Taste and See Page 3
Even more shocking: Jesus’s power to calm a raging sea that’s thirty-three miles in diameter with the words, “Quiet! Be still.”
Though I find the Ancient Galilee Boat fascinating, I haven’t traveled halfway around the world to study vessels as much as fish.
“When can we go fishing?” I ask eagerly.
“Yah, yah, we go,” Ido hushes. “But first I must buy wood. You come?”
Since Passover is days away, Ido has many projects to complete before the city shuts down. Without much choice, I scrunch in the cab of the truck alongside his workers and son.
The next thing I know, I’m standing in the middle of a field more than an hour’s drive away as Ido negotiates the purchase of an enormous trunk of a Jerusalem pine. Somewhere in the foreign conversation with the sellers I hear the English phrase, “Feinberg Wood Industries.” Later, Ido explains that he introduced me as a wood dealer from America to negotiate a better price for the special table he’s building in the restaurant. When I question his business ethics, he laughs and says it’s all just play.
We don’t go fishing that day . . . or the next three days. Every morning I ask about fishing and Ido answers, “But first I must . . .” Then we leave on another work-related errand that involves buying, selling, and most important, negotiating. Ido assures me that his friends rank among the best fishermen on the lake. They will take us. This was not the fishing-palooza trip I envisioned—at all—and I wondered what God had in store for me instead.
At the end of the fourth day, after we headed away from the lake yet again, Ido has introduced me as a filmmaker from Los Angeles, a journalist for National Geographic, and an owner-operator of a glamping company. I am living on “Israeli time” and “Ido time,” which means everything takes ten times as long.
Each day feels like I’m trapped in a Choose Your Own Adventure escapade, except Ido makes all the decisions. I follow behind like a kite tail whipped about in the wind.
The situation grates against my plans and well-worn desire to be in charge. Picking something as simple as your destination plays well into the illusion that destiny is yours to control; however, this trip has stripped me of making choices. A part of me is tempted to pack my bags and return home in frustration. Yet I sense that if I relinquish control and stop trying to set the agenda, maybe I’ll make space for God to move.
I force myself to receive each day as a gift rather than manage it like a to-do list. It’s a tussle, sometimes hour by hour, and with time, my experience begins to shift.
The unexpected detours of our adventures include stops at a goat farm, an olive orchard, a Bedouin’s cattle herd, and fields of fig trees, vines, and wheat. As I relent to the uncharted tour, I am able to pay closer attention to each experience. I learn something insightful at each stop and start to trust in this non-plan plan. In the evenings, the entire family gathers around the table—Ido’s wife, Yael; his four children, Erez, Peleg, Ella, and Gefen; his mother, Vered; and his grandmother, Esther, who, like all Jewish grandmothers, shovels more food on my plate every time I look away.
As we eat together, Ido recounts the day’s adventures. The events which are curious and comical to me appear normal to everyone else. Ido’s wife, Yael, provides the only hints of oversight to the beautiful chaos. We clap when five-year-old Ella, who has long lost interest in food, plays dress-up with yet another outfit. And we watch two-year-old Gefen return to the table every few minutes with a new toy. Listening to young Jewish children call their father “Abba” is especially moving. I find myself enmeshed in the daily food, cooking, and life of a Jewish family in ways I never imagined.
But I don’t lose sight that I’ve come here for fish. So late into the evenings, I study the Hebrew Bible to reel in fresh insights.
HOW FISH SWIM THROUGH THE BIBLE
The Torah, the first five books of the Old Testament, teems with fish. They arrive on the fifth day of creation when God stocks the seas with marine creatures. Soon after, Adam goes on a naming spree of the livestock and birds and wild animals, but alas, the fish don’t make the list. Some suggest with lightheartedness that’s why only one word exists for fish in the Hebrew Bible—dag—which covers all species.
The Egyptians pioneered the art of fishing. Though planted in the desert, they engineered an extensive labyrinth of aqueducts along the Nile, which allowed them to serve catfish, mullet, carp, and moonfish. Yet Pharaoh’s refusal to heed Moses’s warning to release the Israelites ruins their supply. God displays his power when the waters turn bloody red and the stench of hundreds of thousands of fish carcasses bitters the air.
Pharaoh agrees to liberate the Israelites, but he proves to be a double-crosser. Shortly after their evacuation, the Egyptian army chases God’s people into the Red Sea—their only path of escape. As soon as they make it safely to the other side, the parted waters crash down on the Egyptians. Their bloated bodies soon wash up on the shores, likely after fish nibbled on a few toes.
The Israelites’ gratitude wanes and they soon find themselves underwhelmed, flooding God’s ears with complaint. They miss Egyptian food—especially those fresh fish sticks.
In faithfulness, grace, and love, God leads them to the Promised Land, which includes a fisherman’s paradise along the banks of the Galilee and the shores of the Mediterranean. Yet Moses knows their wandering hearts and issues a stern warning in the desert: wherever you go, don’t worship any fish.
While such a command sounds strange to modern ears, one of the strongest factions in the land, the Philistines, worship a fish-god known as Dagon. When the Philistines capture the ark of the Lord from the Israelites during the period of the judges, they carry it into Dagon’s temple. Their idol appears face down the next day. They set him upright. Dagon’s head and appendages break off by the next morning. They set him upright again. Soon tumors appear all over their bodies. After so many displays of God’s power, the Philistines cry out to let God’s ark go.
The story is a reminder that worshipping false gods will make you the chicken of the sea.
Fish are beloved by the Israelites because the addition of a sardine or fish sauce is a treat that breaks up the monotony of the bread, bread, bread and more bread in the ancient diet.
As a literal sign of their culinary preferences, “The Fish Gate” becomes one of the famed entrances into Jerusalem. Much like the Pike Place Market in Seattle, the name signifies its geographic location, specifically its proximity to fish peddlers selling their daily catches. Six days a week, the fishermen sell their fish transported from the Mediterranean and the Galilee.
The Scripture notes multiple occasions when God’s people fill their bellies with fish, but then there’s that time when a fish is filled with one of God’s prophets! Jonah starts in the bowels of a ship and ends up in the bowels of a big fish. Three stinky days later, Jonah parks on the beach, covered in fish sneeze. The prophet plucks seaweed from his beard, then delivers what may be the shortest, most effective sermon in history: “Forty more days and Nineveh will be overthrown.” With those words, all the Ninevites fast, wear sackcloth, and return to God.
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Table Discovery: Rather than shop for a specific type of fish the next time you go to the market, ask the clerk for the freshest fish available. Recipes that call for tilapia can be substituted with other mild tasting fish like cod or snapper. Look for firm filets without discoloration. If you’re purchasing a whole fish, look for clear eyes and tight scales on the skin.
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Other prophets, including Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, and Zephaniah, all use fish imagery in communicating God’s heart to his people. The frequent mentions suggest they’re well-acquainted with the occupation of fishermen.
Yet it’s Ezekiel who makes one of the strangest prophecies when he describes a great abundance of fish from an unlikely source: where the water from Jerusalem meets the Dead Sea. Everyone knows the Dead Sea is famous for being, well, dead. Nothing lives in it. So how is this possible?
In the midst of exile, the prophet describes a time when life will flow from Jerusalem once again. The temple will no longer be a place of corruption but a source of life. The miracle is the fresh water flowing from the temple creating an environment for abundance. Turns out when fresh water meets salt water, an estuary of brackish water forms. The level of salinity changes, creating a place where fish gather and thrive. The prophet proclaims that nothing is impossible when the power of God is involved.
With so many fish swimming throughout the ancient text, I can’t wait to dive into the Gospels. But first I need to ensure I haven’t traveled this far to return home without a catch.
THE SECRET TO CATCHING A ST. PETER’S FISH
By day five, Ido can sense my restlessness.
“Today, we go fishing,” he announces.
I only half-believe him. But that afternoon we drive to the southern shore of the Galilee. I climb aboard a beaten, pale-blue fiberglass skiff with a small engine and two narrow rectangular oars. Sun-worn tarps cover a pile of nets in the center of the boat.
As we pull away from the jetty, Ido points to splashes on the shore. Large fish appear stacked atop each other against the bank.
“Catfish mating season,” Ido says. “We don’t eat them. Know why?”
I shake my head.
“We’re Jewish.”
Only then do I remember the parable in which Jesus compares the kingdom of heaven to a net let down in a lake. Once full, the fishermen pull their catch to shore and separate the good fish from the bad. Thanks to Ido, I now know the bad fish are the catfish. Because they lack scales, they are considered unclean. That’s why they’re the biggest fish in the sea. If you’re a catfish lover, worldclass fishing awaits on the shores of the Galilee.
After a short boat ride, we meet up with another skiff. Shlomo, known as “Momo,” is the owner and operator of a pair of boats with a crew of four, including himself. All the men wear a white T-shirt and matching navy-blue fishing waders. Their leathery skin and muscular frames are chiseled by their profession as they work six days a week, while resting on the Sabbath.
Neither Momo nor his crew speak English, so Ido translates. Momo has fished these waters for thirty-seven years and claims to know every inch of the Sea of Galilee. I don’t doubt him. He explains that the fish migrate toward the south of the sea in the winter and to the north in the summer.
A hundred yards from shore, Momo signals for his men to drop a net. The engine stops, and we wait for stillness to set in. The waters calm, and I recognize why he’s chosen this precise location. I peer over the edge and notice a large log that attracts fish to its shadows.
Momo’s right-hand man lifts a tarp to uncover a trammel net, known as an ambaten in Hebrew. He releases the layered net, with metal weights on the bottom and red floaters on the top, to form a vertical wall in the water. Meanwhile, Momo uses the oars to row the boat one hundred yards across and then inward five times to create a spiral formation.
Once in the center, the secondary boat sculls around us. A crewman uses a toilet plunger to shock the water with loud sounds. The ruckus compels the fish to dive to the bottom, where they entangle in the net. The same method, the slapping of oars, has been used on the Galilee for thousands of years.
Then we sit in silence. Momo scans the surface. A bobble on a floater signifies a trapped fish. He points to a second with a half-grin. Momo announces, “Ya!” and the crewmen retrieve the net. The crew cheers when the first St. Peter’s fish, a kind of tilapia, flops inside a cooler.
The one-pound silver fish has a long dorsal fin resembling a comb. The Hebrew name for St. Peter’s fish is amnon, meaning “nurse fish” because the parents store their eggs in their mouths for two to three weeks until the eggs hatch, then watch over them afterward—an unusual, nurturing act for a cold-blooded creature.
The fish gets its nickname from a popular story in Matthew. The disciples arrive in the fishing village of Capernaum. A tax collector approaches Peter, because, at the time, every Jewish adult male must pay two drachma as a temple tax equivalent to a day’s wage. To test Jesus’s loyalty, the Pharisees ask Peter whether Jesus pays the tax. Peter insists Jesus is an upstanding taxpayer.
When Peter arrives home, Jesus greets him with a question: “From whom do the kings of the earth collect duty and taxes—from their own children or from others?”
“From others,” Peter answers.
“Then the children are exempt,” Jesus says. “But so that we may not cause offense, go to the lake and throw out your line. Take the first fish you catch; open its mouth and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and give it to them for my tax and yours.”
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Not only do the wind and the waves cater to Jesus’s command, but the fish also.
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Much like Jonah emerging from a fish’s mouth, this stunning act displays God’s power over creation. Not only do the wind and the waves cater to Jesus’s command, but the fish also.
The supernatural story is remembered whenever restaurant guests order a baked, broiled, or fried “St. Peter’s fish.” The only problem, from the perspective of local fishermen: this isn’t the breed of fish Peter caught.
The St. Peter’s fish feeds only on plankton, so catching the famous fish requires nets, not hooks. The fish Peter most likely pulled from the waters is the carp-like barbel, famed for the barbs on the corners of its mouth and commonly caught with a line.
The amnon probably earned the name St. Peter’s fish because it’s the best-tasting fish in the sea. The name change was simply good for tourism, and that’s why it remains a must-eat meal for visitors to the region.
When Momo’s crewmen finish retrieving the net, a handful of fish flop in the cooler. Ido appears thrilled by the variety—a pair of St. Peter’s fish and three different species of barbels. But Momo shakes his head in disappointment. The barbels earn forty cents a pound if you can find someone to buy them, whereas the St. Peter’s fish bring in two to four dollars a pound. When your livelihood depends on the sea and you and your employees labor for an hour to catch only two sellable fish, it’s a net loss.
But Momo refuses to give up.
He rows the boat toward the marshy shore, climbs out of the vessel, and walks in chest-deep water toward land, his eyes sweeping the surface for fish. From the rocky beach, he squints toward us, calling out in Hebrew.
The fishermen spring into action. They climb into the water with floating coolers filled with nets. In an act of kindness, one of the crewmen loans me his fishing waders. There’s not an extra pair for Ido. He strips down to his skivvies that look like Israeli lederhosen.
We march through the waters as the nets are lowered and linked to create a half-mile wall between the beach and the deeper water. Once the nets are set, a crewman plunges into the water to drive the fish into the wall.
I offer to take the plunger but am told there’s too much at stake. I try not to get in their way, snapping as many photos as I can without dropping my phone to its watery grave.
So that’s how I end up 6,941 miles away from home, slogging through watery marsh with four men who don’t speak a lick of English—and a fifth in his underwear.
Two hours later, when Momo and his men retrieve the nets, they haul in 150 pounds of St. Peter’s fish, well above and beyond the tiny catch they snagged earlier. That’s when I realize that the one on the beach recognizes something we cannot from the boats.
And from a heavenly vantage point, God always sees what we cannot.
How often I forget this in my spiritual life. When we rely on our own power, our eyes set on the goal. When we relinquish control, we become free to fix our eyes on God. Sometimes I become so obsessed with what’s before me, on the five meager fish in my cooler—or on a trip that isn’t following my original plan—that I fail to shift my gaze to the One who sees all things, who holds all things together, who remains all-powerful.
This tendency becomes more acute when, like the
fishing crew with a near-empty catch, I’m exhausted and frustrated and disappointed. In those moments I need the One who calls to the disciples from the shore. The One whose perspective is more expansive, whose ways are higher, whose plan is better, whose power is limitless.
Yet my spiritual eyes are only beginning to open to all God is revealing.
By the time we return to the harbor, Ido convinces Momo to give us the five fish from the original catch. I wait for Ido to drum up my next exaggerated career, but this time he tells the truth—I’m an author exploring food and the Bible. They seem just fine with that.
Later that evening, we gather around the family table once again enjoying the food and one another. I’m grateful for the fish and especially the fishing expedition. Mama Vered peppers me with questions about the experience. She’s proud of Ido for bringing home dinner.
The barbels, the less tasty choice, become a popular Jewish dish known as gefilte fish, which tastes like a slab of fishy meatloaf. I’m grateful I only took a small chunk. But this is one of Grandmother Esther’s favorite foods from childhood, so she goes back for seconds and thirds. I haven’t seen her eat this much any other night.
The prized St. Peter’s fish is served in a more familiar fashion. It’s broiled and served with an oversized, charred sweet potato. The fish’s thin skin peels away to reveal a flaky white filet, and the bones separate with ease. The gentle flavor comes alive with a twist of fresh lemon as the meat melts in my mouth.
If you’re ever given the choice between the two dishes, I recommend the St. Peter’s fish every time.