he fish congealed on the plate, and my coffee went cold. I had to go fishing now. “You’re out of your mind.” My mother was never one to bottle up her feelings. “This is the second time you’ve up and left. I thought you had more sense. What’s the rush? Surely you’ve time to finish your meal? The sun’s not up yet.” I was afraid that she might be right. What had I achieved by dropping everything the last time?

We’d been chatting about this new preacher while waiting to haul our nets in, sure that most of the stories about him were nonsense. Everyone knew it was impossible to make wine from water. Somehow or other, we started to sense that, maybe, he did have something, to gather those large crowds around him, and keep them interested enough to follow him wherever he went. Even the fish market cynics started to discuss him. And then, Andrew came into the house, bright-eyed with excitement. He turned to me. “The preacher is setting up a team to help him. I’ve been asked to join. What about you – will you?” It crossed my mind that this would be some team if they were all ignorant fishermen like us. I was on the point of telling Andrew to get lost, when something made me agree.

The next couple of years were fantastic. The preacher turned out to be quite a guy. He seemed to expect my total obedience. Not that he ever said so, but when he asked me to do something, somehow I felt willing, and able, to do it. He even had me walking on water once, and I can’t swim!

It never dawned on us that this wouldn’t last for ever. We heard rumours that the Chief Priest and his cronies were displeased about what was going on. I assumed that the crowds would protect us. After all, we had fed them at least twice. And many had been healed. I was wrong, of course. When the going started to get rough, they melted away. We were as bad. I’m still mortified at the way we let the preacher down, just when he most needed our support. We couldn’t even stay awake.

I’d rather not talk about what happened next. Our trust disappeared like early-morning mist. We all ran away. Some support team we turned out to be! But that wasn’t the worst. I’m so ashamed. Big, tough, Pete. The hard man! Scared to answer a wee lassie’s simple question. Three times. Terrified what others would think!

Now, I was glad I’d followed my instinct, and decided to go back to sea. It felt good to be back in the boat with my mates nearby. Simple. Only the tides, the weather, and the fish to worry about. None of those high-faluting ideas about God and his heavenly kingdom, and all that. I left school at twelve, to go fishing. Sometimes when the preacher spoke to us, I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was on about. Yes, it really was good to hear the waves slap-slapping against the boat, and feel the breeze on my face. The only trouble was that none of us were catching any fish! Our fishermen’s pride was hurt. It was our job to catch fish. After a while, we gave up and were heading back to shore, when I caught sight of what looked like a small fire on the shore. A voice I recognised, but could not place, shouted through the early dawn gloom. “Try throwing your nets over the other side!” That raised a laugh. Everyone knows you cannot catch fish that way. Then I thought “Why not? We’ve not caught any our way.” Suddenly, I found myself having to stretch back right over the side to balance the boat. And even then water was splashing over the gunwales, and I could hear the net ropes creaking under the strain. It was the same with the others. None of us had ever caught so many fish. They almost sank our boats.

The small fire he had lit was great for cooking some of the fish. Freshly caught fish taste wonderful - especially when you’ve missed your breakfast! Turned out that the friendly voice belonged to the preacher. I felt uncomfortable in his presence. I knew he was watching me, and tried to avoid his eyes. He always seemed able to look deep inside me. I was relieved that, when he smiled over at me, it was as warmly as before. I still felt shame at the way I had let him down. “Do you love me?” the preacher asked, gently. I sensed, but could not quite put my finger on, what lay beneath this simple question. Looking round, to make sure none of the others could hear us, “Of course, I do” I replied, wondering what was coming next. “Do you love me?” he asked for a second time. This time I sensed that he was testing me, trying to make sure I’d not let him down again. All I could do was put more emphasis on the same reply, hoping that that would satisfy him. “Do you love me?” Suddenly, the scene in the courtyard flashed before my eyes. I had betrayed him three times: now, he was asking me the same question three times. A dam of remorse broke within me, mixed with gratitude that he was prepared to give me a second chance. From my face, and my voice, he sensed what was going on.

Even though the outcome was not what I had expected, leaving my breakfast had certainly been the right decision.

Geoff McElwaine

The author

Geoff McElwaine, a Member of West Church, retells the story of Peter's second chance.

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