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I love that hymn. "They cast their nets in Galilee, just off the hills of brown. Such happy, simple fisher folk, before the Lord came down." This was the life they knew. They did not expect it to be more. They did not expect anything exciting or great. Just to catch fish. Just to make a living. Just to know home and hearth and family and children. Just to be with their people. Just to tend their nets and make a life. They cast their nets in Galilee.

As many of you know, my father died yesterday. I’m here today because I read him this sermon before he died. It was a slightly different version then because it did not speak of his death in the past tense, but he spoke to me about it, and so I want to be here and preach it for him. I hope you will indulge me, and give me a moment if I need to regain my composure.

For the last two weeks or so, I have had a pretty amazing experience of alternating between the profound and the mundane. My family gathering in prayer at my father’s deathbed was a profound experience. Anointing my own father was a profound experience. My father reassuring me that he was not afraid, and saying, "this is all very interesting," was a profound experience. My father calling longtime, beloved, friends into the room and, as best he could, saying prayers with them, blessing them, was a profound experience. My father and I listened to Vivaldi’s "Gloria" in D major, and I said, "Dad, I don’t see how anybody could listen to this music and not believe in God." He was so weak; he could barely speak, but he mustered his strength and said, "I don’t either!" It was a profound experience.

Telling my father that I loved him, and having him tell me that he loves me, and knowing that there was nothing more that needed to be said, no unresolved business, no smoldering anger or resentment, knowing that even saying, "I love you," is that which should be said, but which did not have to be said, because it was so obvious; it was not, "I love you" in the last moments, it was, "We have loved each other dearly for forty-five years" – that was a profound experience.

And watching my father die with so much grace, so much dignity, so much acceptance, that was a profound experience. Knowing that he has taught me all my life, and that he is teaching me even now with his death, that is a profound experience.

And interspersed with those glimpses into eternity, I have gone to the grocery store, picked up phone messages, returned calls, checked my email, emailed back, edited the bulletin, prepared to train DOCC facilitators, written a speech, gone to meetings, and done laundry. The routine of my life. The mundane, everyday "things to do" existence that we all live most of the time.

I think those mundane interludes have served to offset the profound, to set those glimpses into eternity against a backdrop of time, to help me realize how precious time is, not only when you’re spending your last moments with a loved one, but also when you are going about the routine tasks of everyday life.

When we are on our deathbeds, looking back, how will we have spent our time? Just as moments leading to other moments, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into years –until it’s all gone? "My, my, where did the time go?" then it’s all over? And, "My, my what did it all mean? What did it all mean?"

Or will we set our time against the backdrop of eternity, so that on our deathbeds we may have grace, and dignity, and acceptance, and not be afraid, and know that our lives have been part of something — profound?

We cast our nets in the Galilee of our lives. This is the life we know. We don’t expect it to be more. We don’t expect anything exciting or great. Just to make a life. Just to know home and hearth and family and children. Just to be with our people. Just to tend our nets and make a life. We cast our nets in Galilee.

And then he comes. The Lord comes down. And then he comes, walking by the sea, walking by our lives. "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near. Follow me, and I will make you fish for people."

He doesn’t just come once. Over and over, when we have gone back to the mundane, to just marking time, to just tending our nets, he comes walking by the sea of our life. "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near. Follow me, and I will make you fish for people."

I know how my father responded to that call. I know what my father said; I know what my father did, over and over.

"Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near. Follow me, and I will make you fish for people." How will you respond to Christ’s call? What will you say? What will you do? What will your time mean?