The Fisherman

It was a warm afternoon on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, at the time when Herod Antipas was Tetrarch of what is today northern Israel. I had just finished my work for the day, and was pulling a rather light net in from the water. I frowned at the vision of my wife scolding me for the poor return on the day's work. A sudden gust of wind prompted me to turn around. A man was standing behind me, but I did not recognize him. He adressed me with a voice loud, clear, and comforting:

Come, follow me.

I looked at the man, scouring my memory for who he was and how I had come to know him. He continued:

I will make you a fisher of men.

I laughed, and told him that my family would throw me into the street if I brought home men for them to eat. His expression didn't change. I peered into his face, attempting to match it to one I remembered, but the sun seemed to shine directly into it, and all I could discern of his features in the brightness was a wide grin and a pair of unnaturally kind eyes. Despite the intensity of the light on his face, he did not blink, and his gaze was unwavering. I found I could not hold eye contact with him for very long. Despite this, I felt incredibly comforted by his presence, and while this nearly led me to go with him, the thought of abandoning my hungry nagging children grounded this notion.

I apologized to the man, my head down, and politely declined his invitation. He said nothing, and simply smiled at me knowingly me with those kind eyes and walked away, down the beach toward a pair of other fishermen. When I turned back to my nets, I found to my amazement that they were full almost to the point of bursting with fish. Bewildered, I turned to look at the stranger again, but I could only barely make out his, and the silhouettes of his new companions in the light of the setting sun.