THE LAKE OF GENNESARETH

New Zealand Tablet, 20 January 1916, Page 22

THE LAKE OF GENNESARETH

(For the N.Z. Tablet by the Very Rev. Dean Power, Hawera.)

During the next five or six weeks the minds of Catholics will be directed to the lovely lake of Gennesareth, for round its borders were spoken the various parables that are read in the Mass of the Sundays after the Epiphany. There are lakes more picturesque and attractive to the eye than the lake of Gennesareth, but none more sacred and none that can move the heart more profoundly. Lugano and Como and Maggiore delight the tourist, and become the inspiration of many an artist's brush and the glowing theme of many a poet's song. The clusters of cypress trees that send their rich roots into the refreshing waters and seem to lift their aspiring heads into the sky, the chestnut forests that garland the glittering spires of so many churches, the laurel and bay and myrtle and wild-fig trees and flowery shrubs from whose midst the flashing caskets fall, make the lakes of Italy lovely beyond description. But the waters of the Sacred Lake that kissed the feet of Him Whose steps were beautiful along its borders, and that still so sweetly throw back their tremulous light in the evening hour, reflected in olden days the eyes of Divine Love, and in their divine solitude still stir such depths of feeling in the human heart as could not be awakened by all the scenic beauty of which the home of nature's beauty boasts. The luxuriant flowering groves of Killarney that island the lawny Hells made sacred by centuries of Franciscan song, and the islands of scarlet arbutus that shed the radiance of their own loveliness upon the waters make the lakes of Killarney inexpressibly delightful; but the tender memories of Him Who was the loveliest among the sons of men, and Who wrought there His greatest wonders, make the lake of Gennesareth inexpressibly holy. The light foretold by Isaias, that would enlighten the tribes of Zabulon and Nephtali dwelling by the lake, still radiates from its waters upon all the Christian generations. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: to them that dwelt in the region of the shadow of death, light is risen.' . , '■ ' ;;

--:—Nor is Gennesareth bereft of scenic beauty. The brilliant cities that once rose so gracefully along its sides are there no more there is scarce a ruin to mark their place, so utter has been their destruction; there is not one of those lovely vine-clad villas where wealth and beauty dwelt; yet every patch of its level, pebbly beach has its own sweet loveliness, every mile of its graceful hills is fragrant, its gently sloping sides are rich with purest green, gift of copious springs that counteract the influence of the burning sun; blushing pyramids of rosy-red and pink oleanders flash upon you from every nook and inlet, and faithful Hermon, that lifts his snowy head above the far-distant ranges of Lebanon, beholds at rosy morn and fading eve gleams and shades of light playing upon the bosom of the Sacred Lake as delicate and exquisite as the most exacting artist could desire.

Memory recalls one fragrant March evening when we gazed upon its pure and delicate tints and thought upon the wonders that had been wrought around it and upon it. Perhaps it is at sunset and after it the lake is most beautiful and inspiring. Then at least a mysteriousness beyond expression steals over the souls of those who gaze upon it. The hills that guard from the west the nestling lake are now stretching lengthening shadows across it, as if mother nature were drawing soft curtains around the couch whereon the Lord of All had often slept, while ever-faithful Hermon, his white head sparkling in the now ascending rays, gazes, like the Almighty Father, upon the resting place of the Eternal Son.

Twilight quickly comes, and as quickly gives place to the solemnity of night, and then the silent stars come twinkling one by —those same stars that so often gazed upon Jesus as He sailed at night over those same waters. Now every inequality in its outlines is toned down, and we can well understand why the Hebrews called the lake Chinnereth, or harp, for it has now the outlines of a great harp, and the shimmering waves beneath the starlight are like so many quivering strings. When in the first days of Israel's kingdom dark clouds threatened to overwhelm the spirit of Saul, young David would take down his harp and, sweeping its strings, sing of the great days of Judah, and the trust reposed of old in Jehovah, and the fidelity shown towards His altar; and while he sang, the peace of Heaven would descend upon the king, and brood, dove-like, upon his afflicted spirit and chase away every cloud of the evil one. So, too, every wind that plays upon the waters of this Chinnereth, that lashes it to fury or makes it gently ripple, recalls great and tender and consoling thoughts to every pilgrim who wanders along its shores. There is no feeling that does not find expression in the music that flows from that mystic harp, and there is no void or ache in the heart that it cannot satisfy and solace.

Oh, what songs of tender remembrance and holy resolves it sings ! Now for its theme it has the parables of the kingdom, first spoken from the barque pulled a little from the shore down there where we can see in the soft twilight. The recital has charmed the world in every age, as it charmed us that lovely evening; the unity of its sweet and simple images expressing the secret workings of divine grace in the soul. We hear the happy sower sing his morning song as he covers the ground with buoyant stride; and we mark the different vibrations of the good seed and the tares. We hear the growing movements of the little mustard seed that breaks the sod, and the music of the leaven is not silent. The bidding for the pearl of great price is heard, and the draw net along the sand, and the labor of the workers in the vineyard. Now the waves suddenly rise and sweep in their fury and we hear the cry: 'Lord, save us, we perish.' But above the storm, we catch the voice of Jesus: ' Peace, be still,' and in the midst of a great calm the only music the harp gives forth is the lapping of the sleeping waves around the keel of Peter's barque. Listen to that unearthly wail of the mourners weeping for the» daughter of Jairus dead in Capharnaum; but a

steady, commanding strain, seizes the instrument, and we hear the words of authority bidding the tumult cease, and then a - whisper, soft and sweet as ever ravished the heart of mourner: ‘ Talitha cumi' (Little maid, arise) and the heart of the mystic harp gives forth a burst of joyous song, as friends and parents take into their arms the little maid alive and well. A flash of alabaster, a wave of precious ointment, the drip, drip of falling tears, and the soft rustling of silken hair, and there within a stone’s throw, beneath those bold and picturesque cliffs, we see the village of Magdala, the birthplace and happy home of her innocence, who, in her days of repentant sorrow, washed and wiped and perfumed the feet of Jesus. But listen once again, the harp is sounding, and you hear the bleating of timid lambs and sheep. Oh, why are they so startled? Do they fear being scattered without a shepherd in the distant years to .come? But clear above the bleating is heard a strain of unshakable trust sustaining the voice of Jesus: Because thou lovest Me, Peter, feed My lambs, feed My sheep, be thou the shepherd over them.’ And the harp sings out the joy of lambs and sheep, and with-it the joy of all who know that by these words the ever-living Peter was invested with the supreme pastoral office in the Church. O Chinnereth, sounding harp of the Hebrews, how many bless thee for thy heavenly memories that harmonize so sweetly with their own fond hopes, and how many fall down captivated by the strains, renewed age after age, that flow from thee ! The lakes of Italy are lovely to the eye; the lakes of Killarney are beauty's home and a reflex of Eden, but the Lake of Gennesareth; stirs the founts of grace in the soul and bestows the gift of pious inspiration. ‘ Graceful around thee the mountains meet. Thou calm reposing sea! But ah ! far more, the beautiful feet Of Jesus walked o’er thee.’ We blessed it from our heart of hearts that evening as we watched the changing colors of the afterglow upon its own waters and then upon its lovely hills. That night we retired to rest in the Franciscan monastery, and while all else was dark, we could see through our window the red light in St. Peter’s Church, watching the mysterious Bread, foreshadowed by that which Jesus gave the people oh the hill-side a few hundred yards away, and wooing us to gentle sleep, we could hear the lapping of the waves beneath our window, as they lapped there long ago, when the miraculous draught of fishes was caught at the bidding of Jesus, and as they lapped in that same spot when Peter was given there the Supremacy over the Church of Christ. Early next morning we said Mass at the altar of St. Peter, and immediately after breakfast we set out to climb the steep, winding road that led to Cana and Nazareth. It was a beautiful morning that enveloped the enchanted lake, as we got a full and perfect view of it from the hill above Tiberias. The whole surface was rippling and breaking, as it were, into smiles to thank us for our pious pilgrimage.

Coming to the top of the Mount of Beatitudes, we turned to take our last look at the Sacred Lake. Only the northern end was visible, basking there in its own sparkling blue, set off all round with the green and gold and purple of the sloping hills, with snowy Hermon still gazing upon all. We recognised at once that it was from this spot Lady Butler made her fine sketch of her first view of the lake. We wonder was it here, too, that Jesus stood when He spoke His sad and terrible farewell to those cities on whose thirst for greed and for pleasure His miracles and His teaching had had little effect. * Woe to thee, Corazin; woe to thee, Bethsaida, for if in Tyre and Sidon the mighty works had been done that have been done in you, they would long since have done penance in sackcloth and ashes. And thou, Capharnaum, shalt thou be exalted up to Heaven? Thou shalt go down even to

hell. For if the mighty works had been done in Sodom that have been done in Thee, perhaps it would have remained till this day. But I say unto you, that it shall be more tolerable for :he land of Sodom in the day of judgment than for thee.' Has that curse fallen upon the cities of the much-loved and privileged lake; have these terrible words of farewell been fulfilled Rise up, Bethsaida, and speak Come hither, Corazin, and make reply ! But only wild reeds tremble, and dirty Arab tents are pitched where fair Bethsaida and proud Corazin stood. But wilt not thou, Capharnaum, speak out, thou the favored home of Jesus? Ah, no, for thou too wert faithless; and so utter is thy destruction, thy mouldering fragments are but a puzzle to the learned, while thou thyself art gone down to hell.