Take just a moment to feel Peter’s frustration when he tells the Lord, “we’ve been working hard all night long and have caught nothing.” Imagine working all through the night and having nothing to show for it; I know my state of mind would not be great. Maybe you can remember something you worked so hard at, did everything you knew how to do, and it just didn’t happen. Maybe, like Peter and company trying to fish, you couldn’t even say what you were doing wrong.
I’ve been there with my fishing pole, for sure. Those days you throw literally everything in your tacklebox... nothing. You try different colors. You try different depths. You try different movements. Nothing! You’re doing all the stuff you’re supposedly supposed to do, and there’s no catch. For some people, maybe for some of us here, our life can feel like that in general. You couldn’t name some mistake you’re making. You’re pretty much doing the stuff you think you're supposed to do. So where’s your catch? Where’s the payoff? It’s not always just a matter of needing to try harder. You’ve thrown everything in your metaphorical tackle box, most of it more than once, and you feel like you have nothing to show for it. If that’s you, even a little bit, I’ve got some good news for you. This could be an important day for you. This could be the day for you, the day to leave the shallows and put out into the deep.
I wonder if the Church doesn’t sometimes come back to this moment. Could the Church, certainly in our part of the world, say to the Lord today, “Lord, we’ve been working hard all night and have caught nothing?” In some ways, absolutely, yes. Not to be ungrateful for the many beautiful and fruits of the Gospel among us, but let's be honest. There are so many parishes that feel dead and fruitless, so many Christian homes that have no spiritual fire. Sometimes Christians who are really on fire for Jesus feel out of place in their parish, and even lonely. They feel like they’re outside the norm, and maybe sometimes they’re right. Maybe we need to recalibrate our idea of what’s normal. The ‘norm’ for Christianity is signs and wonders, miraculous grace, witness and charity, disciples who live and breathe the grace of God and friendship with Jesus Christ. The ‘norm’ for the Christian person is Sainthood. That’s what we were made for, that’s what God’s project is for our lives.
Isaiah had a vision of Heaven. God sat on the throne in the sanctuary, surrounded by Seraphim (remember what their name means? — ‘burning ones’), and the angels were singing “Holy, holy holy, Lord God of Hosts; Heaven and Earth are full of His glory.” Which might sound familiar. Their praise shook the pillars of the earth, and divine smoke filled the air. Isaiah was so overwhelmed he despaired: “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, of a people with unclean lips, and my eyes have looked upon the King, the Lord of Hosts.” Until an angel, one of the Seraphim, touches fire to his lips and says “your sin is taken away.”
It’s with good reason that we begin Mass by asking God to take our sins away. We are approaching the same Throne, entering into the worship of the Almighty, into a realm of smoke and seraphim. We join their song, in every Mass we literally and truly join the song of the angels in Heaven: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts, Heaven and earth are full of your glory.”
Isaiah was afraid because in the presence of Holiness, he suddenly became aware of the gap between who he was and who he ought to be. Walking around day to day maybe it wasn’t so troubling and terrifying, that gap. Maybe it seemed… normal. ‘Good enough.’ But once he came into the presence of God, Isaiah knew that God’s call to him was something far higher than he’d dreamed. So with us: when we truly encounter the Living God, we can no longer pat ourselves on the back for being pretty much alright. We can’t settle for the weak low standards of a lazy spirit, saying things like every priest has heard in the confessional: “well, I try to be a good person, I haven’t, like, killed anybody or anything.” You can’t say something like that if you really know, if you’ve really seen, that Heaven and Earth are full of His glory. Isaiah saw it and begged for mercy, and mercy he was given — in the fiery, purifying touch of the angelic burning one.
Peter has a similar reaction when he encounters the power of Christ: “depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” The miraculous catch awakens his soul, and suddenly he sees the gap between who he is and who he ought to be. Like Isaiah, he is given divine reassurance… “Be not afraid!”
When was the last time you felt that kind of wonder and awe in the presence of God? When was the last time you suddenly felt how much you exist in the presence of holy fire, became urgently, painfully, desperately aware of the gap between who you are and who you ought to be? When was the last time you really heard Jesus calling you into deeper waters?
If Isaiah had had just had a little bit of a groovy experience, just like a nice warm feeling of spirituality, he wouldn’t have cried out like he did. Or think about Peter: if he had followed Jesus’ invitation and just caught a nice handful of fish, he wouldn’t have fallen down on his knees. The kinds of things Jesus does in your life, when you really accept His invitation, are scary. It’s intense. It’s alarming. So much so that Peter’s first reaction is to ask Jesus to go away.
Maybe you can relate. Maybe you’ve had a moment, or moments, when you really did feel that power, when you really did hear that call, when the holy fire started to burn up whatever you had been, and your instinct was to push it away. “Depart from me, Lord, I’m sinful!” Why do we react like that? Is that because we doubt that Jesus can take away our sins?
Or is it because we’re afraid He will?
He will take away your sins. That includes everything in your life that shouldn’t be there as a Christian — those sins of commission that you have to stop doing — but the net goes so much deeper than that. It also includes your complacency. It includes your ability to turn away from the suffering of others. It includes your indifference. It includes every shred of defense you’ve built to protect yourself from being changed and burned and turned inside out by love.
Peter has come to a moment of decision, faced with the glory of God. Will he let it burn? His decision comes at the end of our passage, as he stands in his boat with Jesus calling him to leave it behind and follow Him. That boat is his livelihood, it is his life’s work, all the security he’d known. It’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with. That boat is all the plans he’d made for his own future.
He stepped out of it and followed Jesus.
For Peter, like for us, following Jesus wouldn’t turn out to mean he spent the rest of his life hauling in one miraculous catch after another, living always in that moment of clarity and intensity and success. There were signs and wonders to come, but there were also moments of confusion, of doubt and failure, betrayal and repentance. You know Peter's story! For us, too, Jesus will allow our faith to grow and be tested. In those times we remember our own commitment, our own decision to be His disciples. We learn from the Lord’s Cross that discipleship is most glorious when it feels least glorious. The Lord Jesus Christ has called you and sent you. Sometimes it will go miraculously well, sometimes it will not. But that’s when you remember, “I’ve seen that glory, I’ve embraced that fire, and I’m committed: He is my Way, my Truth, and my Life.” And you wake up each morning with the words of Isaiah. “Here I am, Lord. Send me.”
I’ve been there with my fishing pole, for sure. Those days you throw literally everything in your tacklebox... nothing. You try different colors. You try different depths. You try different movements. Nothing! You’re doing all the stuff you’re supposedly supposed to do, and there’s no catch. For some people, maybe for some of us here, our life can feel like that in general. You couldn’t name some mistake you’re making. You’re pretty much doing the stuff you think you're supposed to do. So where’s your catch? Where’s the payoff? It’s not always just a matter of needing to try harder. You’ve thrown everything in your metaphorical tackle box, most of it more than once, and you feel like you have nothing to show for it. If that’s you, even a little bit, I’ve got some good news for you. This could be an important day for you. This could be the day for you, the day to leave the shallows and put out into the deep.I wonder if the Church doesn’t sometimes come back to this moment. Could the Church, certainly in our part of the world, say to the Lord today, “Lord, we’ve been working hard all night and have caught nothing?” In some ways, absolutely, yes. Not to be ungrateful for the many beautiful and fruits of the Gospel among us, but let's be honest. There are so many parishes that feel dead and fruitless, so many Christian homes that have no spiritual fire. Sometimes Christians who are really on fire for Jesus feel out of place in their parish, and even lonely. They feel like they’re outside the norm, and maybe sometimes they’re right. Maybe we need to recalibrate our idea of what’s normal. The ‘norm’ for Christianity is signs and wonders, miraculous grace, witness and charity, disciples who live and breathe the grace of God and friendship with Jesus Christ. The ‘norm’ for the Christian person is Sainthood. That’s what we were made for, that’s what God’s project is for our lives.
Isaiah had a vision of Heaven. God sat on the throne in the sanctuary, surrounded by Seraphim (remember what their name means? — ‘burning ones’), and the angels were singing “Holy, holy holy, Lord God of Hosts; Heaven and Earth are full of His glory.” Which might sound familiar. Their praise shook the pillars of the earth, and divine smoke filled the air. Isaiah was so overwhelmed he despaired: “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, of a people with unclean lips, and my eyes have looked upon the King, the Lord of Hosts.” Until an angel, one of the Seraphim, touches fire to his lips and says “your sin is taken away.”
It’s with good reason that we begin Mass by asking God to take our sins away. We are approaching the same Throne, entering into the worship of the Almighty, into a realm of smoke and seraphim. We join their song, in every Mass we literally and truly join the song of the angels in Heaven: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts, Heaven and earth are full of your glory.”
Isaiah was afraid because in the presence of Holiness, he suddenly became aware of the gap between who he was and who he ought to be. Walking around day to day maybe it wasn’t so troubling and terrifying, that gap. Maybe it seemed… normal. ‘Good enough.’ But once he came into the presence of God, Isaiah knew that God’s call to him was something far higher than he’d dreamed. So with us: when we truly encounter the Living God, we can no longer pat ourselves on the back for being pretty much alright. We can’t settle for the weak low standards of a lazy spirit, saying things like every priest has heard in the confessional: “well, I try to be a good person, I haven’t, like, killed anybody or anything.” You can’t say something like that if you really know, if you’ve really seen, that Heaven and Earth are full of His glory. Isaiah saw it and begged for mercy, and mercy he was given — in the fiery, purifying touch of the angelic burning one.
Peter has a similar reaction when he encounters the power of Christ: “depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” The miraculous catch awakens his soul, and suddenly he sees the gap between who he is and who he ought to be. Like Isaiah, he is given divine reassurance… “Be not afraid!”
When was the last time you felt that kind of wonder and awe in the presence of God? When was the last time you suddenly felt how much you exist in the presence of holy fire, became urgently, painfully, desperately aware of the gap between who you are and who you ought to be? When was the last time you really heard Jesus calling you into deeper waters?
If Isaiah had had just had a little bit of a groovy experience, just like a nice warm feeling of spirituality, he wouldn’t have cried out like he did. Or think about Peter: if he had followed Jesus’ invitation and just caught a nice handful of fish, he wouldn’t have fallen down on his knees. The kinds of things Jesus does in your life, when you really accept His invitation, are scary. It’s intense. It’s alarming. So much so that Peter’s first reaction is to ask Jesus to go away.
Maybe you can relate. Maybe you’ve had a moment, or moments, when you really did feel that power, when you really did hear that call, when the holy fire started to burn up whatever you had been, and your instinct was to push it away. “Depart from me, Lord, I’m sinful!” Why do we react like that? Is that because we doubt that Jesus can take away our sins?
Or is it because we’re afraid He will?
He will take away your sins. That includes everything in your life that shouldn’t be there as a Christian — those sins of commission that you have to stop doing — but the net goes so much deeper than that. It also includes your complacency. It includes your ability to turn away from the suffering of others. It includes your indifference. It includes every shred of defense you’ve built to protect yourself from being changed and burned and turned inside out by love.
Peter has come to a moment of decision, faced with the glory of God. Will he let it burn? His decision comes at the end of our passage, as he stands in his boat with Jesus calling him to leave it behind and follow Him. That boat is his livelihood, it is his life’s work, all the security he’d known. It’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with. That boat is all the plans he’d made for his own future.
He stepped out of it and followed Jesus.
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