In the Gospel, we see neither the dominance of man over beast nor worship of the awesome ocean swell. Rather, nature moves these fishermen to something greater—Jesus Christ, the power of God, the wisdom of God, the author of all nature.
There’s nothing like a good fish tale. Man grappling with nature. The allure of the vast ocean. The earnest exaggerations of a man with skin sunburnt and leathered by time. And this summer one of our era’s biggest and boldest fish tales turns 50.
Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, an adaptation of Peter Benchley’s 1974 novel of the same name, has now terrified beachgoers for five decades. And while the title typically conjures up images of bloodied shorelines, gripping dolly-zooms, and small-town woes, it is, at root, one incredible, larger-than-life fish tale. After all, nearly half the film’s 124-minute runtime is simply three men in a boat.
From the three men, two attitudes emerge; that of Quint, a professional fisherman, and Hooper, a world-leading shark expert. When they’re not comparing scars or debating fishing techniques, they’re each delighting in the thrill of the catch, but each for different reasons. Quint can’t help but respect the fish, yet obsessively seeks to dominate it. Hooper is simply enamored. He’s enraptured and tries to deify nature’s terrible beauty.
In truth, both men get it wrong—or at least they miss the bigger picture. The best fish stories catch our attention because they remind us of our struggle against nature—and the Great White Shark (Carcharodon Carcharias) may be nature’s greatest contender. It is an awful fish, in the fullest sense of the word. Hooper describes it as nothing less than a miracle of evolution, single-minded in its task to “swim and eat and make little sharks, and that’s all.” Nature’s power is awful—it demands fear and respect. And yet the true heart of any great fish story isn’t just man versus beast—it’s man’s confrontation with nature’s terrible beauty that leads him to something deeper.
Consider another fish tale. Jesus Christ on the sea of Galilee calls out to his first disciples and tells them to set out into the deep, drop their nets, and wait for a big catch (see Luke 5:1–5). Here we see creation’s raw force, the awful sweep of an unbelievable catch nearly pulling the fishermen into the depths.
These men were afraid, and rightly so. Nets are tearing, the boat is sinking, and the catch is truly shocking. And for a fisherman, it’s perfect—not only does he walk away with a fortune and an unbelievable story, but he has a whole shoal of fish to back it up. Yet Peter neither delights in the catch nor wears the mischievous joy that comes with a story of incredulity. He falls at Christ’s feet and repents. Fear of too great a good has driven him to his knees.
In the Gospel, we see neither the dominance of man over beast nor worship of the awesome ocean swell. Rather, nature moves these fishermen to something greater—Jesus Christ, the power of God, the wisdom of God, the author of all nature. He tells a man whom even the fish obey, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.” And Jesus Christ, the wisdom of God and the power of God, the author of nature, offers a response of love. He tells an overwhelmed Peter, “Do not be afraid” (Luke 5:8–10). Jesus manifested a power that surpassed even nature. Fear provoked reverence, a reverence that finds true rest in Christ alone.
Nature can terrify us. It forces us to face our own mortality. It reminds us how small and dependent and fragile we really are. But if we let it, the power of nature can provoke us into a reverence for the one who made it.
So yes, fear nature, but let that fear provoke love.
Rather than dominate or deify nature, dwell on it. Delight in it. But then keep going. The Great White Shark is a true force of nature. It’s a species unrelenting and unchanged for 70 million years. Yet, where was this ancient behemoth at the foundation of the world (cf. Job 38:4)? Its sheer power and perfection strike awe. But what is a Great White to a God that led the Leviathan on a fishhook (cf. Job 41:1)? If nature is great, and awful, and worthy of our fearful attention and love, how much more the author of nature?
This summer, go back into the water. Fear the depths and let that fear carry you deeper—to the one whom even the wind and sea and fish obey. You are, after all, called out into the deep, to a terrifying, exhilarating, and very great catch.
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Republished with gracious permission from Dominicana (July 2025).
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Image: Jaws, detail (public domain)
