The Net Around The Shore

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:05

Now if you will come in again this morning, good friend, and sit with me here awhile, I shall tell you another tale from the Gulf. Not this time of storms breaking against shrimp boats, nor anchors groaning beneath black water, but of mullet fishermen, of long nets trailing silver dawn tides, of weathered hands, of quiet patience, and of the strange way God teaches eternal truths through ordinary labor. The hour is early still. The world beyond the windows remains half asleep. A pale blue gray light gathers slowly at the horizon, the kind of light that belongs only to the sacred stillness before sunrise. The room is quiet. Books stand motionless upon shelves. The old chair near the corner where it always has, you may take it. The pipe is lit slowly, not hurried, not carelessly. The smoke rises upward in thin blue folds, curling through the room like marsh fog, drifting low across Mobile Bay before dawn. And for a moment nothing is said. Because there are some truths that settle best into the soul quietly first. Welcome to the Parson Piper Podcast. If you've a pipe near at hand, you may take a moment if you're so inclined. Pack it slow, tamp it down, and light it. Not because the pipe matters in itself, but because the slowing down does. Come now, sit a spell. There are mornings along Dauphin Island when the coast itself seems suspended between worlds. The gulf lies dark as hammered iron beneath the fading stars. The tide moves softly through the marsh grass, and the air carries that unmistakable scent, known only to the coastal men, salt water, wet rope, diesel fuel, mud flats, and the faint living smell of fish moving beneath black water. Now tourists who come to the island mostly know the beaches, the sunsets, the birds, the quiet beauty. But working men know another dolphin island, the island before daylight, the island of bait sheds and dock lights, the island of old men in rubber boots walking toward weather beaten skiffs before dawn, the island where life is still tied to tide and season. Now mullet fishermen rise earlier than most people imagine. Long before coffee shops open, long before radios begin talking, long before highways fill with movement, because mullet move according to water and season, not according to clocks. And a man who waits too long often misses the run entirely. Now there was once an old mullet fisherman who worked the shallows south of the island. Not a wealthy man, not famous, the sort of man many people overlook completely, but the Gulf knew him, and so did the tides. His hands were rough from decades of pulling seine, his shoulders slightly bent from years of labor, and his face carried a look common among old fishermen. A weathered calmness formed slowly through hardship and long patience. Every morning before daylight he and his grandson would leave the dock behind his small bay house, while the island still slept beneath darkness, and the old fishermen would stand quietly near the stern, watching water, listening to birds, reading tide and current the way some men read scripture. Because old fishermen know something modern people forget. The world speaks quietly, and impatient men rarely hear it. Now mullet fishing is patient work, not hurried, not dramatic. A sane net must be cast properly. Too early, any school turns away. Too late any fish slip past unseen. The old fisherman taught his grandson slowly. Never through shouting, never through long lectures, only through repetition, observation, quiet correction. Watch the water, he would say softly. Fish tell on themselves if you learn to look. Now hear this carefully. There is wisdom in watching. The modern world trains people to move constantly. Noise, screams, distraction, haste. But truth often reveals itself slowly and quietly, and souls that never become still rarely become wise. Now Scripture says in Psalm forty six and verse ten, cease striving and know that I am God. Many people read that verse sentimentally, but it is deeper than sentiment. It is instruction. Cease striving, stop thrashing, stop panicking, stop grasping at control. Because frantic souls cannot hear clearly. And God often teaches men the way tides teach fishermen, slowly, repeatedly, quietly. Now one autumn morning the water looked wrong, too still, too quiet. The grandson noticed it first. Don't look like much moving today, he muttered. The old fisherman narrowed his eyes toward the shallows. The eastern sky had only just begun turning pale silver. Pelicans drifted low above the dark water, and the tide rolled in almost silently. No, the old man said softly, not yet. And so they waited. Now waiting is difficult for young men. Young men want motion, results, action. But old fishermen understand something younger men rarely do. Impatience scares fish, and an impatience ruins souls as well. Now hear the words of Isaiah, the fortiet chapter and thirty first verse. Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength. Waiting upon God is not laziness, it is discipline trust, and many modern people have never learned it. They know how to react, how to consume, how to complain, but not how to wait faithfully. Now the grandson shifted restlessly in the skiff, and after a while he asked, How do you know they're coming? The old fisherman smiled faintly. Because they always move eventually, he said. Now there is theology in that sentence. Because God often appears still when he is merely moving beneath the surface unseen. Now after a long silence, the old fisherman finally pointed toward the water. There, he said softly. At first the grandson saw nothing, only dawn light trembling upon small waves. Then slowly he noticed it. Tiny nervous ripples near the shallows, subtle flashes beneath the surface, movement, a school of mullet. Now hear this carefully. Truth often begins quietly. The kingdom of God rarely announces itself with spectacle first. Christ said in Mark four thirty thirty two, how shall we picture the kingdom of God? It is like a mustard seed, small, unnoticed, quiet, and yet alive with hidden power. Now many people miss the kingdom entirely because they expect noise instead of growth. But old fishermen understand hidden movement. They know life often stirs beneath the surface before appearing openly. Now the old fisherman handed the weighted line to his grandson. Easy now, he said softly. Don't throw angry. Now there is wisdom there too. Because angry men handle very little properly. Bitterness ruins many works that gentleness might have completed beautifully. Now together they cast the long stain net across the moving water. The lead weights struck softly against the tide, the cork line stretched wide across the shallows, and then once again they waited. Now hear the words of Ecclesiastes three. Old fishermen understand seasons. Wise Christians must learn them too. There are seasons of abundance, seasons of waiting, seasons of grief, seasons of joy, and faithfulness means remaining obedient through all of them. Now after several long minutes, the old fisherman nodded quietly. Pull and together they began drawing the nets slowly toward shore, hand over hand, the wet rope cut against their palms, the current resisted, and suddenly silver exploded beneath the surface, hundreds of mullets turned the water white. The grandson laughed aloud in disbelief, and the old fisherman smiled beneath his weathered beard. Now hear the words of Luke chapter five and verse six. They enclosed a great quantity of fish. Now fishermen understand dependence. No man commands fish into a net. He prepares, he watches, he labors faithfully. But increase belongs to God. And so it is spiritually. Paul writes in Corinthians three, verses six and seven. I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing the growth. Modern culture worships control, but fishermen know better. There are forces beyond human command. Tide, weather, life, providence, and wise men learn humility before such things. Now as dawn spread gold slowly across the gulf, the grandson sat quietly near the bow watching mullet flash silver in the morning light, and after a while he asked softly, Why Jesus call fishermen first? The old man rested both hands upon the net beside him, then he answered because fishermen understand patience. Now hear the words of Christ in Matthew four and verse nineteen. Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. There is something deeply beautiful there. Christ called ordinary laboring men, not philosophers first, not kings, but fishermen. Fishermen understand waiting, persistence, dependence. They understand empty nets, and they understand something else too. No man controls the harvest. He only remains faithful casting the net. Now as the catch was sorted into baskets, and gulls wheeled overhead crying sharply in the morning air, the old fisherman grew quiet again. Then finally he said softly, Boy, there's a hunger deeper than the stomach. Now hear the words of Christ in John six and verse thirty five, I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will not hunger. The world feeds many appetites, but only Christ satisfies the soul. And many men spend their entire lives chasing lesser things, wealth, comfort, approval, even pleasure, while remaining inwardly starving. Now hear the warning in of Mark eight and verse thirty six. For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul? Old fishermen understand profit and loss, and wise Christians must learn the same eternal arithmetic. Now before you rise this morning, consider this carefully. What waters have you been watching lately? What are you truly seeking? Because every man is casting his net toward something, and what a man seeks long enough he eventually serves. Now hear again the words of Matthew six and verse thirty three. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, not second, not eventually. Seek first. Now if you would understand that more clearly, return to the word. Not occasionally, but daily, quietly, patiently. Meditate upon it. Turn it over slowly in your mind. Like an old fisherman reading the tide and current before dawn. And so, good friend, as the sunrise spreads gold across the waters of Mobile Bay, and the mullet boats drift slowly homeward through the tide, I leave you with this. The kingdom of God most often moves quietly, like fish beneath the still waters, and faithful men must learn patience enough to see it. So keep casting the net, keep watching the tide, keep listening for truth, and trust the one who builds empty hands in his own time. Until we sit again, keep your heart open, stay rooted, and hold firmly to what is true. This has been the Parson Piper Podcast, where we slow down, think deeply, and stand firm on what is true.