FAITH UNCENSORED #1: "The Messiah and the Muskellunge"

The hammering sun nudged things toward the uncomfortable end of the heat spectrum as the rays shimmered and danced across the river’s surface. Thankfully, the soft breeze as well as the slow but steady motion of the fishing boat dulled the edges of the blazing sunbeams enough to make things bearable. I kept an eye on the poles secured in the rod holders, lines trailing behind us as the boat trolled up and down the river. The gentle wake was not churning enough to conceal the large lures—seriously, these things looked like bait for a Kronosaurus—spinning in multi-colored motion just beneath the surface twenty or so feet behind us.

I am a deer hunter, not a fisherman, far more comfortable with a rifle in my hand than a fishing rod. This was my first time fishing for muskellunge, or “muskie,” as the fish is commonly called. An apex predator fish that is notoriously hard to catch—it’s nickname among anglers is “the fish of ten thousand casts”—the muskie was the preferred prey of my companions, Jud Decker and his son David. I don’t know if I would go so far as to call this pair rabid in their quest for muskies, but I certainly would not call them lax either; one does not spend $20 on a single lure if you’re half-assed about the sport.

My expectation of catching a muskie myself was about the same as my expectation of seeing a mermaid sunning herself on the shoreline. Frankly, my expectations for any of us catching a muskie that day were near zero. A wicked thunderstorm the night before had turned conditions less than prime, we only had a few hours on the river, and, well, these fish are just damned hard to catch, which is part of their appeal. After all, any amateur with a stick, string, bobber and worm can stand on the end of a dock and catch sunnies and perch to their heart’s content, but it takes dedication and patience to fish for muskies.

But just because I didn’t expect any of us to catch a muskie doesn’t mean I didn’t hope we would. I had been regaled with stories about the pure joy of having a muskie strike your line, I had seen impressive photos of boated fish, but I had never actually experienced these thrills for myself.

So the afternoon wore on. The sun continued to crown us with its heat. The boat continued its leisurely trolling. The lures continued to do their enticing dance behind us, occasionally snagging on some aquatic weed to give the lines a teasing tug, making you think for a moment that you might have a bite before you realized it was a false alarm. Lethargy began creeping in like a not entirely unwelcome guest, settling over us all like a warm, cozy blanket.

And then all hell broke loose.

Judd’s lure vanished, engulfed in the bony maw of an impressive muskie that was damn near Moby Dickian in mass. Jud’s rod bowed like a sapling in a hurricane as he set the hook, the sharp barbs impaling the muskie’s mouth and letting both fish and man know the battle was engaged. What had been tranquil silence was now shattered by Jud’s cry of, “I’ve got one!” As David lunged for the net, I simply did my best to stay out of the way.

I don’t recall the specifics; the memories are more like fragmented, pulsing still-shots in my mind. The arched rod. The excited yells. The rocking boat. The splashing water. The thrashing of the muskie as it valiantly fought against being relentlessly reeled in. How long it all lasted I do not know—probably less than five minutes, but what exhilarating minutes they were. All violent action and flashing fins and glinting scales and roiling water. I stood in the boat, transfixed, adrenalin pumping, struck by the dawning revelation that I had just experienced something I had never expected to experience.

After snapping some photos of the 44 inch, 25 pound behemoth, we returned it to its habitat where it swam off and disappeared into the murky depths, its pride wounded, its mouth stinging, but no doubt grateful that it had been granted salvation rather than extermination. Satisfied smiles on our faces, we resumed trolling, and it was then, as calm settled back over the boat, that it occurred to me.

The love of God is like a muskie strike.

So many people in this life are lonely, barren, hollow husks who have never known the love of God. They drift rudderless along the rugged surface of life fishing for something, anything, to save them from a loveless existence. They cast ten thousand casts, changing lures to adapt to their environment or emotions, desperate to find the perfect combination that will net them what they need. Like me in that fishing boat, knowing muskies existed but never having actually experienced one, these empty, aching vessels know on some level that is far beyond skin and bone and guts that God is there. Deep down where mortal existence ends and soul-existence begins they know that He loves them without condition and longs to clutch them close like the forgiving father hugging his prodigal son, but they have never actually experienced that purest of love for themselves. They sail and troll and cast and are occasionally fooled into believing they have found it, only to be disappointed when what they thought was something lasting turns out to be nothing more than life’s version of seaweed.

But when that strike comes … when God’s love strikes a heart with all the ferocity of a trophy muskie slamming into a lure … when your soul is consumed by the unrelenting force that is Grace Incarnate ... in that miraculous moment there will be no doubt, no confusion about what just happened. You will not fruitlessly jerk on the rod of life, wondering if something is on the other end—you will know something is there. Know it in a way that transcends flesh and blood and mind and marrow, know it in a way that goes far beyond primal to the place where Creator and Created are inexplicably joined.

The weeping wounded walk among us. The sea upon which we sail may be the cracked concrete of city sidewalks or the marble tile of shopping malls, but the ships that silently float past us in their business suits or casual attire are often nothing more than sleek hulls burdened by the cargo of questing hearts. They troll through the waters of life eternally hoping but so terribly unsure if the breathtaking love they seek, the kind of love that slams you to your knees, will ever find them. If only they knew that it always will. Somehow, someway, the love of God finds us all. And just as a muskie angler knows when his hook has been struck by the quarry he seeks, so the hungry soul will know beyond even a shadow of a doubt that it has been struck by the everlasting love of a merciful God.