“I think it’s time, don’t you?”
“Time for what?” I was at a loss. I glanced at the others next to me. Pastor Aloeham had just gently unhooked his fly from the trout’s mouth. He started slowly swimming the fish backwards and forwards through the water to revive it.
“It’s time for all of you to go off into the world. As I am about to release this fish, so to, I think it is time that I released you.” He added, “You do realise, that Christ was the first, scientific, conservation minded fisherman!”
“What?” That’s all I could utter.
“Look at the disciples. He caught them. He tagged them with His brand of religion’ and then He released them out into the world to go and spread His message. The whole point of giving your life to Christ is to become a fisherman. That is why I persuaded you to do this course. For you to go out into the rivers, streams and lakes in search of your own fishing grounds. This is the call Christ made to all of us.”
Gazing at the scene before me, memories of the last few weeks jostled for position in the pools of thoughts floating through my mind. We had all been attending a programme run by Pastor Aloeham: ‘40 days in the Wilderness.’ It was complete! 40 days of fishing, and this was now our last day.
“Christ was the first, scientific, conservation minded fisherman. He released all of His catch to return to the world. But He did more than this. He tagged them. He practised, catch, tag and release. He made sure that everyone He hooked were returned to the world with their own special tag.”
The expressions on the faces of our group comforted me. At least I was not the only one at a loss to understand what Pastor Aloeham was talking about. Tag? What tag. We had covered so many aspects over the programme. From a Christian perspective, we were all now proficient fisherman. We could cast, tie a presentable fly, we knew the best holding points in the stream. We had gone deep in the lakes and delicate in the backwaters. 40 days of learning to be a fisherman. 40 days in the Wilderness. We had all been fishermen already. Fly fisherman, who had spent their Sunday’s on the mountain streams and lakes. We abandoned family regularly, for a chance to feel the pulse of a trout through our high-tech fishing rods. We spent our retirement funds on keeping up with the latest products in fishing gear and apparel. We drove vehicles that featured on the glossy back covers of the ‘Fly Fisherman’ monthly. That was, at least, until one fateful day.
Jud had been part of our group for years. He was older than the rest of us, by far, but he was also the most experienced. He’d fished more waters in more parts of the world than any of us had even thought of. He’d also drank more whisky! We were never exactly sure which it had been at the end. Had it been the whisky or the fishing? His end had come the way he would have wanted it to. Rod in hand, a trout on the line and a flask on his hip. None of us even noticed that he had slipped on the bank.
We found him there; face down in the water, hours later as we made our way back to the cabin we had rented on the private stream. His face was peaceful, even the hint of a smile. Later, the doctor told us he’d suffered a massive heart attack.
We had wanted to bury him with the first trout he had ever killed. It had died there on the end of his line, unable to break free as he lay there on the edge of the stream.
It was the funeral that changed everything in our lives. If he’d never wanted that funeral. If Jud had not drunk all that whisky or caught that last fish, we would all have been none the wiser.
As a group, we weren’t churchgoers, except for the odd Christmas or Easter, just to keep a bit of peace in the family, nothing more.
Eleven of us had gone to see the Pastor to make the final arrangements for Jud’s burial. We stood in his study as there wasn’t enough room for all of us to be seated. We stood there like awkward schoolboys, called in after being caught in the latest prank. Nervously we stood there as Pastor Aloeham cast his gaze over us. Cast his gaze! We could all see he was a fisherman. His study adorned with fishing memorabilia. Paintings, photographs, framed fly collections, antique fly rods. His gaze went down the line. A quick flip and I watched as he cast out another look. A slight rise in his eyebrow as he matter of factly stated: “Christ called us to be fisher’s of men.” There was a nervous shuffle as we stood there before him. “Exactly how many men did Jud catch?”
“Ehh, mmmm.” I stammered. Why had I been nominated as spokesman?
“I don’t suppose very many!” The Pastor put me out of my misery. “Yet, now you want me to bury him. Now you want me to use my church, my time, and my ‘connections’ to give your pal the proper send off.” It was a statement more than a question.
I was ready to make a dash for the door. I could see from the shocked look on the faces of my companions that they would probably beat me to the door handle or die trying.
Pastor Aloeham spoke again. His tone was gentle. A master fisherman indeed! He placed the fly just within striking distance. Any further out and the offering would have been ignored. “I’ll make a deal with you. I have some long leave due to me. I will bury your friend. I’ll bury him as a fellow fisherman.”
“Thanks!” I let out the word out with a blast of pent-up air that I had unconsciously been holding in my lungs.
“I’ll bury him on one condition.”
“Whaaa!” My reply was disguised by my sudden intake of breath. Almost echoed by the rest of the group.
“One condition only.” He paused, “One condition. You all come fishing we me.” A longer pause. I was holding my breath again. “For 40 days!” He watched for any indication that we were interested in his fly. “I’ll bury Jud, but I want you to come fishing with me. I run a course that I’d like you to attend. If you don’t wish to, I’ll understand, but then you’ll have to find another pastor and another church.” The last was stated simply but firmly.
“We cannot use another church.” I stated. “Jud specifically stated in his will that he had to be buried out of this church. His wife was buried out of here. She died soon after they got married. That is almost 50 years ago. She was the love of his life. Apart from fly fishing, the only thing Jud talked about, was his wife.
“Well then, I suppose that doesn’t leave you much of a choice, does it?” There was almost a glint in his eye.
“But 40 days. How are we supposed to go away for so long?” This time it was Peter who asked the question.
“I thought you were all retired.”
“We are.” James answered.
“So what’s the problem then? Don’t you like fishing?” The glint in his eye was positively evil as he twitched the fly floating before us. “Go home and pack your gear boys. We are going fishing. I think you owe it to your friend to find out about what being a fisherman really means.”
My reminiscing was jerked back to reality as I felt Pastor Aloeham’s hand on my shoulder. “Your turn.” He indicated the stream. “I’ve caught mine, now it is your turn to catch yours. Then you can tag it to!”
Tagging!
The rest of the group sat on the bank as Pastor Aloeham stood before them holding a tag.
“This tiny little piece of plastic holds all the information that we need to know about this fish. We can programme into this chip: the date, the place and the angler. We could get more advanced and programme in the conditions or the fly used. Tagging is used to hold information that will be useful to the next angler that catches this fish. It is also a way that we have of recognising that this fish has been caught previously. As Christians, what tag are we going to carry around with us? As you go back into the stream of life tomorrow, what is your tag going to say? What will the rest of the fish be able to see?” He bent down to rummage in the fishing bag at his feet. Taking out a box, he straightened and looked at us. There was a smile of satisfaction. He opened the lid and took out a smaller box. In fact, he took out eleven of them.
One for each of us!
As I opened mine, I was forced to fight the lump that formed in my throat. There lying in the box was cross on a tong. A simple, tiny, wooden cross. Engraved in the centre of the cross was a classic caddis fly pattern. Below it, down the length of the cross was engraved ‘Mark 1:17.’ I took the wooden crucifix out of the box and held it out to Pastor Aloeham. He took it and fondly placed it around my neck.
‘Tagged.’ The lump in my throat refused to go away. Tomorrow, we would be back in the world, on our next fishing trip.
