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CHAPTER VII The Beach at the Great Sea
Jesus sat on the beach digging his toes into sand warmed by the sun.
It had felt hot to the bottom of his bare feet as he walked. But beneath the surface of the sand, it was cooler. He dug his feet deeper. Beside him sat Peter, next to Peter, John. The rest of us lounged about the beach. Thaddeaus and Matthew were standing in the surf, letting the waves crash around their legs and gazing toward the watery western horizon. No mountains in the distance here for this is the Great Sea, the ocean filled with leviathan and in depths beyond imagination. If one sailed until he disappeared into the horizon, where would he go? Where would he end up? Where is the island of Crete from here? Where is Italy? Rome? Spain and beyond?
We were at the home of Simon the Tanner, in the city of Joppa. Simon's house was built at a spot only a step or two from the sand of the beach. One could step from his threshold directly into the sand. What a wonderful place to live! I thought about how pleasant it would be to go to sleep every night listening to the pounding waves, smelling the salt in the air. The only distractions were the odors of Simon's trade. It was no accident that he lived near the sea where the breeze is constant.
Jesus looked pensively out at the water, sometimes closing his eyes against the wind which often bore with it tiny grains of sand, the smell of the salt water rich and powerful. It was one of those unusually warm and balmy days of late fall. Seagulls drifted overhead mere feet from us. It seemed as if we could reach out and touch them. There, one of them was pure white. I watched as it hung suspended on the wind until its wings cut a graceful arc soaring inches over the pounding surf. What an exhilarating thing it must be to fly, to drift motionless on the wind, to feel ocean spray in your face. "Peter," Jesus spoke, "I want you to return here often after I am gone. It is a place of peace. You will find refreshment here, a cleansing and deepening of soul." "Amongst Simon's hides?" quipped Peter. Jesus smiled. They were quiet for a moment. Then Peter said, forcing himself to suppress his concern, "Besides, there is no place you can go that I will not follow." The thought of coming here or going anywhere without Jesus was for Peter, unthinkable. This tall man, hair flecked with grey, powerful fishermen's frame, muscles in sharp definition holding together his athletic body, was, after all, a man consumed with deep spiritual passion for the man he now considered his Master. Jesus turned and gazed at the fisherman, "Yes there is, Peter." "Yes, there is, what?" "A place I can go, a place I will go, that you cannot and will not follow." Peter, frowning, looked into the Lord's face. He did not realize, none of us realized how privileged we were to be able to do that, to look into the face of Jesus the Christ. The Lord looked away, back at the sea. "At least not with me. Perhaps later." Peter did not know how to respond to such enigmatic words. It was enough to be here, now. "Lord, I don't understand . . ." Before Peter could finish, Jesus had picked up a handful of sand and playfully threw it all over Peter. "I said, you can't follow me," he laughed. With that, he stood, shrugged off his robe and trotted toward the surf, gathering himself into an absolute, full-bore run. "Come on, fish breath," he yelled back, "see if you can remember how to swim!" In the next instant, Jesus plunged beneath the waves. Peter looked after him, astounded. How could he go from heavy, ominous words to frolicking in the surf in a moment of time. It didn't matter. Peter shed his own outer garment and ran after him, "I can show a carpenter a thing or two about swimming!" he cried. He knifed into the foaming water as though he had been born there. When they surfaced in waist-deep water, they began swinging their arms at the surface splashing water on each other. In the next instant, I saw Peter tackle Jesus, whereupon they disappeared once again beneath the surf. And whereupon I shed my own cloak as did the others, and we all ran like wild horses to the waves to join them.
That night we built a fire on the beach. The wind had softened into gentle breezes but the night had chilled and the warmth of the fire felt good. Flames leaped high above our heads and burned brightly from the dry driftwood we had gathered among the dunes of sand. The sound of crackling fire embraced by deeper sounds of thundering surf produced music for the gods. I checked myself. There were no gods. There was only Jesus. Man though he was, for me his deity was absolute. This wonderful Savior, who could bend the fibers of my soul, who could frolic like an adolescent in the surf with his friends, commanded my every loyalty, my every affection, my very worship. We sat in groups of two or more, a priceless moment of camaraderie and fellowship. We sang songs and told stories. Just being with Jesus at times like this, just knowing him and having him know us was more than any of us could have imagined. Sitting with him and the twelve around the fire like this, in this idyllic place, was more exquisite than my foolish words can express. It was wondrous. It was euphoric and peaceful. Laughter and much loud conversation. And as the hours grew upon us and the moon lifted high into its vault, our words dimmed into quiet reflection. I spoke not at all. My gaze focused and rested on the glowing embers of the settling fire. Fascinating how an open fire affects one. I am drawn to it as a moth. My thoughts permeated with the voice of Jesus. His eyes, too, were fixed by the flame.
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