projecting, but I’m certain that he had little interest in cleaning fish, and I suspect that he had even less interest in killing fish. And that is the thing about fishing: if we’re fishing for food, our sustenance is gained through the death of another living creature. And so when Jesus makes these brothers fishers-for-people, and we hear his words echoing through time as a call to us . . . well, there could be a problem. If we as modern-day disciples of Christ join Simon and Andrew and James and John as fishers-for-people, it is perhaps well to consider what we might do—and what the church might do—with those human fish we catch. And it might be a good idea also to think about how those human fish might feel about our fishing enterprise. Many people bring fear and trepidation to church with them, and they have good reasons to be concerned. After all, if real fish get scaled, gutted, and filleted, then for human fish, maybe church really is dangerous. If I go to church, what will I lose? If I go to church, what will it cost? If I go to church, how might I be scaled, gutted, and filleted?

Those were certainly questions I asked myself at age thirty as I floated my way back to church after many years away. Surely not the fisherperson then, repeatedly I goldfished up to and away from the tattered net that twirled in the dark waters around me, until one day I made the choice to let myself be gathered up, lifted from the water, and unceremoniously dumped onto the wooden deck of a tottering craft that looked to me like it might sink at any moment.

Each of us has to make the decision to let ourselves be swept up. And it is as decision we make not once, but over and over again. Of course it is reasonable to exercise a certain caution. But, fortunately, it is possible to be simultaneously cautious and courageous. And we need courage as we flop about on that wooden deck, because, though we’re tempted to hope that it doesn’t cost us anything to be there, in our heart of hearts, we know it’s not true. Among other things, it costs us the illusions we have about ourselves and our world. Among other things, it costs us our selfishness and our narcissism. As Christians, we need to say, “God loves you,” but we also need to say, “God’s fullness is approached as you learn to love with integrity.” The better we learn to love, the deeper the pain of that love strikes us.

We’re walking a fine line here, affirming our basic goodness as persons created in God’s image, yet accepting the challenge to confront our human weaknesses so that we can transform ourselves and our world. At times we may feel as if we are being scaled, gutted, and filleted. But we notice that the boat is more sound than it looks, and we remember that God is running a catch-and-release program. We may flop around for a while, we may think we’re going to die, but God puts us back into life-giving water. What we do then is up to us.

Because it was up to us, one of the things we did was leap into the net that tossed us here onto this deck. However you got here, you bring your experience of a past that is uniquely yours. Each of us may have arrived via very different paths, but we have a common conviction that the shared journey is worth the effort, that the shared risk is worth the reward. And so it is that, in our lives as Christians, we remain both human fish, and fishers of humans. Importantly, we bring our experience of being caught to our work as fisherpersons. We proclaim the gospel with power because we have experienced that gospel. We proclaim the gospel knowing that responding to it won’t always be easy or simple or free. Those two sets of brothers followed Jesus, but listen carefully to what Jesus said, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of people.” You’re not fishers yet. You have work to do first. Walk with me, rest with me, hurt with me, celebrate with me, grieve with me—and then I will make you fishers of people. And so it is that we bring our whole lives and selves with us to this enterprise of being Christians. It is the fullness of our experience—both joy and sorrow, both hurt and healing—that enables us to genuinely share the good news with others.

At this time at All Saints, we’re engaged in what I believe is a sincere attempt to look honestly at the past and the present, in preparation for an unknown future. Remembering my father, consider that the first step in catching fish is the willingness to do so no matter the consequences. Therefore that future must include not only the effort to be faithful to those who are here, but also an openness to being changed by those who might yet arrive. None of this is easy, and some of us no doubt feel like we’re flopping around on the deck of a tottering ship right now. We’re experiencing a little pain as fish, even while we’re preparing to be better fisherpersons. Despite the pain, the ship is sound and calm water beckons. I think that what I’m hearing right now is a lot of hope.

Both as individuals and in community, God calls us to leave behind the narcissism of despair, and to practice the altruism of hope. We’ve been hearing a lot lately about finding new hope in our national life. I got an extra dose of hope last week from the knowledge that Americans of all sorts were unified by their weeping with joy at the sight of that beautiful—and black—family standing on the podium on inauguration day. And so, regardless of whether we voted for Barack Obama, perhaps we can join in helping to realize the promise of a new approach to how we embrace diversity in all its forms, the promise of a new approach to our communal lives, the promise of a new approach to how we engage as people of faith.

At the ordinations of clergy, it is traditional for the preacher to end the sermon with what is called a “charge” to the ordinand. In this charge, the preacher exhorts the new priest or deacon to take seriously the responsibilities that they are assuming, as they leave their old life behind and take up a new one. Elizabeth Alexander’s inaugural poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” closed with a section that sounded a bit like a charge to the nation. It’s a charge that also feels like a good fit for this community at this time. The imagery is particularly well suited to our continuing celebration of the season of Epiphany, which arcs from the birth of God as love, to the revealing of that love as the light of the world. This is what she said:

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.