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Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, ‘Children, you have no fish, have you? (John 21:4-5a)
Perhaps the greatest change in the life of my spirit is one of hearing. The voice of Jesus has so taken on love’s timbre that any given word or syllable, no matter how seemingly mundane, can evoke unexpected tears of consolation, flooding my being with the simple awareness of a profound, nameless love, intensely personal yet having neither shape nor image within the darkness that surrounds it on every side.
I read the ancient words,
watching what Jesus does and listening to what he says, hoping to feel the
heart from which they flow, knowing he is the face of the Holy Darkness, this inexpressible
Love, who bathes the heart in peace. So, listen, as the risen Jesus suddenly appears
to his friends on the lakeshore.
Children,
you have no fish, have you? How should we hear Jesus’ words? Maybe as a simple statement of fact: They’ve
caught nothing. But perhaps the words carry an echo of sympathy: You caught
nothing, so there’s no breakfast on the beach. Or maybe there is a measure of reproof:
“You have no fish, have you?” My boyhood heart was well-schooled to hear
words like these as one more criticism that I had forgotten or done something
wrong, again, no matter what I happened to be doing at the moment.
But imagine these words
emerging from a sly smile with a lilt of affection. Imagine saying them to a
disappointed grandchild to whom you are about to give a gift that will bring
them delight. Imagine the delight you will feel, knowing what you are about to
do and the joy it will bring them. Imagine the ache of love you feel for them, the love
no words can express.
Just imagine.
Feel the joy of loving, the deep beauty of your
humanity. And right there, in the mystery of your own inscrutable heart, you
will hear the heart of Jesus beating within your own breast, bathed in peace, enveloped
in the Holy Darkness whose name is Love.
David L.
Miller
