FISH FOR BREAKFAST

One of the things I perennially love about the Resurrection narratives is the emphasis on food. And it doesn’t usually come from the disciples: it comes from Yeshua himself. First, there’s Cleophas and his friend, trudging to Emmaus. (In fact, they may be going further, but Emmaus is a useful day’s walk from Jerusalem, so they’re going to overnight there in a pub.) On the way they meet this fascinating stranger who at first appears clueless as to what’s been happening but who then, when they remind him, fills them in on the Why of it all, citing Scripture as is only proper between good Jews. They like him so much that they persuade him to stay at the pub with them, at least for the evening meal. And at the moment he takes the bread and intones the blessing – Baruch atta Adonai Elohenu etc. – they look at him and say OMG, it’s Him! And he disappears, whoosh.

Then, they race back to Jerusalem and we next see them with the other disciples, somewhere undefined – indoors? outdoors? a rooftop? a courtyard? – nattering away in a state of high excitement about the Blessing Man, when suddenly, there he is again, in the midst of them. Shalom, he says. Yes, it’s me. Really. See? Hands with holes in them. Feet with holes in them. Not a ghost, not even a Holy Ghost. And when they still look astonished: Got something to eat? He eats a chunk of fried fish. Ghosts eat fish? Nah, course not.

Next scene: the shore of the Sea of Kinneret, alias Lake Tiberias. Dawn. (The scene is of extraordinary beauty, still. I’ve been there.) Two or three fishing-boats full of tired, irritated, frustrated young men – a whole night’s fishing, no fish. To Hertford, Hereford, and Hampshire with it, says Peter, let’s go home. So they head for shore, and there is this bloke. Got anything? he shouts. Nowt, says Peter, crossly. Drop your net one more time, over starboard. Grouchily, Peter does. OY! Hey guys, help me lug this bugger up, it’s full! They manhandle it to shore and there are 153 bloody great big musht (St Peter’s Fish) in it, or possibly mixed with few enormous carp. Pant. Sweat. So come and have breakfast! says the bloke. And sure enough, he’s got a little fire going and is frying fish – a tantalising smell in the crisp air of dawn. And once again, they take a second look – or maybe he’s blessing the fish, Baruch atta Adonai Elohenu Melech ha’Olam – and once again, OMG, it’s him!

As my mother used to say, the reason the Gospels are so convincing is that nobody, but nobody, would have made this kind of Resurrection up. Gods often do things on earth: they seduce nymphs, they help warriors, they mark special children, so forth. But never, never do they stand on a beach eating fried fish. The Power and the Glory. And fried musht for breakfast.

TIBERIAS

The sails are slack against the morning sun,

Whispering wavelets part to let us through.

The night was long and hard, the dawn shines blue

And gold, the nets are full, the work is done.

We yawn and stretch, and cap each brimming tun

For transport to the town, nailing it true;

Set tillers for the beach. The day is new

But we are old and tired and sere and dun.

Then on the air a smell of charcoal fire

And frying fish caresses us from land:

Who is that waving in the curls of smoke?

The bow grounds on the sand; we pull it higher,

And recognize, and run, as the raised hand

Becomes the Risen, calling laden folk.

SOMETHING FISHY

Extraordinary. In the three readings of the last few days, the three first occasions where Jesus appears outside the burial garden, the common denominator is food. Fish, to be precise. Grilled fish. OK, most of the inner circle seem to have been fishermen, and it’s all happening in Galilee, that Israeli Lake District where unsophisticated people talk funny and go night-fishing on the Sea of Galilee, alias Lake Tiberias, alias Lake Kinneret. But it still strikes me as unexpected in the story of a resurrected Man-God, mysteriously risen from the tomb during the night. Almost bathos, really. Look at the stories:

     1. The two blokes walking to Warm Springs. We don’t know what they were served at the inn when they got there with their new friend, but fish is not out of the question. In any case, it’s a meal, and it’s at the (very workaday) blessing over the bread that they recognize Him.

   2.Then, when they tell all that to the gang in Jerusalem, suddenly there He is again, among them in an ordinary way. Stupefaction all round. “Oh, come on,” He says, “It’s just me – not a ghost, the real me. Look at my hands and feet: touch them!” The hands and feet are both thoroughly solid and not a pretty sight, after those nails. And then, when they go on havering, he says, “Got anything to eat?” And guess what? Yup, grilled fish again. Oh, and honeycomb. An interesting combination, but it seems that that was what they were having for lunch. (Luke 24:33-47).

  3. Next appearance, up North. (Remember, he told the women that he would meet everyone up in Galilee?)  Simon and the boys have been night fishing and have had a rotten night. Zip. They weren’t biting. At dawn they get to the shore, tired and irritable, and there’s someone standing there who says “Hey! Try one more time, over to starboard, I bet they’ll bite there.” So, with a sigh, they chuck the net over one more time, and bingo! There’s a whole school in there, they can hardly land it. John, always quick on the uptake, says to Peter, “It’s Him!” And Peter, never one to dawdle, jumps overboard and swims to shore with a mighty splashing. And what does he find, and the others when they get there? A little fire of thornbushes and branches, and Jesus, peacefully grilling fish and saying “Come and have some breakfast!”

That image of the little beach-fire at dawn and the smell of grilling fish has stayed in my mind since the first time I heard it. So this is the Mighty Resurrection! Ayup. It could be a story from Vermont or Maine. It’s not grand, it’s not “divine”, it’s not especially moralizing, it’s not Spiritual. It’s food. It’s real.

Nothing is realer than grilled fish and bread, with maybe a bit of honeycomb for dessert. And I think that is probably the point. (The Gospels are rarely pointless.) The Risen Meshiach, Who has just changed history forever, is not a ghost. He is not a pure spirit. There is something very, very slightly strange about Him, as Rembrandt sensed (see below); He is not totally the man He had been; but man He is, real He is, flesh and blood He is. And He eats fish. Bon appétit!