FEW stories in the New Testament are as well known as this. Few go home more deeply to the heart of man. Most simple, most graceful is the story, and yet it has in it depths unfathomable. Great painters have loved to draw, great poets have loved to sing, that scene on the lake of Gennesaret. The clear blue water, land-locked with mountains; the meadows on the shore, gay with their lilies of the field, on which our Lord bade them look, and know the bounty of their Father in heaven; the rich gardens, olive-yards, and vineyards on the slopes; the towns and villas scattered along the shore, all of bright white limestone, gay in the sun; the crowds of boats, fishing continually for the fish which swarm to this day in the lake;—everywhere beautiful country life, busy and gay, healthy and civilized likewise—and in the midst of it, the Maker of all heaven and earth sitting in a poor fisher’s boat, and condescending to tell them where the shoal of fish was lying. It is a wonderful scene. Let us thank God that it happened once on earth. Let us try to see what we may learn from it in these days, in which our God and Saviour no longer walks this earth in human form. ‘Ah!’ some may say, ‘but for that very reason there is no lesson in the story for us in these days. True it is, that God does not walk the earth now in human form. He works no miracles, either for fishermen, or for any other men. We shall never see a miraculous draught of fishes. We shall never be convinced, as St. Peter was, by a miracle, that Christ is close to us. What has the story to do with us?’ My friends, are things, after all, so different now from what they were then? Is our case after all so very different from St. Peter’s? God and Christ cannot change, for they are eternal—the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; and if Christ was near St. Peter on the lake of Gennesaret, he is near us now, and here; for in him we live and move and have our being; and he is about our path, and about our bed, and spieth out all our ways: near us for ever, whether we know it or not. And human nature cannot change. There is in us the same heart as there was in St. Peter, for evil and for good. When St. Peter found suddenly that it was the Lord who was in his boat, his first feeling was one of fear: ‘Depart from me for I am a sinful man, O Lord.’ And when we recollect at moments that God is close to us, watching all we do, all we say, yea, all we think, are we not afraid, for the moment at least? Do we not feel the thought of God’s presence a burden? Do we never long to hide from God?—to forget God again, and cry in our hearts: ‘Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord’?