Cast Your Nets: Reflections on Life, Ministry and Fishing

By Dr. Mark Henry Miller

What others find in CAST YOUR NETS

It is said that a good sermon is delivered with the Bible in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other. Mark Miller adds a fishing rod to the mix, salting his wise reflections on ministry, faith, and life with insights that can only come while patiently waiting for the elusive yet exciting tug of the Spirit or a sockeye. John Thomas, General Minister and President, United Church of Christ

Mark Henry Miller notices little things that the rest of us often miss: the person in the corner who doesn't go along with what others see as a consensus, the surprising kind act by the contentious opponent, the fish swimming upstream. And he thinks about what he has noticed and shares what he has learned. He shows us how to reflect in the midst of practice, which is essential to effective ministry. William McKinney--President, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA

Mark writes with wit, humor, and grace. His insights will stay with you long after the reading is done. --Jim Thayer, novelist and professor

Short, pithy, inspirational stories for everyday ministry--a good source for daily devotional material, provocative meeting openers or sermon illustrations. Each epistle has an easily grasped point that touches a deep spiritual issue or practice of both ministry and everyday life lived with intentional faithfulness. Paul Forman, United Church of Christ Minister

Mark Henry Miller's always insightful, sometimes whimsical pastoral epistles are a delight and a challenge to read - challenging our everyday way of seeing things and letting us glimpse a bit of what might be if we only have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts to love.

Joanne Carlson Brown, Methodist Minister

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467860529

Dr. Mark Henry Miller

Dr. Mark Henry Miller and his wife, Diane, live in Austin, Texas. Mark is a retired United Church of Christ minister, having served churches as a pastor and conferences as a Conference Minister since 1966. “Voice of My Heart” is a collection of his blogs written since October, 2010. But they are more than blogs. In their own way this book is a step or two as autobiography, a step or two of reflections upon the daily ruts and routines and a step or two on how life can be more than a good idea about hope and growth. Mark has had his first novel, “Murder On Tillamook Bay,” and three previous books of pastoral epistles published. All of which can be tracked down on his web page, www.drmarkhmiller.com His educational background includes some time in libraries and classrooms at Stanford University, Yale University Divinity School and Eden Theological Seminary. His real classroom, though, continues to be the pulse of life itself.

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Impersonating An Angel

My effort to be an angel didn’t work. Oh, the effort was there. The intention was there. The determination was there. But, it didn’t work.

Happened on a Sunday morning more than a decade ago during the children’s sermon. That’s the part of the service that all too often pales in relevance and champions in risk. Name another part of the worship that can fall apart quicker, or can be guilty of the accusation, down deep that was shallow.

Ah, children’s sermons. The bane of most pastors’ existence. But, that’s for another day.

Back to the business of being an angel. Of course it was during Advent and I thought that I could impersonate an angel and help the children understand. The sequence went like this:

The children were asked if they knew what an angel is. Not who but what. Their responses were pretty focused and helpful. The answers were repeated so Aunt Hattie in the back row who refuses to wear the hearing aid might hear.

The next question: Do you think I can be an angel?

They laugh. The congregation laughs. I try to be serious, Now listen; I think I can be an angel. What does an angel wear?

They respond as if scripted, Wings!

At which point, on cue, I pull out the wings from the Christmas pageant, wings I grabbed from under the stack of used and tattered bathrobes the shepherds wore, all of which were stored in the closet, all of which smelled like a mothball collection. But at least there were no moths.

I asked the kids to stay where they were…actually there were about 40 of them and they clustered, some bored, but actually more were curious, their furrowed brows suggesting, What in God’s name is happening next?

Going to the other side of the chancel, I inquired, What does an angel do?"

Almost in chorus they raised their voices, FLY!

In response, All right, I think I can be an angel…so watch this as I fly!

Donned with wings about the size of placemats, certainly not big enough—no matter—I ran across the chancel platform, jumped in the air [I’m positive no one had thoughts of Peter Pan]. The thud of my fall echoed to the church balcony. Even Aunt Hattie heard it.

Everybody tittered.

Looking disappointed, I inquired, Why didn’t I fly?

Without so much as a breath of silence, one of the kids shouted to the heavens, YOU’RE TOO HEAVY!

My effort to be an angel didn’t work. Too heavy.

And then I realized. I missed the point. I’m not supposed to be an angel. Nor is any single one of us.

Why?

Because at Christmas, God didn’t become angelic. The Gospel of John doesn’t say the Word became angelic.

No. A thousand no’s. At Christmas God became human, the Word became flesh…and DWELT among us full of truth and grace. God became human not for us to become angelic. God became human for us to become human…the way God intended.

Because it may be the case—make that it is the case—that God sent Jesus to earth to give us the fullest evidence for how we are expected to live. Not an angel. Not as perfect. But as human…Jesus became human and in His life He mirrored the will of God.

In life you and I aren’t to fly, we aren’t to be perfect. Just be human…on God’s terms. And in the final analysis that’s the best way to be…and who knows…when we’re the human being God’s wants us to be, it may be said by others…My goodness, look at that! There’s an angel impersonating a human being.

Advent 2003

Hey! You A Preacher?

[Dancing Bobbers And Sheer Luck]

Jesus said to them, Children you have no fish have you? They answered him, no. He said to them, Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some. [John 21:5-6]

Early in ministry my family and I had a chance to have mountain lodging with the payment being to preach two evening worship services at 30-mile campground. The campground was filled with Baptists from Texas who were vacationing. [This campground was in Colorado, 30 miles west of Creede, hence the name 30-Mile, which only means they must not have had a name the campground contest.]

My two sons and I, with Matt just 4 and Andrew still getting around in his father’s back-pack, went from one camp sight to the other, handing out a flyer announcing the Camp side worship tonight at 8…hope you can come.

In many camp sights I noticed the same phenomena, a bucket of trout. Immediately two factors took center stage: the first, my passion for fishing and the second, a Baptist from Texas would think twice about lying to a preacher. Hi there, as I glanced toward the bucketed trout, May I ask? Where’d you catch those trout?

In each instance, the answer was the same, echoing back and forth, Brown Lake.

Not having a clue where Brown Lake was, I went on to make the campers feel like they were really helping this new preacher, by asking, Brown Lake? Now where would that be? To think, my own personal Rand-McNally, even before Mapquest.com was a reality.

The next morning, I’m off to Brown Lake, actually about 7-8 miles as I recall, from 30-Mile Campground.

I got there in time to see the rising sun peek over the mountain-tops. Wow, I thought, what a beautiful sight, as I beheld the incredible vista…plate-glass smooth lake, chirping birds, majestic mountains. Yes!

I then looked to see I wasn’t alone. On a peninsula were three fishermen, elderly gentlemen [putting it mildly], each sitting in a captain chair, holding their rod with apparent expectation. I walked over to them, strangers three [hadn’t seen them with a bucket of trout the night before] and inquired, Hi, guys…any luck?

They had to be the 3 Grumpy Old Men as they responded with shirked shoulders, Nah, nuttin goin’ on.

Well, maybe the trout will be biting in a bit. I hesitated, then followed up, Been here long?

Since before the sun showed itself, said one, which I thought was a rather poetic response.

I waved as I left, Good luck, fellas, and noticed one critical fact: they were each fishing on the bottom, and they had been doing that for a couple of hours, at least.

Moving far enough from them to not be a bother, and reasoning, if they ain’t on the bottom, why not try the top?, I put on a bobber and egg and cast, not having a clue whether or not this would be a good strategy.

My doubt lasted shorter than it takes to ask that. Bam! The bobber jiggles, then drops like a rock…a zooming rock, mind you…and it was FISH ON! The water was no longer plate-glass smooth. What a fish, a 17 inch beautiful rainbow trout.

I felt 6 eyes looking at me like I had the plague. One of the consequences of success.

A second cast. A second fish. A third cast, a third fish. Now the six eyes turned from looking to wondering, Who in the world is this guy?

Still, nothing said. At that point, ‘tis probably the truth, my confidence exuded to the point of arrogance [that ever happen to you?] as I cast a 4th time, put my rod down on the shore and had the audacity to walk to my car, about 25 yards away, to get a candy bar, actually a Hershey’s with almonds, my morning breakfast. As I munched away I looked up and wadda ya know, my bobber had disappeared!

Now normally I would have run and yelled to the snow-capped mountains, FISH ON! YES! But not this time. Instead, I walked slowly to my rod, nary a word spoken, and noted this trout, tail-dancing across the lake’s surface, was bigger than the first three. Unbelievable.

At that point, one of the 3 strangers, still sitting in his captain’s chair and still fishing on the bottom, no longer able to contain himself, yelled over to me, Hey, mister? You a preacher?

I responded, somewhat taken off balance by this inquiry, nodded and said, all the while the fish was doing its crazy Zorba dance, Yeah, I am.……….

The disciples knew how to fish, yes they did. It was their vocation, it was what they were doing, when Jesus first approached them and called them to be fishers of men. They did that, the fishers of men work. They followed. They cared. And they did what they could, at least 11 out of the 12, actually a good percentage of keepers.

But now they hurt. They hurt big-time. They hurt more than they had ever hurt before. The Lord had been crucified, the first century version of capital punishment. He was dead. Stone-dead.

So, they went back to doing what they had done, what they knew. They went fishing. That would be the best thing to do, they figured.

You know the rest. Fishing the night through they caught nothing. Almost always it was night when the fishing became catching. But this time around the fishing remained the fishing. No catching.

Jesus, the Risen One, inquired, calling them children, You don’t have any fish, do you.

It wasn’t a judgment. Just a statement of truth. He didn’t say, You dummies! You didn’t do it right!

He didn’t say, You unreliables…you have no faith!

He didn’t look at Peter and say, You are terrible…you denied me, you fell asleep, you got of the water and looked the other way and sank!

No. A thousand times no.

Jesus simply gave them the future, Go back out and put your nets on the other side of the boat.

That was it.

Yes, they were tired. More than that, exhausted. Yes they were depressed. Yes, they were flooded with grief and anxiety. Yes, they had fished all night, when, it seems, fish were always caught. And now it was day, moving toward mid-day. Time to not do this anymore.

Go back out and cast the nets to the other side of the boat.

Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Keep on fishing. Keep on serving. Keep on sharing my Love. My promise to be with you will always be kept. I will always know your name. I will always love you. I will always hear your cries and know your suffering. You can count on that. Cast the nets to the other side.

And you know. Don’t we all. The nets were full.

Thanks be to God. Thanks be to God. Death was killed. God is always with us and Paul is right, Whether we live or whether we die, we belong to the Lord.

That’s what Easter’s all about…casting the nets…caring, doing, living…

Morgan Freeman has it right in Shawshank Redemption, Some people living and some people dying. Better to be living.

Yes it is…yes it is. Cast those nets.

Eastertide 2003

Do You Know The Shepherd?

[Reflection Upon Psalm 23]

We know the Psalmist—his joy, his despair, his discouragement, his vitality, his songs, his laments. We know the Psalmist. We can emotionally embrace, especially the shadowed valley floor of the human landscape, the power and comfort and strength—sheer power and comfort and strength—of Psalm 23.

I thought of that this morning, taken back to a moment when in a clergy seminar Walter Brueggemann cited the scandal of Psalm 23, to imagine people who did not want. He felt, and without doubt still agrees, that we don’t say it as fully as we might, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

To not want? Really? No, not really. We want. We want a lot. And for many, mirrored with us more than we probably will admit, we get cultured, to believe in society’s mantra, I have, therefore I am. The acquisitive mandate grabs us as we grab for more. We even rank those with the most, but not those with the very least—have you ever seen a Top 100 of the world’s poorest people? Bill Gates and Michael Dell notwithstanding, no one has seen Sam and Joe listed, two mired drunks whose residence is cardboard in a urine scented alley between Paulina and Western just north of Howard in Chicago.

The Psalmist continues as we know it…about the comfort, once we’ve moved from wants to needs and make our needs essential and our wants of no import. The Psalmist helps us. We know about the table, the green pastures, the still waters [so vital in imagery since the sea is a place of tumult and wrath and suffering—still waters is its antithesis, the needed resting moment].

But think of it for a minute…not the earthly images, but the grammar of Psalm 23 [here is where my fabled 8th grade teacher, Agnes Carter, takes over]. Notice in the first 3 verses the reference to God is in the 3rd person…he. Again and again.

He makes me lie down…he leads me [that’s good, though, to lead and not push…a good word of guidance for us clergy type…to also include our laity leadership]...he restores my soul…he leads me in the paths of righteousness.

Think of it…God in the 3rd person…Let me tell you about God, He… Friends, that’s a God more of distance than relationship, more out there than in here, in the soul of my very life.

And then, verse 4, probably the most essential verse in all the Bible…certainly not peripheral. Look at it a moment,

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.

Do we see? Do we really see? A change in pronouns, moving from He to You, moving from the transcendent to the imminent, from the distant to the intimate: proclaiming that when the night is darkest [just before the dawn in fact], when the shadows are the most lengthened, when the hurt is the worst and the pain the most excruciating, when we have to reach up to touch bottom, when we don’t think anything good can happen, God becomes personal. It is not God, He… It is, "Dear God, you are with me. Your rod and staff comfort me." The language about God becomes the language of God, the very stuff of relationship.

Yes, we know the Psalmist and we know the incredible place of Psalm 23. But down deep, my valued friends, down very, very deep, that’s not the point of all this…even more than appreciating the difference in pronouns and the place of God in our life, the question about Psalm 23 is not if you know the Psalmist.

Far more.

Do you know the Shepherd?

Eastertide 2004

Work? For People Who Don’t Fish!

[Reflections Upon Life’s Verities]

It wasn’t biblical in chapter and verse texting, but absolutely in verity. Here’s the text,

God help you if you ever experience the seduction of a graphite rod and 40 feet of line whispering sweet nothings in the air. Your existence will become an endless pursuit of wild rivers. You will be consumed by dry flies and tippets and forever lost to the glimmering streaks of silver that call to you from deep pools.

The text then pushes into commercialism, the beckoning voice of a new Orvis store in Austin, There is no cure, but we can offer help.

And it concludes, Together, maybe, just maybe we can make this living hell almost bearable.

Have you ever held a fly rod? Have you watched your spouse make that perfect cast, and then see the floating indicator plunge out of sight, see her set the hook and then the whole creation explodes in joy as fish and wife engage in their thing, while those on the shore watch and clap and cheer?

Or, have you floated a river, bouncing the bottom with a pencil sinker and gob of freshly cured eggs, only to have everything pause, ever so slight, and then a faint twitching of the rod tip, to go into your rip city mode, jerking the rod and watching the chrome-bright steelhead peel off line, heading through the down stream rapids without stopping and then hear the ping as the line snaps and your heart sinks?

Or, have you trolled a bay, the humming motor lulling you into peaceful shalom, the seagulls begging for the rest of your sandwich, the seals arfing to each other and the two bald eagles soaring from nest to distant shore to gather lunch for their young…and then the spinner seems to stop as your rod goes totally straight and the guide yells, Mark! Fish! Get it! And you suddenly are in the battle for the ages---well, just for that moment---when everything seems right with the world and the prophet Jeremiah is heeded fully when he advises, Never separate nature’s God from nature.

Can you tell? About this torrid affair I have with fishing? And not just to be there. It happens on a rainy and windy day, granted uncommon for our world of Texas and Louisiana and Mississippi, when I have a few moments between phone calls and fussing folk, I take a mental trip and in a flash, there’s the river and the terrain and those very precious moments to savor beyond words and to recall interminably.

But there is more to life than fishing…sort of…most of the time. There really is. And when I put away until another season my t-shirt that says, I fish, therefore I am, with a tilt of the fishing hat to Descartes, I realize that God calls us to more.

Back to the top for the more. What can our life be an endless pursuit of? More than fishing for goodness’ sake.

Could it be the crafting of that sermon you never thought possible, that takes the cry of Elizabeth and makes it the plaintive voice of those partnering you in worship by their listening? A sermon that changes the mind of a family who that morning before worship decided to not buy a Christmas tree this year? Or gives them a resolve to forgive themselves when they realize that guilt is only their opinion of themselves, whereas love and affirmation are God’s opinion?

Could it be when you take a day and serve the poor at a soup kitchen?

Could it be when you really work on listening to someone else…to understand them in that moment and not feel obliged to direct his or her life?

Could it be when you hold a new granddaughter and realize that God is not only the Creator of Life, but also God is? Forever? That God’s promise to never leave us, whether we live or whether we die, will always be kept?

Could it be when you send an e-mail to a friend, just to say you care for how they are?

Could it be when you clean the house and not have to be told to do so? Or pick up your room?

Could it be when you rush to the gate for your flight, you’ll actually stop for a moment to tell a policeman or security woman that you are grateful for their presence?

Yes.

Yes to the many ways we are seduced by life, the good life, which knows that caring and loving and gracing and affirming make all the difference in the world…whether or not you’ve ever tantalized a 4 pound rainbow to engage you in the battle…

Thanksgiving 2003

The First Pitch—Rookie Redux

I don’t know if it was a pivotal moment. I do know it was a memorable moment. What occurred in the flurry of less than 24 hours perhaps had as strong an impact on my life as any moment I can remember.

Everything happened the Spring of 1955. I was 14 years old and a freshman at Jefferson High School. We were a large high school, more than 1200 students in each class. Jefferson was known for its football teams, giving juggernaut its most vivid definition. I didn’t play football. That meant manhood would never arrive, at least according to the shoulder padded classmates. Silence was my response to their definition, because down deep basketball and baseball were sufficient.

On a Sunday night in April in 1955, I spent the evening meeting with our church youth group, all friends at Zion Congregational Church, my home church where I had been baptized, confirmed the Palm Sunday of my 8th grade year and as destiny would have its way, the sanctuary of my ordination 11 years later.

When I got home that Sunday night my parents were already in bed. My father turned and tossed, only to mutter something about, Mark, there’s a note by the phone for you. I looked at the note, Mark, see Coach Richards before your first class tomorrow morning.

COACH RICHARDS!? Why in the world would I see Coach Richards? I chose not to inquire, but went to bed. Coach Harry Richards, one good eye and one glass eye, was the high school varsity baseball coach at Jefferson. I was a freshman and had pitched just three games for the junior varsity. Yes, I was left-handed, and yes, the first junior varsity game I pitched, against Cleveland High School, was a no-hitter. But, I was a freshman.

And my experience was neither exhaustive nor impressive. After all, this was the mid-50’s and little league wasn’t even a glint in anyone’s eye. I hadn’t started baseball until the 7th grade and played first base for the Irving