With Open Doors

Miraculous Catch of Fish

When he had finished speaking, Jesus said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.”

Simon answered, “Master, if you say so, I will let down the nets.”

Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.”

Mass with the German Benedictines at their outdoor altar at their Church of the Multiplication of the Loaves and Fish was, week, so German and so Benedictine. Exactly at 9:00 a.m., exactly, exactly, the twos servers and the priest presider appeared at the back of the people gathered, and we all stood. Mass was all in German. Arabic last week, German this week, and next week, back home, chances are good that it will be English. Same Mass, same cadence of of the spoken word, just different languages. Even though outside the monastery church, summers it is too hot in the church itself, everything was elegant and Mass-worthy, crisp and ironed, classy and honorable, that is,so Benedictine and monkish. One thing I noticed about the presider. The chasuable that he wore, the way he used his arms and hands, the tone of his voice, his inflection and the deliberate pace of his speech, drew no attention to himself and sort of deflected everything toward God through the ritual of the Mass. That was so Catholic and was so right.

For each Sunday at St. Andrew someone donates the flowers for the altar, in memory of some person or some event, or for the purpose of some prayer intention. The flowers for the Mass this morning on the Sea of Galilee at the place the monks call “Dalmanutha” looked like they were picked right from the gardens of the grounds just an hour before Mass started. Refreshing and simply elegant they were. They remained on the altar after Mass.

Whenever I have slow and full breakfast I must be a “break” from the “fast” life. It must be vacation of some sort. A slow and leisurely Sunday breakfast is the best meal treat possible. This morning breakfast (without any preparations, cooking or clean-up) was at 7:00 a.m., and Mass ( with no preparations or responsibilities) was a mere 20 minutes walk down the path to outdoor altar on the sea. hurrah for Sunday breakfast.really like breakfast

In one of the psalms, but I can’t remember which one. My quick research suggests that he is a coney. A groundhog with a condo on the lake is what they look like. They seemed to be begging for a mention on my blog.

It is one of the seven fruits (I think there are seven) mentioned in the Old Testament: the pomegranate. It is interesting to look at but too much of a challenge to eat, I think. If I remember correctly, it is a symbol of hospitality and welcome, kind of like the pineapple is in Hawaii.

And sometimes your body just graves some sugar. I bought an orange drink, thinking that might do the trick. Then I gave in and bought an ice cream bar on a stick, my favorite: vanilla ice cream covered with white chocolate. They are not as good as they used to be, now that you can buy them back home at Kroger’s. But sitting here and resting, I was able to watch pilgrims from who knows where in the world scurrying into Capernaeum to catch a quick look at the remains of Peter’s ( and Andrew’s) house. The coming and going is not quite so international or steady, eating a Magnum bar in the parking lot of the grocery in Milford. But they still are mighty tasty in 45150 on Lila.

At Capernaeum I happened upon Father Jerome, the guardian of the property and of the small Franciscan community there. We have met on previous occasions. There is just himself and an 81-year old fear, who was one of the two original excavators of the ruins of Capernaeum and who hopes to be able to be allowed to die and be buried on the property. Father Jerome (on the left in the photo) is from Ghana, and has been at Capernaeum for nine years, and is at the end of his term, but hoping to be able to stay longer. That sounded familiar to me. He was visited for a few days by another priest from Ghana, of another religious order. There are three nuns living in their own convent on the grounds, serving the pilgrims in the church/sacristy and the priests in their house. Father Jerome invited me for lunch. There was good food and laughter and priestly companionship. When conversation went to our new Pope, we all smiled. The word we agreed best described Francis was “authentic,” like in genuine, real. In speaking about camaraderie among priests, I mentioned the bond that seems to exist among mothers of priests. Father Jerome remembered at that moment that it was that day, 15 June, that his mother died four years ago. The third priest was the only one at table who still had his mother. Jerome shook his finger at him, “Take care of her for as long as you have her.” It seems the mother-priest son thing is the same the world over. Father drove me home the two miles to my bed, I mean, my hotel. I am convinced that Jesus hid away from Noon until 4:00 p.m. every day, because it is plum too hot to do anything but find some shade and snooze a bit. Jerome also told me to call him, if I wanted a ride anywhere, anytime. I think my ride to the border crossing on Wednesday was just handed to me. I added Ghanaian Jerome to my Jordanian George of a previous post.