John tells us about four times when
Jesus appeared to his followers. First Mary Magdalene, at the empty tomb, when
she ran to tell Peter and that other disciple—the one Jesus loved—but it was
only Mary who saw him, and even she didn't recognize him, not at first, not
until he spoke her name in the crisp, morning stillness. The second and third times were to the
disciples, gathered at the house for dinner, doors locked for fear they were
hunted, and Jesus was just standing there, plain as day. One minute he wasn't
there, and the next he was—just like that! Right through a locked door!
He told Thomas he could put his hand in
his side, and in the holes in his hands, but Thomas just looked and said “My
Lord and my God!” And now, John tells us
one more story—it happened by the Sea of Galilee, which he called Tiberias. Seven
of his disciples were there—Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, and John and James—the Zebedee
boys—and two others. And Peter says “I'm going fishing” and the others think
it's a pretty good idea, so they pile into a boat and put to sea. And they fish
all night but don't catch even one measly little fish.
And
I don't know about you, but I can relate to not catching any fish. I mean, it's the story of my life—I can be
using the same bait, the same rod, the same reel, the same aftershave of
the fisherman right next to me, and he'll catch all the fish. I remember the
last time I went fishing with my family—my Dad and I spent the whole day motoring
around this little lake, not much bigger than the parking lot out
there, and my brothers spent the whole day in another boat, on the same little lake,
and guess who caught all the fish? So I know how the disciples must have felt—tired
and discouraged and hungry. But then
something truly strange happens—just after sunup, they look over at the beach and
there's this . . . man there. And we know it's Jesus, 'cause John tells
us, but the disciples don't know who he is. Just like Mary, and just
like on that Emmaus road over in Luke, his followers don't recognize him. And Jesus calls to them and says “Children, do
you have any fish?” and the disciples say “Nope” and he says “Cast the net to
the right side of the boat” and just like that, they do it. And what's amazing
to me is not that they catch fish—after all, it is Jesus, we're
talking about here . . . anybody who could heal the blind and walk on water and
raise Lazarus from the dead could certainly fill a boat with fish. No,
what's amazing to me is that they do what he says!
Here's this guy, they don't know who he
is, or what he is, and he says “Cast in your net on the other side, boys”
and they do it. Without any kvetching or whining or back-talk, they just
shrug their shoulders and do what they're told, and of course they haul in a
mess of fish, a hundred and fifty three of them, to be exact, because he is
the Son of God. Of course, now
they know him, now they recognize him, or at least the disciple Jesus
loves does. But note the sequence, the
order of events—first they obey him—which takes faith—then they recognize
him. Obedience, faith, comes before
the sign, before the miracle.
And only when they fish as he tells them
do they haul in a catch. And good old
Peter jumps right in, as he always does, like that other time in the boat, when
he walked across he waves . . . But this time he doesn't sink, he makes it to
shore, and finds Jesus frying up some fish, and after they've hauled their catch to shore, he sits them down,
there on the beach, and feeds them. And John tells us that Jesus comes and takes
the bread and gives it to them, and does the same with the fish. And it's no accident that the scene seems familiar, that the words John uses
resonate with us.
It reminds us of the feeding of the five
thousand, it has a sacramental feel, the feel of the Lord’s Supper, where we
are nourished for our mission, sent out to do the work of God. And, of course, that’s what this story is
about—the sending-out of the apostles to do the work of God.
It was Jesus himself who said “I will
make you fish for people.” And here Jesus is on the beach, not physically
with the disciples, but directing operations nonetheless. When they look to him,
they will be successful in doing the mission of God, even though he’s not with
them in body. But he's not far away—just
a hundred yards, says John—and in the breaking of the bread, in the communal
fellowship meal, they are reunited with their master. In their faith, their
obedience, and in the sharing of the bread and fish, they know him, there on
the beach in that Galilean dawn.
Finally, after breaking bread with his
followers, Jesus sends Peter to do God's work. “Simon, Son of John,” he says, “Do
you love me more than these?” And Peter seems indignant—“Yes, Lord, you know
I love you,” as if it’s self-evident, as if it’s beyond argument. Of course
I love you. Apparently, he’s forgetting the evidence to the contrary when he
denied Jesus three times in just one night. As if to remind him, Jesus asks the
same question three times. “Peter, do you love me more than these?”
“Yes Lord, you know that I do.” “Then
feed my lambs.” A second time: “Peter, do you love me?” “Yes Lord, you know
that I do.” “Tend my sheep.” And finally, “Peter, do you love me?” and now
Peter is hurt, and maybe just a little bit mad: “Lord, you know everything;
you know that I love you.” But Jesus’ reply is the same: “Feed my sheep.”
In
a way, this marks the reinstatement of Peter.
He’s goes from Mr. Squirming Three-Time-Christ-Denier to a position of
leadership. And it's clear what kind of leadership Jesus has in mind, and
it's not exactly leading God's armies against the powers of darkness. He's
asked to feed and to tend—in other words, he's asked to serve. And what will be
the reward of this service? Will it be a seat at the right hand of Jesus as he
rules in heaven? Will it be a mansion in the sky by and by? Will it be walking
down those heavenly streets of Gold? Well, it might be, but Jesus
doesn't say it here . . . What he says
instead is that Peter will suffer a terrible death, just as he did
himself. As my teacher Charlie Cousar
put it, the Christian life is no Horatio Alger story of obstacles overcome and
success achieved. It's dangerous and risky, and involves a loss of control as
life is given to Christ. It is fundamentally kenotic: a pouring out of one’s life for another. And Jesus' final command to Peter is: “Follow
me.”
The contours of Christian discipleship are laid out in our passage—its shape, its movement and its worth. It is the story of the church, of individuals bound in community, working together at a single task, in a single boat, with a single net. They work in harmony, casting the net and hauling in the catch, over and over and over again. And as the church looks to Jesus, as it casts its net as he directs, the fruits of its labor are overwhelming, they fill up the Christian boat to the sinking-point.
Albert Schweitzer wrote about this
passage, and he said “He comes to us as one unknown, without a name, as of old
. . . to those who obey him . . . he will reveal himself in the toils, the
conflicts, the sufferings . . . and they shall learn in their own experience
who he is.” It is through our discipleship,
through our obedience and our work that we come to know the Christ. Knowledge
of him comes from experience, from doing, as much or more than from books. And he calls us, the church, the community of
God, into his company, into the presence of the risen Lord, to eat and drink
with him, just as he did that day on the beach, and we are fed and nourished by
his abundance, only to be sent out once again as emissaries of Christ to a
suffering world.
And how is that mission to look? What is it to be all about? Peter is a model,
not only of Christian leadership, but Christian life and discipleship. Peter's
love for Jesus is translated into service, it is transformed into acts of
compassion. In the commissioning of Peter, Jesus equates Peter’s love for him with discipleship, servant-hood, with pouring himself out for the world just as
Christ did.
There's a shelter for the homeless at
First Presbyterian of Atlanta. Every
Sunday morning, the doors of the church open, and they file in,
shabbily-dressed, almost all men, a few hundred of the twenty thousand
street-people in that city. And the
director of the shelter said to me: “Most of these folks are not here because
they were laid off, or mainstreamed or had their home foreclosed or any other
reason like that. Most of them are here because they abused drugs, or alcohol,
or just because they have a problem with authority, and can't hold down a job.”
And I struggled with this concept
because like a lot of us, I was brought up with this notion of
cause-and-effect, that what goes around comes around, and that somehow, if we
mess up, or act badly, we get what we deserve. And in our economy, that makes a
lot of sense, and you hear it all the time—why should the money of people like
me, who work hard for a living, go to support those who don't? But our passage stands over against that
philosophy, because Jesus' command to Peter is absolute. It's cut and dry.
There are no conditions to Jesus' love. He
doesn't say “If their situation is through no fault of their own, feed my
lambs” or “have them fill out these forms in triplicate so we can means test
them, then tend my sheep” or “make sure their pre-tax income is below the
federal poverty level, then feed my sheep.” It's simply “feed my lambs." “Tend my sheep.” “Feed my sheep.” Brothers and sisters, Christ's followers are
called to continue his works of kenotic, self-emptying compassion. In a real way, we are called to be agents of
God's grace. And that grace is free, there are no conditions. No ifs, ands or
buts about it. Jesus tells us “Feed my sheep.”
Period. End of story.
But it's in the feeding, in the work and
sweat and toil, in the fellowship that we are nourished. It's in the sacrifice
and the suffering and, yes, the dying that we discover who Jesus is, and
experience abundant life in Christ.
Amen.
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