Once upon a time, long, long ago, I went skiing for the very first time. I was excited. I rented all the stuff. The skis, the poles, the boots. I bought a ski suit with fabric about 4 inches thick. As I said, it was long, long ago. We got all our stuff into the car and headed for Tahoe. I was with friends who were long-time skiers, and they promised to hang in there with me and teach me the basics. We got there, and I was just delighted. I’d never seen so much snow. I got all my clothes on and bought my lift ticket and—after significant struggle—managed to get the boots and the skis attached to my feet. I managed to get on the ski lift, and even more miraculously, managed to get off the thing at what seemed to me to be the very top of the mountain. My friends had shown me how to maneuver while we were down on the flat, so I was able to get out of the way of the other folks who were flying off the lift like clay pigeons at a skeet shoot. I managed to get myself over to a nice little bump of a hill, and I practiced starting and stopping until my friends were fairly certain that I would be safe on my first run down the bunny hill.
Before I continue this story, I should tell you that roller skating was a constant physical activity during my childhood and early teen years. Many of you are probably skilled at both skating and skiing. You know that the physics of skating on hard ground is very different from the physics of skiing on snow of any kind. You understand that turning on roller skates is very different from turning on skis. My friends explained all that to me. Because we were the same age, they knew that I probably spent a lot of childhood afternoons on skates. They knew that I would want to put my weight on the inside ski when I turned, just as you do while skating. So, even before we got to Tahoe, they were drilling me. “Remember,” they said. “Don’t forget,” they said. “Shift your weight to the outside ski. If you don’t, you will fall.”
As I set off down the bunny hill, I muttered instructions to myself, and things went pretty well for a little bit. I picked up a little speed and did a gradual swoopy kind of thing. Then, feeling fairly confident and going a little faster, I decided to do a real turn across the slope. “Shift your weight to the outside ski,” I muttered to myself. “Shift! Shift!”
I wish I could tell you that worked really well. I really, really do. My friends
kept coaching me, and I continued to mutter the same instruction to myself during
every turn I attempted during the course of that long, hideous day. My body,
however, refused to collaborate in any such action.
The movement was so counter-intuitive to my body’s understanding of the
way the world works that I apparently could not be trained to a new way of moving.
I could not be obedient to my friends’ teaching or to the need for change
that my own experience was telling me.
In our gospel reading today, Simon Peter understands the way the world works. He is a fisherman. His brothers are fishermen, and they no doubt come from a long line of fishermen. They know fishing. They understand how fish behave. They understand when fish are caught and when they are not. They know that their nets are likely to find fish in the night and in the early morning. They know that fish are not around when the sun is shining down into the water.
Certainly Peter knows there are no fish out there. He’s spent the night throwing his nets into the water and pulling them back empty. He knows there are no fish to be caught. He and his brothers have long since brought the boats in and are putting the nets away for the day. As they work. Jesus comes along and commandeers the boat to put some distance between himself and the crowds who are following him. After he teaches the people, he tells Peter to go out into deep water and put in his nets. Peter knows there are no fish out there. He knows with every muscle of his aching body. He knows with every growl of his empty stomach. But listen to his words: “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” Peter steps out in obedience and finds abundance beyond his wildest dreams.
Obedience is easy when we understand what’s going on. Obedience is easy when we see that a desired good will occur as the result of our obedient action. Obedience is easy when the action we’re called to perform fits into our sense of the way we think the world ought to operate. Obedience is easy when we don’t care one way or the other. But, my friends, that is not obedience. That kind of response is agreeing with the plan—consenting to the process—being amenable to a course of action. Obedience means compliance with the directives of one in authority. Compliance with the directives of one in authority.
We have directives of one in authority, and being obedient sometimes means going against our own understanding of the world. I went to the slopes that day expecting—well, heaven only knows what I expected. Playing in the snow—moving effortlessly down the slopes with a very short learning curve. I certainly didn’t expect such a lesson in obedience to the laws of physics as applicable to skiing.
I don’t know what I expected when I started becoming a Christian. I remember feeling the comfort of God’s presence. I don’t remember when I began to notice that obedience is part of the deal. I certainly didn’t expect that so much of my life as a Christian would be spent learning lessons of obedience.
Peter had a choice to make that day in his boat. He could follow what he knew to be true about the world and head for shore. Or he could be obedient to his teacher.
We have choices to make in every day. We can follow our own understanding, or we can be obedient, following the directives that often seem so counterintuitive: Love your enemy. Sell what you have and give to the poor. Follow me.
We have choices, and they are sometimes not easy choices to make. We can choose a faith that gives us warm fuzzy thoughts and never, never, never call us into uncomfortable situations. We can say that this is a different day. We can do those things, or we can step out in obedience, just as Peter did, using the tools God gives each of us to do the work God has given us to do.
Every choice that comes our way offers us an opportunity to listen for God’s voice. Every choice offers us an opportunity to live into our baptismal covenant in a way that we may not have encountered before. Every choice offers us an opportunity to throw our own nets—to live in obedience—to become fishers of people.
Thanks be to God.