On a chilly Sunday morning, an ancient priest fills in for the pastor.
He speaks softly, almost inaudibly at times.
He is careful when he moves and must even take a seat while the Gloria is sung.
Those of us in the back amid wriggling, restless masses must lean forward and focus our entire attention on him during the homily, so we can catch what he is saying above the low rumble that surrounds us.
He speaks of Peter. He pulls stories from here and there, across eight decades, I would guess,  including a tale of his own trip to the Sea of Galilee with some other priests. They tried to get a fisherman to take them out in his boat, but he demurred, saying that he only went out at about 5:30 and fished all night – like Peter.

They convinced him, though, and so he took them out. Of course, he did not catch a thing.
The priest skips ahead a bit in the liturgical year and mentions Peter being recognized by his accent at the fire, in the dark, the night before Jesus was crucified.
He tells us that like Peter, all Christians are recognized by how they speak.
And he talks of brother apostles. How at one time in this diocese, there were six sets of priestly brothers. He names them all. He and his own older brother make up one of the sets.
“And now, ” he says softly, almost in wry, resigned wonderment,  “I’m the only one left.”
The slightest pause, and we think about that.
It is not happening or rocking or relevant. No one’s creativity is up for evaluation this day. No one has brought home amazing ideas from a workshop or an awesome brainstorming session at Starbucks.
No. it is just an gathering on a cold morning. There is an altar, a couple of books, bread and wine. There is the lot of us from everywhere, bringing everything in this world with us. An elderly man reminds us that giving ourselves over to Christ was all that really matters in life.
He talks to us about that – a little disjointedly – but that’s what he is talking about.
He is talking about it and in his soft words and careful motions, he is showing us. Living it.
And then he brings  Him to us.
From his cool, trembling mortal flesh, he shares Him – the One who had called him and his brothers – shares Him with us, one at a time, one of thousands, of millions more across time and space.
Two thousand years pass, but still, brothers listen, say yes,  and  cast their nets.
And they come back full.