The angler and the saint
Thursday, September 3, 2026
Rob Sexton
When I took up fishing last summer, I had no thoughts of spiritual fruit. I wanted to find something to do with my family of eight, something that got us outdoors regularly and which could be enjoyed with minimal effort and investment (and, to be honest, minimal athletic aptitude required). While fishing has proven to be everything I hoped it would be for my family, I did not expect the interior effect I would experience from picking up a rod and reel.
I began fishing by picking a random spot with a random lure. I was hoping some combination of the two would result in a fish being momentarily, though unceremoniously, removed from its aquatic habitat so I could take a picture of it on a device with more computing power than what was required to land men on the moon. Yet that type of “throw and hope” fishing gets frustrating quickly, and I soon found myself gathering info to assist my transition from “a guy who fishes” to an angler (with the camera roll to prove it).
Countless factors contribute to a successful day on the water. Weather and wind patterns. The life cycles of the fish you’re after, as well as the fish and forage those fish eat… not to mention dozens of lure types that come in hundreds of color options.
It can be overwhelming. In fact, landing a single fish can seem as complicated as solving a Rubik’s cube.
It’s good practice to do some homework—checking weather, knowing if the fish are pre- or post-spawn—but no amount of tackle or high-tech gear replaces the fundamental lesson learned from hours on the water.
The biggest lesson I learned was: pay attention.
In late March, I was standing on a point, a steady 10 mph wind blowing directly into my face. Heavy mist forced me to clean my glasses with cold hands every few minutes. I was throwing a soft plastic worm that was too light for the conditions. My lure was at the mercy of the wind and, once in the water, was completely ignored.
Out of desperation, I swapped the worm for a lure I had never used and was deeply skeptical of. I sent the spinnerbait out with no great expectations, only to watch the heavy lure cut through the wind and plunge into the choppy water twenty yards farther than my best cast with the worm.
I reeled slowly, feeling the double blades vibrating, watching them flash while the white and chartreuse skirting pulsed.
The fish that took the second cast surprised me so much that I fumbled the rod in my hands like a hot iron. When I hooked another fish on the next cast, I felt like the caveman who had put a mammoth steak on the fire the first caveman had just discovered.
I would land six healthy, respectable largemouth bass that day, doubling my fish count from the entire year before. While my doubts about the spinnerbait were demolished, in their place a nagging question arose:
Why?
I spent the next day answering that question and found the answer elemental in its simplicity. The lake was telling me everything I needed to know, if only I had ears to hear.
I have always appreciated a definition of wisdom as something like “seeing the world as it truly is and acting accordingly.” It serves equally well as a description of prudence, the virtue that teaches us to perceive reality clearly so that we can respond to it rightly. It is one reason I have long been drawn to Ignatian spirituality.
Through practices like the Examen and his Rules for Discernment, St. Ignatius teaches us first to notice: to pay attention to what is happening within and around us, to recognize patterns and movements, and only then to decide how we ought to respond.
Fishing, unexpectedly, has been teaching me the same habit from the opposite direction.
It’s easy, even tempting, to get caught up in acquiring lures or spiritual practices, as though one more might finally unlock the secret. Both have their place, but neither the experienced angler nor the saint is distinguished simply by the number of tools at his disposal. Experience teaches something more fundamental: when to stop looking at the tackle box and start looking at the water. God’s still, small voice can be as subtle as a fish taking a lure and then remaining motionless. We can miss the subtle when expecting the dramatic.
The angler and the saint have learned first to listen, and then to respond to what they hear.
That March morning, I thought the wind was something I had to overcome. It had ruined my casts, chilled my hands, and churned the surface of the lake while I stubbornly tried to fish the way I had intended. Only later did I understand that the wind was not preventing me from fishing; it was telling me how to fish.
I had gone to the lake hoping to learn how to catch fish. I did not expect fishing to teach me how to listen.
In memory of Wendell Berry (1934–2026), who taught us to pay attention.
