John 21:1-19
After [he appeared to his followers in Jerusalem,] Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.
Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They answered him, “No.” He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off.
When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me.”
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It is the season of Easter, and I wish it would feel that way.
One occupational hazard of being a pastor who plans worship according to the liturgical year is that sometimes you fool yourself into thinking that the world outside should act according to the liturgical season.
I want the world to feel like Easter right now. I want the world to be filled with only with resurrection. I want grief and death to obey liturgical time and go into hiding for a while so that I can just stand up here and preach life and hope and lilies and butterflies.
This is not how the world works.
Even in this time of resurrection, there is grief. Even in this time of Easter, we are still a mix of all of the stuff of this life, both joy and sorrow, anxiety, confusion, hope, hearts that are tired, hearts that seek a purpose. Easter is here, but life is still complicated.
For myself, I am grieving with dear ones who have recently suffered a miscarriage, and I am celebrating with dear ones who have just shared news of a pregnancy. I am feeling fulfilled from the conference I attended this past week and feeling the stress of coming back to the office after a week away. I am feeling enlivened by the lovely weather and sad and anxious for my children, who are both sick right now.
I’m a jumble, and I’ll bet you are too. It’s Easter, but it’s not all resurrection.
Into the mix, then, we add yesterday’s news of the death of Christian author Rachel Held Evans, at the ridiculously young age of 37. We read her book Inspired as the kick-off book for this year’s About the Bible book club; we had another of her books in the list to round out this spring. If you haven’t hear her or read anything by her, your homework assignment is to learn about her, to read at least one of her books - especially Inspired or Searching for Sunday, and once you do that, you will know for yourself that a gracious, thoughtful, insightful, inspiring voice of faith has left this earth way way way too soon.
One acquaintance, in grieving her death, said, “I wish we could all just gather together in a room and cry, and hold, and bake, and be with each other right now.”
Isn’t this, my dear ones, what the disciples have been doing for a full two weeks now? Even though they are surrounded by the mystery of resurrection, and they have seen Jesus, in the flesh, alive after death, the disciples are still a jumble. They still know the grief of watching Jesus die, the horror of it all, and they might know that resurrection is real, but it is still hurting their brains, because it makes no sense, and everything is still scary, and they don’t know what is going to happen next to Jesus, or to them, and they definitely don’t know what else they are supposed to be doing.
The only thing that resurrection has made certain for them is the absolute uncertainty of everything they thought they knew. So they just keep gathering together. In a room or on the beach. To cry. To hold. To head out in the boat. To bake some bread. To broil some fish. To be with each other.
This is why meal trains exist, right? Why casseroles appear on doorsteps when we are going through hard things; why we eat funeral lunches; why hospital waiting rooms fill up with plates of cookies as we hold vigil with those who watch and wait.
Because when there is nothing else to do, we show up for each other. And we bring food.
And Jesus gets it.
I mean, Jesus really gets it.
Things are pretty surreal for him right now, too. He can still feel the lashes of the whip across his back, and still remember the trauma and shock of being lifted on the cross, and his lungs still remember what it was like to take a last breath, and his limbs know the exhaustion and pain of laying at rest and then feeling the nerves firing all over again, and he has said goodbyes and hellos and popped in and out of locked rooms, and he’s hungry all the time.
And the only thing he wants to do is show up. To be with those he loves. To eat. To cry. To talk. To be.
Today, he’s the one tending the fire, cooking the fish, inviting the disciples to bring over even more of the impossible catch they have just hauled in.
And I imagine that as they sit together by that fire, listening to the waves lap against the shore, boat tied up and at rest, sunrise filling the sky and fading into the brightness of the day, I imagine that they don’t say very much. And that they speak in quiet voices, when there are things to be said. I imagine that everything feels like home, at least for that moment. They are together. In a normal place. Doing normal things. For a brief instant, it is as if none of that terrible stuff of death had ever happened. For at least a few bites of food, it feels like Jesus might never have to leave them again. That they might never have to head home, or to the market with all those fish.
But they can’t sit there all day. They eat the last bites of bread. Throw the last fish bones across the sand for the seagulls who have been pestering them. And if there is anything left that needs to be said, the time is now.
Jesus turns to Peter.
“Do you love me?”
I don’t think Jesus asks this to challenge Peter. Or to shame him. I think Jesus just wants to know.
“Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”
“Do you love me?”
He asks it again. Maybe he knows that his time with the disciples is finally, truly coming to an end. Maybe he needs to know that he means something to them, especially to Peter, the one who was always at his right hand.
“Yes, Lord. You know that I love you.”
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
A third time. Peter feels hurt.
“Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.”
And I think Jesus does know. I think Jesus has known all along. But knowing that you are loved doesn’t keep you from wanting to hear it, over and over again in this complicated world, where the powers of life and death get all mixed up, and everything is fragile. If you can know that you are loved, you can cling to a little corner of hope, a little flash of light, a tiny moment where everything makes sense.
“Feed my sheep,” Jesus says, brushing the crumbs from his lap.
Things are going to happen to you, Jesus says, even on this side of the resurrection, that will be hard. And terrible. Things that will make you wonder if the empty tomb means anything at all.
You can’t save the world. But you can show up. You can bring food to a hungry flock. And you can wash some feet. And you can light a fire in the sand and make breakfast for your friends when they have been awake all night feeling like failures.
“Tend my lambs and feed my sheep,” Jesus says. “Love one another as I have loved you.”
And so if Jesus makes a point, in his resurrection, to sit with the disciples, to eat with them, to share affirmations of love and comfort in tired voices, then what does it look like for us to be like him, to love as he loved, to be resurrection?
It means that we bring the casserole. Bake something. Sit with each other when things are too hard. Speak when there are things to say. Cry. Hold hands. Remind each other to drink water and take naps. Show up.
Jesus makes these acts holy. And life-giving. And resurrection-bearing. When things get complicated, when things in this life defy explanation, when nothing make sense…Jesus doesn’t try to explain anything.
He simply shows up. Promises us his presence, again and again. Comes among us to sit and eat.
This is what Jesus does every time we gather around that table. Altar candles are a poor substitute for a cracking campfire, and a taste of bread and wine is not quite the same as a feast on the beach, but we gather just the same. And we eat. And Jesus, in that bread and wine, shows up.
In this meal - together - we find comfort, simply in the presence of the one who loves us so much that he wants nothing more than to hear that we love him in return. We find life in a shared meal. We find hope in sitting together, watching the sun come over the waves.
And no matter what is left unknown, no matter what we have yet to face, for this moment, we are together, and we are resurrection, and we are at peace.