1 Corinthians 15. 1 – 11
Luke 5. 1 – 11
Fr Alex
That Gospel reading got me thinking of two stories about calling. They’re both stories from the life of St Ignatius of Loyola, 16th Century theologian and founder of the Jesuit order.
The first story is perhaps the best-known. It’s his ‘Damascus-road moment’ when he first realises the call Christ is making on his life.
Ignatius had joined the army at 17, and was inspired by chivalric tales of the great El Cid: he was apparently “a fancy dresser, an expert dancer, a womanizer, and a rough punkish swordsman.”
However his promising military career came to a sudden end in battle, when a cannonball smashed into his right leg. He would walk with a terrible limp for the rest of his life.
During his long recovery, he asked for books of romantic, knightly tales to be brought to him, to ease the boredom; but none could be found. So his pious sister-in-law brought him books on the life of Christ, and the saints.
Ignatius discovered in those stories that his idea of the perfect life up til then was an illusion; a mere shadow of what life with Christ could be. What he had previously thought was glorious—status, deference, force of arms—had in fact brought him to a dead end. He could see now that true glory was to be found in Christ’s love and mercy; and in service of him.
Christ called him in his adversity; or perhaps it was only in adversity, when all his certainties had been shattered, that he was able to notice and respond to Christ’s call.
The second story takes place two decades later, after Ignatius had founded the Jesuits and become renowned for his closeness to God.
The order had extended throughout Europe, and even as far as India. But Ignatius had an important decision to make about what kind of life his order should lead. He believed that they were being called to a life of total poverty, and complete trust in God’s providence.
He prayed and said Masses in discernment for many months. One day he woke up and was convinced that he’d receive a sign from God that very day. Just when he would be celebrating Mass, at the climax of the liturgy, there would be a beautiful moment of spiritual consolation about his momentous choice.
But it didn’t happen. He ended the Mass in tears, and recounts that he felt utterly deserted and separated from God, bombarded with doubts about his future, and completely lost.
But then he began to feel that spiritual consolation that he had long sought. It was only when he stopped trying to set the terms of the calling and control the situation, that he could notice and respond to Christ’s call on his future.
I was thinking about these stories because I think something similar is going on in our Gospel reading – particularly in the fascinating call of Simon Peter.
Imagine how he felt that day. A long, exhausting night and nothing to show for it; no food, and nothing to sell. You can’t go to bed and forget about it all, because you need to wash and repair the nets for the next day.
Then this strange person appears, being followed by crowds of people. And he asks you get back in the boat, and use your raw hands and aching arms to row him off-shore, so he can teach
You sit there and listen, probably desperate to get back home. Then he asks you to do the last thing you want at that moment: to go back out to deep water, and cast for fish once again.
You remind him that you’ve been trying that all night, and it hasn’t worked. But you’re too exhausted even to argue; and there’s something in the words of this strange man that draws you to do what he says.
Jesus picks what looks like an odd moment to begin assembling his followers. He doesn’t come to them after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast; but when they’re cold and tired and worrying about the future.
Jesus comes to them in this very low moment; but he doesn’t do it so that following him is the only option left, the last resort—after all, he gives them just what they wanted, an enormous catch of fish to sell. They could make a nice profit and carry on with their lives as before if they wished.
He comes to them in a moment of failure, and transforms that situation into one of abundant success: but in doing so, he shows them something even better than their idea of success. What he offers them is so attractive that it makes their success feel worthless. So much so that they leave behind not just the great catch of fish, but all their boats and equipment too, their very livelihood, to follow Jesus.
Like Ignatius on his sickbed, they have been given a glimpse of what life with Jesus is like – the fulfilment of hopes and dreams they didn’t even know they had. And like Ignatius in his tearful misery, they realise that they can’t enter into that life through any skill or effort of themselves. Only by trusting entirely in Jesus, and throwing themselves upon his love and mercy.
It is a great encouragement to us in our journey of faith. Christ calls all people to follow him – an arrogant soldier, simple fishermen; me, and you. He doesn’t choose us because of anything we do to impress him; and we don’t get ahead by our own skill or effort. Simply by following him in faith, and trusting in him to provide.
It is part of the human condition, perhaps, that it’s often only when we’re at our lowest or weakest that we can finally notice the call that Christ is continuously making on our lives. But in those moments he doesn’t punish us or abandon us for our faithlessness, like Simon Peter expects: “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”
Jesus says, simply, “Do not be afraid; follow me.” There is no list of demands or expectations: only love and mercy. That is the glory of life with Christ, and that is worth infinitely more than any success we can manufacture for ourselves.
I’ll end with the prayer of St Ignatius, for trust in Jesus.
O Christ Jesus, when all is darkness and we feel our weakness and helplessness, give us the sense of your presence: your love, and your power. Help us to have perfect trust in your protecting love and strengthening power, so that nothing may frighten or worry us; for, in living close to you, we shall see your hand, your purpose, your will through all things. Amen.