Lower your nets for a catch

DAY TWELVE

02.09.25 Fifth Sunday, Ordinary Time

“After Jesus had finished speaking, he said to Simon, ‘Put out into the deep water and lower your nets for a catch.’ Simon said in reply, ‘Master, we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing, but at your command, I will lower the nets.’ When they had done this, they caught a great number of fish and their nets were tearing. They signaled to their partners in the other boat to come to help them. They came and filled both boats so that the boats were in danger of sinking. When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at the knees of Jesus and said, ‘Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.’ For astonishment at the catch of fish they had made seized him and all those with him, and likewise James and John, the sons of Zebedee, who were partners of Simon. Jesus said to Simon, ‘Do not be afraid, from now on you will be catching men.’ When they brought their boats to the shore, they left everything and followed him.”

St Peter Claver was a Spanish Jesuit the majority of whose mission work was in Cartagena Colombia in the first half of the 17th Century. His calling took him through the city streets and out to the plantation camps, caring for the slaves who came over from Africa on ship. The sanitation on the ships was atrocious, many of the slaves purchased in Africa died en route to Colombia due to the disease, filth, and infection in the hulls where they were transported, mere cargo in the minds of the slave traders. St Peter would meet the ships at port bringing food and light into the dark womb of the ship. It is said that often his basket would fill up repeatedly as he tended and fed his sheep.

As he got older and was reminiscing on his ministry, he was exhausted. In his lifetime he catechized and baptized over 300,000 souls in his care. The people around him heralded him as a saint, and he demurred. “If being a saint means having a strong stomach, I just might be one.” He knew he was beyond his depth and whatever happened through him on those ships, in those camps, on those farms, had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the ministry of the Lord Jesus.

As I walk east on Market St today, I notice the bent figure of a young man behind the dumpster at the Bag o’ Crab restaurant. He’s working slowly and methodically as I pull my cart up to his on the sidewalk and join him at his task. “The name’s Thomas,” he says. “An employee just brought this bag out and gave me permission to dig through it before I toss it in the dumpster.” An Asian man pokes his head out the back door and acknowledges both of us. Thomas is earnest and thoughtful, his chest at the top of a fifty-five-gallon garbage bag, arms circling through the garbage of the restaurant. “I figure if I can pull a few cans and bottles out of the garbage, then I won’t have to eat what’s in the dumpster itself. These clothes can be washed and I can clean my hands but if someone has thrown away recycling, then what’s stopping me from picking it out and using it?” He shares in this manner and while I stand with him, he pulls out three water bottles. I take them from him, empty them of excess water, and place them in the bag of his recycling.

The whole time he was working, I was trying to get him away from the bag so I could give him some goods. It was all I could do to stand with him next to the dumpster full of day-old crab meal leftovers, and know this was his best option for sustenance. Finally pulling away, he and I walked the distance of the sidewalk down to the I-5 overpass where he was expecting to meet up with his lady. She wasn’t there. We chatted a while and he took provision for them both. There was an awkward moment when he reached out to embrace me palm to palm and a hug. It wasn’t until later I realized: he was trying to shield me from the crab juice on his person. In between his digging and our departing, I’d forgotten he was even dirty, though the smell of that dumpster is something I won’t soon forget.

I meet Josh a few meters away, he’s standing idle out of the weather. I’ve never met him before, but his eyes told a story. He took a few things and offered: “My wife works in Dallas as a health care provider, attending to a person in need three days a week before coming back up here. We don’t have a car so she gets a ride down there and comes back the same way. She probably loves it, being away from me while she works because being married is hard.” He offers professional information and continues: “I was a welder for twenty-two years and then the drugs nabbed me. I was in rehab for a while and don’t drink anymore but every once in a while I’ll go on a bender and the wife isn’t happy with me.” His eyes are honest, and he’s a bit nervous telling the why of his homelessness. “We’ve got some friends who help us out, but we don’t like bugging them, they don’t have much either.” I suspect he’s hit on a common theme in today’s world: those who have some capacity to help are watching that capacity shrink due to inflation outpacing salary increases. The poor helping the poor. We are going to have to get creative going forward.

Mere feet from Josh, Mindy is prepping a sign on a piece of cardboard spanning the top of her cart. As carts go out here, hers is well ordered: a box of toiletries in the front, clothes in the back, and a bit of food in between. She’s writing with a white marker, the message not yet formed since she’s working slowly. I ask her about the swelling in her face. “I’m just tired, didn’t sleep at all last night and maybe my face is showing it.” My previous interactions with her make me want to believe her. I can tell she’s feeling timid, asking “I know I took a banana, but I’d rather have an orange, can I trade the banana for an orange?” I look her in the eye but don’t say anything, putting two oranges behind the box. She puts her head down and returns to her sign.

Sometimes in situations like this, I will nudge the person I’m with away from their shame: “No way, I need all those oranges in the cart, once you’ve made your choice, there’s no going back…” or something to that effect with and they get it. There has to be some real way to undercut the shame and guilt, to open the other to the reality of a gracious and loving Father. It often brings joy into a joyless space. Today I could tell Mindy wasn’t in the mood so I didn’t push it. Just standing with her while she crafted her sign was enough.

Out in front of the businesses south of the Bottle Drop, there’s a Hispanic woman with three tables of goods forming a U covering two parking spaces under a pop-tent. An opportunity to practice my Spanish. All of the wares for sale are hand-knit yarn: dolls of St Jude and Our Lady of Guadalupe, bouquets of roses, and footballs. I inquire about pricing and we land on a miniature doll of La Madre for $15. I hadn’t noticed the distinction but she wanted me to get the perfect one, pointing out the different shades of green on the mantle of my three options. She wraps the one with the darkest green tilma in a tiny pink bag and I tuck it in my backpack. As I write, this mini soft statue of our Mother sits on the window sill in my kitchen, overlooking all the activity.

I stood outside the Bottle Drop a while next to an abandoned baby stroller on the entrance sidewalk, waiting for its owner to appear. An elderly lady drove up to the curb on her cart and struggled to lift her bag from the cargo basket while another woman threw her bags into the opening in the side of the building, the spring-loaded door of the hatch pressured against her back. There are two ways to redeem recyclables at this location: enter the facility and deposit them one by one or drop them off in a large green bag and get money applied to a card after a percentage is taken. These women were taking the second option. After a brief exchange, the elderly woman hands me her bag and I hold back the door so the younger woman can deposit her bags in peace.

Kristina, Ty, and a few other young men stand outside the paper shredding business next door to the Bottle Drop. Kristina and I greet one another since I haven’t seen her in a long time. She’s holding a tiny dog in her arms and asks if she can have a bottle of water for the dog. “We’ve only been given seltzer water recently and probably shouldn’t be giving that to the dog…she’s not going to drink it anyway.” As we talk, I notice each of them has some Chick-Fil-A they’re munching on, kindness of a driver passing through.

Ty’s got an infection on one of his fingers wrapped in bandages. It looks like he’s doing a good job keeping it clean; I give him some alcohol wipes and bandages for when he needs to revisit the wound. These folks mull through the cart and take a few useful items, snacks for later. Kristina asks if she can choose some for Richard and I recall seeing him last night on my way home from a fundraiser I was attending in Mt Angel. It was about 10 pm, and I noticed the melancholy gait, his blanket covering him as he crossed Sunnyview at Lancaster. It was the same downcast version of Richard I had seen before when he was sick or lamenting a recent police intervention in their living situation.

Trenton I’ve seen in multiple spots today, he’s walking around the neighborhood. He’s heading east in the Walgreens drive-thru when I finally chase him down. “Have you seen Desiree?” This had been his primary concern the last couple of weeks when I’ve seen him, where she might be. I tell him I haven’t seen her anywhere.

His distinguishing mark today is a machete hanging along his right pant leg, firmly grasped in hand. One side of the twenty-four-inch blade is serrated and the other sharpened smooth. He asks for a bottle of water and pokes a hole in it with one of the teeth on the knife. He’s in a goofy mood and while we talk, he sprays me constantly by squeezing the bottle, a forceful stream exiting the hole. He’s delighted at his new weapon and laughs while hitting my chin and jacket. I see him later at a crosswalk; he looks menacing with the knife. I hope he will discard it sooner rather than later.

Eddie’s overlooking the camps in the big swath of wilderness between Hawthorne and I-5 north of Sunnyview. We talk awhile, he’s getting ready to walk down to Lancaster and get some food and mentions how hard it is to help people out here. “I try to help out wherever I can, but sometimes, people aren’t interested and you can’t help them.” He motions to the tent in front of us. “I wouldn’t go near that tent right now, the two in there are in a pitched fight, and have been for a long time now.”

Shortly after he says this, a frail young woman stumbles out of the tent, sobbing. Katelynn is her name, and if I were to guess she’s in her late teens. Eddie takes off down the street and I engage her: “I’m so tired, I gave him my methadone dose for today and he’s being such an ass. I can’t do this anymore, I’ve ‘died’ eight times and they’ve brought me back each time and I’m trying to get off the fetty but nothing works.” With fentanyl overdoses, people “die” all the time, only to be brought back by the intervention of medical care. I don’t know if this is actual death or lingering on the edge of it, but that’s how addicts describe it. She sobs and sobs, my hand on her head.

I’ve met her boyfriend before, a young man named Brandon who goes by Wiener on the streets. He emerges from the tent; with reserved rage, he looks me right in the eye. “Will you take her with you? Just take her.” They continue back and forth with their spat in my presence and all I can do is pray for them. I want Katelynn to remain with me, to share more of her pain, but these two are hooked together in a pain that doesn’t allow anyone else in. Brandon begins heading south toward Sunnyview, Katelynn at his shoulder railing at him.

I began today’s meditation about St Peter Claver and the vast success of his ministry. I wonder about the failures of his interventions with the slaves, the ones whose trauma was so deep he had to walk with them for years and pray for their conversion which maybe never came. Were those true failures, or was the Lord teaching St Peter humility within his ministry? I’m just musing here, standing in the reality of my current interaction with the poorest of my neighbors. They are children of our eternal Father and He waits patiently for their return to Him.

I think the witness of Peter Claver’s ministry goes beyond success and failure; it speaks of a love that cannot be quantified in earthly terms. He went and spent time in the slave boats ministering to the people newly in his care, those who the people around him judged as less-than-human. When Jesus says to Simon Peter in today’s gospel, “Do not be afraid, from now on you will be catching men,” He’s aware of the size and breadth of the catch He will provide. Through St Peter the apostle, Peter Claver, and all the Saints, Jesus is loading ships and ships of souls for their journey to Him. All I’m doing is trying to respond to His call and put more souls on these heavenward vessels.