Quiet Talks on Following the Christ

by S. D. Gordon

These disciples were now to have one of these added touches. It was a time of sore perplexity. The crucifixion had left them dazed, stupefied. It was wholly unexpected. They were utterly at sea, with neither compass, nor steering apparatus of any sort. That Saturday to them was one of the longest, dreariest, heaviest days ever spent by any one. They had all proven untrue to their dead Friend, save one.

Then as unexpectedly came the resurrection. They're dazed again, this time with joy. They haven't taken it in yet. To say that the two shocks, each so radically different from the other, shook them tremendously, is stating it very mildly. They don't know themselves. They haven't found their feet. They haven't adjusted yet to their swiftly changing surroundings. They don't know what next. They don't know what to do.

So the old impulsive Simon in Peter proposed something. Simon, the unsteady, was much in evidence those days. Peter the rock-man hadn't arrived yet. This was Simon Peter's specialty, proposing something. He said, "Well, I'm going fishing." And the others quickly said, "We'll go along." The mere doing something would be a relief. But they caught nothing. It was a poor night. The morning brought only heavy hearts with light nets and boats. They had failed at following; now they were failing even at their old specialty, fishing. Couldn't they do anything?

In the dim light of the breaking dawn there's some One standing on the beach, a Stranger. He seems interested in them, and calls out familiarily, "Have you caught anything?" And you feel the heaviness of their hearts over something else in the shout "No." And the gentle voice calls out, with a certain tone of quiet authority in it, "Throw over on the right there, and you'll get some fish." And they cast the nets out again, feeling a strong impulse to obey this kindly Stranger, without stopping to think out why.

And at once the ropes pull so hard that it takes all their strength to hold them. It's John's quick insight that recognizes the Stranger. With his heart in his throat, in awe-touched voice, he quietly says, "It's the Lord." That's enough for Peter. He takes the shortest way to shore. He has some things to talk over with the Master. And as the seven tired men landed the fish, they found breakfast waiting on the sands. Who built that fire? Who cooked that fish? Who was thinking about them and caring for their personal needs, when they were so tired and hungry? And when breakfast was finished, there's the quiet talk together, about love and service, while the sun is climbing up in the east. It is addressed to Peter, but it is meant, too, for those who were so fleet-footed a few nights before.

All this was the answer to their perplexity. They were willing and waiting to follow, but they had failed so badly. They were not quite sure where they stood. They had no finger-posts. Now the finger-posts were put up to show the way. This fishing scene was an acted parable, the Parable of the Finger-posts.

The Lineage of Service.

Look at these finger-posts a little. There was the Lord Jesus. They didn't recognize Him. But He was there. He had a plan. He took authoritative command of their movements. He gave directions. They obeyed Him. Then came the great haul of fish. Then came the quiet talk about love and service, but with the emphasis on love.

The love was the chief thing. The service was something growing out of love. "Lovest thou Me?" Then thou mayest serve, thou hast the chiefest qualification. Our Lord gave them the lineage of service that morning. These are the generations of true service. A sight of Jesus begets love, a tender, gentle, strong, passionate thing of rarest beauty that is immortal, but must have the constant sight of its father's face for vigorous life. And love at once begets obedience, which grows strong and stout and skilled, as long as it stays in its father's presence. And obedience begets service, untiring, glad, patient service.

There are some outsiders that have come into this family, but they do not have the fine traits of blood-kin. "Duty" is one of these. It serves because it must. And at times it renders fine, high service. But its service comes out of the will, rather than out of the heart. It is ruled more by a sense of propriety, never by a passion of the heart.