Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  Simeon saw John stiffen and felt his own stomach lurch. Had they miscalculated? Were they closer to shore than they thought? There were places where there were rocks out in the water. They weren’t moving fast enough to be in mortal danger, but a rock could still punch a hole in the side and sink them.

  “It’s another boat!” Andrew exclaimed.

  They were all peering into the faint circle of light cast by the bobbing lamp. And then Simeon saw it too. He froze, the oar forgotten, an icy chill sweeping over him. It was pale white, barely entering the circle of light, but it was not the sail of a boat. It wasn’t nearly large enough for that. It—he swallowed hard, swiping at his eyes. It looked like—goose bumps were popping out all over him. It looked like—it was! It was a man!

  Simeon heard John gasp beside him. Then, at that moment, a wave lifted the boat’s bow, blocking their view of the apparition; then the nose dropped, slamming them downward again. The boat leaped forward ten or fifteen feet. When it leveled again, the circle of light caught the figure fully. It was no more than thirty or forty paces away now and growing more visible with every moment.

  Simeon wasn’t sure if his body had turned to fire or ice. Every nerve was tingling. His neck was bowed as he leaned forward, unable to believe his eyes. The ghostly image was walking steadily toward them. Walking . . . He wiped at his eyes with the back of his arm. Walking on the water!

  Simeon cried out. He fell back, cracking his knee against the oarlock.

  At the bow, Peter dropped to his knees, scrambling backwards, one hand up to ward off the terrifying sight before him. “It’s a spirit!” he cried. “Turn the boat! Turn the boat!”

  But even as they lunged for the boom of the sail, a sound came to them, whipped partially away by the wind. “Peter!”

  The fisherman stopped, his jaw slack.

  “Peter! It is I. Be not afraid.”

  “Master?” It was torn from Peter’s throat in a hoarse exclamation of shock and terror. He got to his feet, leaning forward, peering into the night.

  The figure kept coming, walking as confidently as though it were a mountain and not a hundred fathoms of water beneath his feet.

  “It is Jesus!” Simeon wasn’t sure whether it was James or John or Andrew who had uttered that. Wave after wave of chills were coursing through his body.

  Peter was fully on his feet now. He lifted one hand and steadied the oil lamp, tipping it slightly to throw the circle of light further out. It was Jesus. He wore the usual long robe with a hood, but the hood was on his shoulders now. The wind whipped his hair and sent the skirts of his robe billowing. Simeon’s eyes dropped. He could see the sandals on Jesus’ feet. He saw that the bottom of his robe was darker, wet from the water boiling around him.

  “Be of good cheer,” came the voice again. “It is I, brethren. Be not afraid.”

  They were all on their feet now, each frozen in whatever position they had taken. No one spoke. Perhaps they couldn’t have even if they chose to. Utter astonishment had struck them dumb.

  Then Peter released the lamp and took a hesitant step forward. “Master?” He reached the bow and, gripping the rail with both hands, leaned out. “Master, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.”

  Simeon gaped at his friend.

  Jesus’ answer came in one word. Simple, and yet beyond comprehension. “Come!” he said.

  Peter turned to look back at his companions, his eyes both exultant and anxious. Without another word, he swung one leg over the railing, then lowered his body down the side. The other four were all on their feet now. Rudder and oars were still clasped tight in their grip, but their movements to keep the boat facing into the waves was automatic. The wind, the waves, the sea were all but forgotten as they stared in astonishment as Peter dropped from their sight.

  Then he appeared again, just ahead of the bow. He stood on the surface of the water, his head moving back and forth as he looked nervously at the ship, then forward to where Jesus had stopped and awaited him. With eyes as wide as the hawsers that held the oars, and with a childlike grin splitting the beard that was plastered to his face, Peter looked up at his brethren for one moment. He stood alone!

  Turning his face directly into the wind, he started away, walking across the surface of the turbulent water. He moved slowly, gingerly, as if he were walking through a bed of glass. But move he did. Five feet, then ten. He was completely away from the boat now. One hand was outstretched, as though he were a child taking his first steps toward an encouraging parent.

  It was if time had been suspended. Simeon felt as though he were another person, outside of his body, watching something unbelievably incredible taking place, as if in a dream. The two figures moved slowly toward each other. Jesus was close enough now that they could see that he, too, was smiling. He reached out a hand, beckoning Peter closer.

  As they drew to within ten paces of each other, John grabbed at Simeon’s sleeve. A wave was coming toward them from the right. It was a huge swell, and it started to crest as it approached the two figures. It was as high as a man and would certainly swamp the two men before it.

  “Peter! Watch out!” It was Andrew who shouted. He pointed.

  Peter turned, then went rigid with fear. His arms flailed as he tried to keep his balance. His body rose sharply, then fell away again as the wave passed beneath him. And then, to the horror of those watching, Peter began to drop. It didn’t happen in an instant, but in two or three seconds, his feet disappeared, then his knees, and the water reached his waist. He was sinking!

  “Master, I perish!” Peter screamed. “Oh, Lord, save me!”

  Jesus was only three steps away now. He lunged forward and caught Peter’s hand. Instantly, the sinking stopped. Jesus drew his chief apostle up again, as though he were lifting something no heavier than a feather duster from the floor. In a moment, Peter was on the surface again, trembling violently as he clutched at the Master’s hand.

  “O ye of little faith,” came the gentle rebuke. “Wherefore did you doubt?”

  Peter was too shocked to answer. Taking him by the elbow, Jesus brought him back to the boat. Four pairs of eager hands were there to help them both climb in.

  As they straightened, all of them staring at the Master in wonder, Simeon looked around, suddenly realizing that something else had changed. He nudged Andrew. “The wind has stopped.”

  And so it had. The sail hung limply from the yardarm. The sea, which just moments before had been a rolling, pitching, undulating surface, was now as flat as a tabletop.

  All eyes turned back to Jesus. He watched them steadily, calm and unruffled. Then Peter dropped to one knee, his tunic still dripping water on the deck. He touched the edge of Jesus’ robe, bowing his head, in awed astonishment. “Master,” he whispered, “truly thou art the Son of God.”

  VI

  The first light of dawn silhouetted the eastern highlands as the boat moved slowly toward the pier where, less than twenty-four hours earlier, Peter’s hook had drawn in a fish from the water. No one spoke, nor had they since Jesus had asked for a straw mat and laid it out near the bow, and then had gone immediately to sleep. Andrew stood just beyond the sleeping figure, guiding them in to the pier with quick motions of his hand. James and John were at the oars, Peter at the rudder. The surface of the lake was now as smooth as a sandy beach. Simeon sat on a coil of rope, leaning back against the side of the boat, his eyes closed.

  “So, Simeon,” Peter said softly.

  He opened his eyes and turned to look up at the burly fisherman. He knew what the question was going to be.

  “Would you like to have some time with Jesus before we go home?”

  Simeon shook his head.

  One eyebrow lifted questioningly. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I know now for sure what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to trust in my own wisdom to solve this problem.” He exhaled slowly. “As for what I am going to do. I haven’t the slightest notion. Go home and t
hink about things for a long time.”

  Andrew spoke then, without taking his eyes off the approaching pier. “I think it’s safe to say we are all going to do that, my friend.”

  Chapter Notes

  John the Baptist’s death is recorded in Matthew 14:3–12 and Mark 6:17–29.

  Three of the gospel writers record the incident of Jesus walking on the sea (see Matthew 14:22–33; Mark 6:47–51; John 6:15–21), though only Matthew records the story of Peter’s attempt to do the same.

  We do know that fishing boats used oil lamps on poles while fishing at night. Whether it was this that allowed the disciples to see Jesus approaching them on the water, or whether there was a moon out that night, the scriptural record does not say. Having been on the Sea of Galilee at night when there is no moon, the author can testify to how black the night can be, so there had to be some source of light for them to see Jesus approaching.

  The scriptural accounts do not specifically talk about a large wave that frightened Peter, only that when he “saw the wind, boistrous, he was afraid” (Matthew 14:30). Other small details were furnished by the author but are in harmony with the Gospel accounts.

  Chapter 7

  The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold: but the Lord trieth the hearts.

  —Proverbs 17:3

  I

  Capernaum 29 June, a.d. 30

  When the centurion came out from his house into the small courtyard, Simeon stood up immediately. “Shalom, Sextus Rubrius.”

  “Shalom, Simeon ben David.”

  “Thank you for giving me audience.”

  Sextus gave him a sharp look, a reminder once again of his commitment to help Simeon in any way he could in return for Simeon’s saving his life.

  “I have just returned from the highlands of the Galilee.” Beth Neelah, to be exact, he thought to himself, though he did not say that to Sextus. Simeon idly wondered what Sextus would say if he knew about the uniforms and the forged document, knew that they would not be used now. He had gone to the village and told Issachar that the plan was off. He would not risk the lives of eight men on something so tenuous. He had never planned to say anything to Sextus about his plan. That would have strained the bonds of loyalty and duty too far. “My visit today has to do with our former conversation. I wanted you to know that I have no plans to break my friends out of the prison at Caesarea.”

  Sextus’s expression was typically inscrutable, but Simeon thought he saw a momentary relief in his eyes. “I am still determined to free my friends, but I am looking for other alternatives.”

  “I commend you for your wisdom. The other plan would have failed. Worse, it would have been a disaster for you.”

  Something in the way he said it caught Simeon’s attention. This wasn’t just a prediction—it was a flat statement of reality. “Why do you say that?”

  The leathered features remained expressionless, but there was a mixture of amusement and admiration in his eyes. “We got a report from Damascus a few days back that a handsome young Roman had purchased eight uniforms and a forged document with the governor’s seal asking for the release of three prisoners being held at Caesarea.” Now the smile almost reached his mouth. “It wasn’t too difficult to decide who that might be.”

  A cold sweat had suddenly broken out all over Simeon’s body. “Did they—?”

  “No. The informant did not have a name or know where this person was from. Nevertheless, all garrisons have been alerted and told to be on the lookout.”

  Simeon was astounded. So Rashah the forger had taken Simeon’s fifteen hundred denarii, then turned around and sold the information to the Romans. A lucrative business, indeed. Suddenly his knees felt weak. He and Issachar and the others would have marched into Caesarea, right into their waiting arms.

  Though tempted to feign his innocence, Simeon knew there was no point in it. It would be an insult to Sextus’s intelligence. “Well,” he finally said, rather lamely, “I had already decided it wasn’t a very smart idea.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. It was clever, but . . . ”

  “I think the word everyone likes is insane.” There was a brief, grim smile. “But I have not given up on freeing my friends. So I have more questions. I hate to keep imposing on your good will.”

  “Say on,” the Roman said evenly.

  “First, has there been any change of plans for the date of execution?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Second. While I was in the highlands of the Galilee, there were reports of your soldiers scouring the forests around the Joknean Pass.”

  Sextus was momentarily startled, then quickly wary. “Well,” he said slowly, “they were not actually soldiers from my garrison, but yes.”

  “Are they looking for gold?” Then he shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. You don’t have to. We know that Ya’abin loaded the stolen bars of gold on horses. We know also that he had to leave most, if not all of it behind, in order to save his own skin. Since your soldiers are asking about stray horses, I assume that at least one horse was not found.”

  Sextus’s head moved just slightly, confirming the accuracy of Simeon’s information.

  “Can you tell me how much was lost?”

  The heavy, dark brows furrowed slightly. This was pushing the line, and Sextus understood very clearly that if his commanders ever found out he was even conversing with this Jew, his career in the military would be ended—if not worse. On the other hand, Sextus Rubrius was standing here today because Simeon had once crossed a line of his own that night at the Joknean Pass.

  “Two bars,” he finally said. “The last horse was found only a few days ago. Each horse carried four bars. However, this horse’s saddlebags had torn open—probably as the animal galloped through the forest in panic—and only one of the bars was still there. They found a second bar by following the back trail as far as they could.” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps a few years from now, some fortunate peasant out gathering acorns will find himself suddenly very rich.”

  Simeon barely heard him. “And these bars are of one talent each?”

  “Yes.”

  No wonder Pilate was furious, Simeon thought. A talent—especially a talent of gold—was a significant fortune. The gold talent weighed about forty-six pounds and was worth three thousand shekels. His father always liked to calculate the worth of things based on that “most important of all commodities,” human labor. The typical wage for a day laborer was half a shekel. Thus, a talent could purchase six thousand days of man labor! That was not quite twenty years if you hired a man every day but the Sabbath.

  Rumor had it that Pilate had been given ten talents of gold by the legate of Syria to finance his military operations in Judea and carry out some construction projects within the city. In actuality, Pilate was using some of the money to continue construction of the aqueduct bringing water from Mount Carmel to Caesarea. The loss of two talents would be a crippling blow to whatever he was doing.

  Simeon hesitated, knowing what this next question could mean. “Finally, it is common gossip among our people that the governor has been known to take—” he almost used another word, but caught himself in time—“consideration from the people in return for a prisoner’s freedom. Is that true, to your knowledge?”

  The eyes of Sextus had narrowed to a squint. “You want to know if Pilate can be bribed?” he said bluntly.

  “That is such an indelicate word,” Simeon answered smoothly. “Let me put it another way. Suppose someone were to find those last two bars of gold. Would it really be a bribe if they were simply returned to their rightful owner? And might it not be possible that the governor would feel sufficient gratitude to respond with some kind of favor in return?”

  Sextus hadn’t moved. His facial expression was like stone. “Has someone found the two missing bars?”

  Simeon was going to dodge that, then decided with what Sextus was doing for him, he couldn’t. “No.” Then he went on quickly. “But gold is gold. D
oes it really matter if it came from Syria or not?”

  Sextus studied Simeon’s face; then finally he nodded. “It might work.”

  “Do you think so?” Simeon said eagerly.

  “Two talents is a great deal of money.” He cocked his head to one side. “The freedom of your friends would mean that much to you?”

  “Yes. Especially if I could secure it without putting others at risk.”

  “Perhaps I could serve as arbitrator for you. I could tell Pilate that someone has come to me with an offer and see if I could set up an exchange.”

  Simeon was shaking his head before Sextus finished. He realized that Sextus was already pushing dangerously close to the line of treason as it was. He knew the name of the man who had purchased Roman uniforms, he knew what he planned to do with them, and yet he was saying nothing to his superiors. “You’ve done more than enough, Sextus. And I am deeply grateful.”

  There was a brief incline of his head.

  “I’m not even sure yet if that’s what I want to do, but this information will help me decide.”

  “It will have to be carefully done.”

  “In what sense?”

  Sextus spoke carefully. “Pilate has requested Vitellius to replace the two talents that were lost. If the legate learns that the gold has been recovered, my assumption is that the replacement will not be sent.”

  “Ah,” Simeon said slowly, seeing exactly what Sextus was suggesting. “So the more quietly it can be done, the better?”

  The Roman shrugged, pleased that he didn’t have to say more.

  II

  “Oh, Simeon,” Deborah exclaimed. “It makes me sick to even think about it. You would have walked right into a trap.”

  He reached out and took his mother’s hand. “No sicker than it made me when Sextus told me.” Three days before, after his experience on the boat with Peter and the others, he had told his family everything about his previous plan; now he was telling them what he had learned since. He looked over at Ephraim. “Thank you, brother, for not letting me go blithely on my way. In Beth Neelah yesterday, after I told the others the plan was off, Issachar’s wife actually smiled at me when I said goodbye to them. Before, she would barely meet my eyes.” A shadow passed across his face. “Can you imagine how terrible I would feel to lose eight more men?”