I looked around in disgust. It was a cesspool.
What had once been a living gurgling stream had now deteriorated into a conglomeration of plastic bags, empty bottles and cool drink cans.
I wasn’t here to fish though. I had just taken delivery of my new rod and was dying to try it out. I couldn’t wait for the weekend and a chance to travel to my traditional fishing spot. The moment it had arrived, I immediately headed for the river below my house.
Whilst the river still flowed, it was still a shock to see how polluted it had become. Much like the town itself and, in fact, the world around us, the river reflected all that was wrong with humanity. It flowed, but that was about all. People took too much out of it and what they did put back in, shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
Nonetheless, the excitement of a testing my new fly rod overpowered the feelings sadness brought on by the sight of the deprivation before me. I quickly threaded the line though the guides and pulled a few meters out through the tip. I was ready. I tested the weight and feel. Nice and stiff! Just what I had been hoping for. I tried a few false casts, wondering at the same time if it was safe to let my line even touch the water surface.
What the heck!
“You’re a bit optimistic aren’t you?” The voice behind me stopped me in mid cast and as I turned to see who was there, I caught a glimpse of my line descending towards the run in front of me. Too late, to stop it now, I let it settle and then quickly stripped in the line.
“What do you mean a bit optimistic, have you fished here before?” My reply was directed at the person who had interrupted my cast. My trusted fishing companion of many years. We had shared many a river together. Sunrises and sunsets. Log fires and dark red wines and naturally the camaraderie of a little friendly fishing competition.
“I haven’t fished here for years.” He paused as he looked around. “Though, I come down here now and then to try and clean it up a bit.” It was then that I noticed the refuse bag in his hand, hanging down his side.
I had to hide the fact that I was now the proud owner of a new high-tech, lightweight, small stream, fly rod. I couldn’t let my friend get the jump on me. I needed every advantage to try to draw a little closer to him in our annual fishing competition. He was way ahead of me on points and it was becoming a bit embarrassing that he could out fish me so regularly.
I tried to distract him. “Isn’t the river appalling? Much like our country really, if you’ve been watching the news lately!”
“Uhmph!” My words didn’t seem to have the desired effect. “You honestly don’t think you are going to catch anything do you? I suppose you’re thinking a few extra points will help you to catch up a little.”
“Of course I’ll catch something. I couldn’t resist it. I had to get in my dig. You know that I believe in miracles.” This was our only point of disagreement or departure over the years. My faith and beliefs against his cynicism and unbelief.
“If you catch a fish in there, it will be more than a miracle!”
“And if I do. Will you then believe in miracles?” I said it almost jokingly, but there was a slight undertone to my voice. It didn’t go unnoticed.
“If you catch a fish in there, I’ll believe in the mother of all miracles.”
“And that is?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
“That there is actually hope for our town, our country and the world as a whole.”
“Oh, believe me there is.” I was about to carry on when he interrupted me.
“How can I believe you? You haven’t caught a fish yet!”
“Just you wait.” It was a nervous threat. But, I had been telling the truth about one thing. I did believe in miracles! That was the basis of my faith. It was all I had been taught.
Christ was a miracle, from birth to resurrection and everything in between. If there had been no miracles, there would have been no Christianity. If there had been no miracle, there would have been no Apostle Paul. If one believed in Christ, one had to believe in miracles. One of the greatest tragedies of our world is that we think we can still be Christians without believing in miracles. If we don’t believe in miracles, there is no point in being a Christian. The very fact that we want to go to heaven is to believe in a miracle. We want Christ to be in this world, and then suddenly, we doubt His ability to perform a miracle. We look for baptise our children, what is that except a request and belief in a miracle. We bury our dead out of a church. Isn’t that a need for a miracle? We want it, but honestly deep down, how many of us seriously expect that miracle? At birth or at death or anywhere in between.
I looked at the river once again. Did I truly believe in miracles? Did I genuinely think it was possible to catch something in this watery, sodden, refuse dump? I had to! This river was no different to the world around us. If I believed that Christ wanted me to go into the cesspool of the world and spread his message, if I believed he wanted me to be a ‘fisher of men’, then I knew He wanted me to believe in miracles. This was the only way that I could get His job done.
I looked to where Simon was collecting rubbish and filling his refuse bag item by item. He was collecting rubbish, just so that he would have to dispose of in a different place. He could take his bag home and next week the garbage truck would come by, collect it, take it off and dump it on another heap. It would all, still remain rubbish. The only difference is that it would be polluting a different place. Our world deserved more than this. Christ deserved more than this. He deserved the chance to perform miracles. To cleanse humanity and the world one miracle at a time.
I reached for the end of my fly line. Fortunately, I had brought my small tackle bag with me, mainly because it held my reel. What fly to choose? Did it actually matter, if I was expecting a miracle? Perhaps, something that would make a disturbance in the soupy water. I chose a fly with a sequin dished head. That would create enough of a pressure wave to attract whatever may be lurking in the depths.
‘I believe in miracles, I believe in miracles.’ I repeated it over and over in my head. It had to be done. How were we to prove to the world that Christ was alive and well if we couldn’t show His miracles? We lived in a world of ‘seeing is believing’ whereas Christ was asking us to live in a world of ‘believing is seeing’. When at last, we decided to believe, then and only then would we finally be able to see.
I carefully inspected the fly and the knot out of habit. Did I really believe?
I shook out a few meters of line, noticing at the same time that my long time friend was keeping a watch me out the corner of his eye.
One false cast, two, and I let the line float over the pool before me.
Suddenly I felt it. The surge of confidence! The feeling! Where had it come from?
Then I knew. The hairs on my arm prickled in expectation.
Christ had called me to be a fisherman, and, I believed in miracles.
The rest was up to Him.
Slowly I started my retrieve.
