Keepers of the Flame (John 14:22-31)

Ever since Easter, we’ve been dipping into the Gospel of John. The first couple of readings were post-resurrection appearances —one in the upper room with Thomas and the others, the other on the beach where he cooks his followers a little fish breakfast. The last two weeks have given us pre-resurrection stories, motivated in part by the need to squeeze as much of a fourth Gospel into a three-year lectionary as possible. But in addition, these scriptures provide a look at what Jesus’ ministry is all about from John’sperspective, which is very different from that of the other three Gospels.

One of the reasons it’s so different is the time in which it was written: some ten to twenty years after the other three. The Christian landscape had been changing rapidly since the crucifixion; many, diverse interpretations of the Jesus phenomenon were floated and many sects—some small and some larger—rose and fell. We think there were many gospels written during that period, some—like the Gospel of Thomas—with very different conceptions Jesus and his mission.

Because of all this change, the environment in which Matthew, Mark and Luke were written was very different than when John was written, only a couple of decades later. The first three were written just before and just after the failed Jewish uprising of 70 C.E. As one Biblical scholar put it, they are war-timedocuments—within them, you can read material anticipating and reacting to this tragic and cataclysmic event. The Gospel of John is a very different animal, in part because it was written in Ephesus—far from the Jerusalem nexus— afteranother critical event: the eviction of the Christian house-church communities from the Ephesus synagogue. This conflict with the Jewish religious establishment provides the context for the Farewell Discourse, the teaching Jesus gave at the last Supper, which appears only in John. The disciples’ questions in the discourse reflect questions members of John’s community had, and Jesus addresses members of the house churches at the same time he does his own disciples.

And none of the questions reflect that situation better than the one from Judas—notthatJudas, he’d already left—which begins our passage: “Lord, how is it that you will reveal yourself to us, and not to the world?” It must have been a question much on the minds of John’s Ephesus community, especially in the face of Jewish non-acceptance of the gospel—why did they reject you, Lord? More to the point, how is it that you reveal yourself to us, but not to everyone else? His disciples had believedbecause he’d revealedhimself to them; why hadn’t he done so with everyone else?

Another way to put this question, and it makes more sense in terms of an excluded minority: why do you favor us, Lord? What makes us special enough to receive your special blessing? It must be ‘cause we’re more righteous, more holy, more faithfulthan those whom you have not favored by this revelation. After all, it was their own communitythey’d been cast out of, they were all Jews, there must be somereason . . . John’s Ephesus community needed the answer at leastas much as Judas did sixty years before. They were trying to construct an identity that was different fromand superior tothose who’d thrown them out. It was about community self-esteemas much as anything.

But Jesus doesn’t answer either Judas or any future member of John’s community, at least not directly. The disciples are speaking on one level—that of the kosmos,the world, the powers and principalities—and Jesus is speaking on another, a more spiritual level. This happens a lotin John. And the effect here,as it often is, is to undermine the question by ignoring it—there’s something more important than strengthening egos, than building up walls between us and them. And it’s what those who love him—aka, his followers—do when they arehis followers.

Another way to put it is: Judas asks what sets them apart, what makes them worthy to be chosen, to be revealed-to, and Jesus turns it around and tells them what they will do if they are his followers. Never mind those others, he’s saying, never mind what they might do or what they might lack, that’s none of your business. Whoever truly loves me, whoever is my disciple, keeps my word. And notice that it’s not a command, particularly, not a “you’d better keep my word or else,” it’s simply descriptive. Those who are like thatdo this,like if they’re horses, they run; if they’re accountants, they count; if they love me, they keep my word.

Of course, Jesus isn’t stupid, he knowsthat this will set his disciples to fretting about how well they’re keeping his word: they thinkthey love him, they feellike it, anyway . . . and hadn’t they followed him all over kingdom come?Isn’t that a strong indicationthat they love him? Doesn’t that proveit in a way? And just what does he meanby “keep his word,” anyway? “Keep” can have several, overlapping meanings . . . it can mean “guard,” as in “protect” or “preserve,” or “hold onto” as in “I’m keeping this for myself.” But it can also mean “obey” or “observe” as in observe the law. Only in John does Jesus use the term “keep my word,” and it seems to encompass all of these senses, with the emphasis on “observe” or “hold to.” Thus, Jesus seems to be saying “those who love me follow my teachings,” and since so much of Jesus’ teachings are encoded in his ministry, in his actions,keeping his word amounts to “live as I taught, both in word and in deed.” Those who love me live out my teachings.

But even though what Jesus says no doubt makes his disciples—both in Judas’ and John’s times—a little nervous, I don’t think that’s Jesus main purpose here. I think his primary purpose is pastoral,he’s consoling his disciples—both during his own time and in John’s—who have been confronted with the fact that he is soon to leave them. Remember last week? In our discussion of the “great commandment?” He knewthat even though his disciples didn’t fully understand, they would be bereft and bereaved, saddened and grieving at the news. They’d had such hopes, such dreams, even if some of them were misguided . . . and Jesus had compassion for them so that he called them his “little children . . . I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, but . . . where I am going you cannot come.” And much that comes after can be read as Jesus’ compassionate reassurance that (a) they will see him again eventually and (b) he will not leave them without resources.

And that last is the theme of our passage today: Jesus is telling them how it is to be after he has physically left the planet, and reassuring them that they will notbe—and in the case of John’s Ephesus congregants, that they are not at the time—alone. In fact, God and he will come to them and make their home with them. Jesus will say this in different ways in the remainder of John’s gospel: he urges his followers to abide in him as he abides in them. He tells them that he is in God the Father, and in the same way God and he are in them.It speaks of a radical mutuality, an intimateindwelling of God and Jesus and human beings.

And what is the vehiclefor this indwelling, this stunningly close relationship to the divine? It’s theParaclete, whom God will send, and in our version it’s translated as “the Advocate,” but it could just as easily be “Comforter” or “Helper.” The Greek word “Paraclete” means “one who goes alongside to help;” Jesus identifies it as the Holy Spirit, and can you see the beginnings of the Trinity? That doctrine, famously notin the Bible, pictures the God-head as consisting of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Here, the Father and the Son—Creator and Savior—make their home within one who loves the Son, and the Holy Spirit advocatesfor them, mediates between them. And the Spirit, this indwelling entity, sent by God the Father, will teach them everything and remind them of all that God the Son has taught them. After all, as Jesus has told them already the Spirit is the Spirit of truth, and abides within them.

And you know? Maybe this gives an idea of what it means to love Jesus . . . he hinted at it over in Matthew: “Just as you did it to the least of these . . . you did it too me.” Here in John, he fleshes it out a bit: if God—Christ, Creator and Comforter—is in each of us—in allcreation, as Paul put it, holding it all together—then is not loving one another, loving all of creation,loving Christ? Howsoever you’ve loved the least of these, you have loved me.

Jesus is drawing a pictureof what life will be after he is gone. It’s one of radical unity, stunning intimacywith the divine in all its aspects—God the Creator, God the Savior and God the Advocate, dwelling within the believer, within those who lovehim. Far from leaving his followers orphans—in his own time, in John’stime and in our own—we are endowed with a divine light, a holy fire, that can help us to see and do the Lord’s will. Those who love him keep his word, but we’re not to do it alone, nor are we to do it without help. As Paul said “there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!”

Sothisis the peace Jesus leaves for us, thisis the peace he gives us: that we will never be without his presence, we will never be without his guidance, if we just trust that God is alive and present and within. So, do not let your hearts be troubled and do not let them be afraid. Amen.

One Thing to Rule Them All (John 13:31-35)

Did you ever notice that Jesus speaks about himself in the third person a lot? It’s most apparent when he talks about the Son of Man, as in this passage: “Now the Son of Man has been glorified,” he says, “and God has been glorified in him.” And of course, he himself is the Son of Man, he’s referring to himself. And the phrase is of enormous importance in the New Testament; Jesus uses it some 80 times; he only calls himself the Son of God, like, twice, and it’s in the same place.

But despite the apparent importance of “Son of Man,” nobody really knows what Jesusmeantby it, other than as a reference to himself. The debate among biblical scholars has been going on for almost 200 years: is it a Messianic title,an honorific like “Messiah” or indeed “Son of God?” Or is it descriptive, is Jesus calling himself just another human being, as in Son of Humanity, or perhaps thehuman being, the archetypical, modelhuman being?

In addition, nobody but Jesus—and several times, the author of a gospel, aka the narrator—callshim that. There’s no outside recognition that he is Son of man like there is regarding Son of God. After he walks on the water, the disciples don’t say “Truly you are the Son of Man,” nor do the demons exorcised from the Gadarenes shout “What have you to do with us, Son of Man?” They all call him “Son of God;” Son of Man is an entirely self-described . . . name. Or title. Or whatever it is. 

But whatever it means, Jesus uses it in our present scene, which takes place at what would be called the Last Supper. And it’s kind of a transition between the scene with the foot-washing, and Peter’s reluctance to have his feet washed, and what scholars call the farewell discourse, Jesus’ last teaching before the crucifixion. And just before our passage Judas leaves the table to betray him to the religious authorities for, it is said, thirty pieces of silver. And right after our passage, Jesus foretells that Peter would betray Jesus, denying him not once, not twice, but three times.

So our passage is embedded in betrayal, it’s soaked in it . . . we cannot escape the fact that the commandment to love one another is forever colored by it . . . and when that first betrayer Judas goes to sell him out, Jesus says “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him.” Note the past perfect tense: the Son of Man has beenglorified, and God has beenglorified in him. It’s not, as is often assumed, the crucifixion, which was yet to come . . . was it the betrayal itself? The abandonment? Or was it, as some folks say, all that has come before, all the signs that point to Jesus’ character, and through him, that of God?

At its root, glorymeans reputation, and to be glorified means to acquire good reputation. When it refers to God,it takes on aspects of heavenly splendor and the wonders of God’s kingdom. So when Jesus refers to God’s glorification and his own, he’s referring to the manifestation and recognition by the world of their proper heavenly status. And how ironic isit that it is through betrayal and the cross that this occurs? Thus, Judas’ disappearance into night while plotting betrayal the anticipation of Peter’s denial are not unfortunate, extraneous additions to the story of Jesus’ glorification. Death and betrayal belong to the core of Jesus’ glory.

So it’s only fitting that after announcing his glory, Jesus immediately announces his departure. And such is his compassion for them that he tenderly calls them—grown men every one—“little children.” Where I’m going you cannot come, little chidden, and immediately they start to wonder where that might be: some far off land, perhaps, or another city? They’d steadfastly refused to listen when he’d told them about his arrest and execution, they must’ve thought he meant a physical place.

And in fact, Peter asking that question—Lord, where are you going?—leads to the prediction of his betrayal. But first, Jesus gives them one last command: Love one another, just as I have loved you, you should which has generated debate almost from the beginning. After all, Leviticus 19:18, part of the Hebrew Law, had alreadycommanded Israel to love its neighbor as itself; just exactly what was new?Was it a difference in kind,a different typeof love that Jesus commanded? Augustine thought so . . . another theologian, Cyril of Alexandria, said “no, it’s a difference in degree.” The law said love others as ourselves, Cyril said, but Jesus took it one notch further by telling us to love one another as he loved us.And being Jesus, his love was of coursemuch more intense love than ours . . . 

Another, more practical problem is that the command is to love one another, that is, other believers.This conflicts with other versions—Matthew’, Mark’s and Luke’s say love your neighbor—and stories, like the Good Samaritan in Luke, not to mentionthe love-your-enemy passages. In those texts, Jesus is clearly speaking of, anddemonstrating,a love for those outside the “family,” a love beyond our own backyard.

Perhaps this is a hint as to what’s newin the command: this is a command—a plea,really—to practice love within themselves..Jesus is establishing a new communitywith this command, a community defined and centered around just one thing: love. In fact, it’s how everyone will know that this community is his,that those within it have love one for another.

Almost from the beginning, the church started to move away from that one criterion. The earliest creeds of the Church mention things you have to believe in, but rarely things you have to do. The Apostle’s Creed is the oldest one, put together from sayings in the Gospels and hymns of the early church. Does it mention love, a defining mark of the church community? No.

Over the years, entire listshave been drawn up of things you have to believe to be a Christian. The most famous recent examples are lists of five—or sometimes, six—essential Christian beliefs that circulated in the early 20th Century. These lists were called “fundamentals” and were, in fact, where the term “Fundamentalist Christian” came from. If you didn’t believe all the items on the list, you weren’t considered a Christian. Here’s one such list: the virgin birth, substitutionary atonement (that’s the notion that Jesus substituted for us to satisfy God’s wrath), the resurrection of the body, the miracles of Jesus, and the inerrant nature of God’s Word. Notice that not one of them mentions love at all, much less love thy neighbor or one another.

On the surface, Jesus’ instructions to love our fellow Christians—and our neighbors and our enemies—seem almost impossible. How can we love people who dismiss us, who oppose us, or simply rub us the wrong way? It seems that in any group, there are going to be folks we just don’t get along with, much less like. As always, Jesus shows us the way: what he’s talking about isn’t emotion, it’s action.In John, they’re called signs:changing the water into wine. Feeding the five thousand. Healing the man blind from birth. And here, in the last days of his life, washing one-another’s feet—aka servingone another—and, ultimately, dying for one another.

Maybe that’s why Christians have taken to measuringour Christian-ness via sets of dry, sterile beliefs. Maybe this loving one another business is just too hard—or in the case of foot-washing, too icky. But of course, that’s just another sign, a pointer to the kind of self-effacing, self-sacrificing action Jesus is talking about. And besides, we don’t have to do it by ourselves: Jesus is with us, around us and most importantly, within our hearts. Amen.

Plain Talk (John 10:22-30)

Americans love the idea of “plain speaking,” of not-beating-around-the-bush, of saying what you mean . . . if you Google the phrase “plain talk” you get all kinds of responses, as people invoke the aura of straight-forward communication for whatever project they’re pushing . . . you get “Plain talk on Ecology,” “Plain talk about spanking,” “Plain Talk about Child Immunization” . . . then there’s “Plain Talk on Investing,” “Plain talk on the genetic issue” – whatever thatis – and “Plain talk about Plain talk.” Ok, I made that last one up.

The point is, we all value straightforward speech, unadorned language, to-the-point communication . . . and it can be exploited, can’t it?  The most obvious example are politicians . . . they know we fancy it and try to exploit it so that the “plainest talkers” – or those who can simulate it – are sometimes the ones who get elected, whether they have any ideas or not.  Of course, the reality in political speech is usually the just the opposite, with artful obfuscation and devious run-arounds not only the rule but almost an emblem of honor.

So.  Is that what we’re dealing with here?  Do the religious authorities – or the Jews, as John calls them – really want Jesus to tell them plainly whether he’s the Messiah or not?  Do they really want to be told yes or no, yay or nay, da or nein?  Or could it be that they’re trying to set him up, to trap him and get him to say something that’ll get him in trouble, or even worse?  You have to remember that when John says “the Jews,” he’s not referring to the Jewish people as a whole, but to their leadership, to the chief priests and scribes . . . and in those days – as well as today – you didn’t get to be in the hierarchy without playing the politics just a little bit . . .

John’s not going to tell us straight out, that’s not his style, and in the few lines just before our passage, he indicates it could go either way “the Jews,” he says – again referring to the leadership – “were divided because of Jesus’ words.  Many were saying he has a demon and is out of his mind . . . others were saying “these are not the words of one who has a demon.  Can a demon open the eyes of the blind?”  It seems that the religious authorities were not all of one mind, that some considered him a demon-possessed crackpot and other thought he might really besomebody, that he might have some merit.

One thing was certain: they were afraid of Jesus, either that he’d siphon off some of their power or—perhaps more realistically—that what they saw as his rabble-rousing ways would bring the Roman authorities down on them.  After all, Caiaphas, the high priest that year, would later tell their high council that it’s “better to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed.”

The setting of the story is rife with political overtones . . . it all takes place at the festival of the Dedication—Hanukkah, in Hebrew—which celebrates the Maccabean revolt, when the brothers Maccabeus retook the Temple from the Syrian King Antiochus Epiphanes by military force and rededicated it to the Hebrew God.  And to top it off, Jesus is walking along Solomon’s portico, named after one of their greatest kings, second only to David, of course.  So things royal and revolutionary are certainly on everybody’s minds, and when they ask Jesus to tell them plainly if he’s the Messiah, Jesus gives what seems to be a plain answer: “I have told you and you do not believe.”  But . . . just when has he told them? Up until that point, the only person to whom Jesus has acknowledged it straight out has been the woman at the well.  So perhaps he’s not given them as plain an answer as it seems.  In fact, it’s not inwordsthat he has spoken but inworks: when Jesus says “I have told you,” he means with acts of healing, feeding, and restoration, “signs” that, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, clearly declare who he is.  These signs testifyto him—and there’s that word we talked about several weeks ago, martyr, which by the time John was written had come to be associated with sacrificial death, and is this a little artful foreshadowing, reminding the congregation for which John wrote about what deed would ultimatelyshow who Jesus was?

Whatever the case, the word testifyis also a legal term, so Jesus is implying that the works he does in God’s name makes a case strong enough to stand up in courtabout who he is.  His works are evidenceabout who he is.  It reminds me of the time over in Matthew and Luke when John the Baptist’s disciples come up to him and ask him straight out “Are you the one who is to come?”  Jesus says, “Tell John what you see and hear.” Talk’s cheap, he’s saying, it’s my actions that tell the tale.

Well.  The folks asking Jesus to give them a plain answer have seen all the signs, they’ve seen all the evidence yet they stilldon’t know the answer, they still don’t believe, and why?  Jesus says it’s because they don’t belong to his sheep, they aren’t members of hisflock.  And here’s where it pays to have a sense of what has come just before this passage: it’s the shepherd discourse wherein Jesus declares himself the “good shepherd” who lays down his life for his sheep.  The sheep follow him because they know his voice, because theyknow himjust as heknows them, just as God knows him and he knows God.  It’s a profoundly relational metaphor, and not exactly a royal one, as would befit a messiah in the line of the house of David.  It’s not exactly a king-and-subject relationship . . . 

And it may be that that’s why they want him to tell them once and for all: we’ve heard all this gobbledygook about you being the shepherd and your flock knowing you and you knowing the flock, and so let’s cut the bull: areyou or are you notthe Messiah?  And the answer Jesus gives them is that they cannot understand, they cannot believe, because they are not members of his flock.   Jesus knowshis sheep and they know him, and here, knowing means much more than just an intellectual acknowledgement of a fact. It’s a deepknowing, a trustful-knowing.  Sheep knowtheir shepherd and so will follow him. 

Somebody asked Louis Armstrong to define the rhythm known as “swing,” and he famously replied, “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”  His point wasn’t to exclude anyone from understanding swing; rather, his point was that “asking about it” isn’t the path to understandingit.  On the contrary, the way to understand swing is to hear it, to move with it, to get a feel for it. In the end, swing really isn’t something that can be explained; it has to be experienced.  I think Jesus’ point in this story is similar.  When it comes to his messiah-ship, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, there’s plenty of evidence on the table—his teaching and feeding and healing.  But that’s just it: without those eyes and ears, no amount of evidence or argument will do.

And how does one acquire those eyes and ears, how does one become one of Jesus’ flock,so that they will know whether he is the Messiah or not?  Well, just as would-be swing aficionados have to experience the music, so do would be believers: they have to listento Jesus, movewith him, get a feelfor what he is saying.  They have to spend time with his word, live as he lived, followwhere he leads.  And once they do that, once they’ve gained those eyes to see and ears to hear, they don’t have any problembelieving the evidence.  Just look at Simon Peter, who’d tramped all over Palestine with the master: when Jesus asked him who does hesay that he is, he replied “You are the Messiah, the Son of God.”  (He didn’t understand what that meant, but that’s another sermon.)

And what is engendered by all this tramping and following and living?  What is it that his sheep acquirewhen they give themselves over to the Christ, that Jesus called eyes to see and ears to hear?  Why, its nothing more than faith, nothing more than trust. And for those who don’t have it, no amount of evidence or argument will do. Claims have their counterclaims; signs have their skeptics.  And after all, faith really isn’t a game of “evidence” in the first place. Wisdom and wonders can point us in helpful directions, but in the end everything comes down to this: a vital, profound sense of love and trust.

Well.  Jesus gives his followers eternal life, and no one will snatch them out of his hand.  Not the powers and principalities, or the governor or the emperor or anyone else.  His sheep are safe in his hands.  And his mandate, his remit, his power, if you will, is from God’s own self, and nobody can take thataway either.  Jesus’ authority is from God, and everything he does is from God above.  In these things, the Father and he are one.

And it’s tempting to read this, in English, at least, as an affirmation of the doctrine of the Trinity, aka that Jesus and the Father are one and the same entity.  Alas, the Greek original doesn’t permit that; what Jesus is talking about is that in their actions, in their loveand regard for the sheep of their flock they are one.  And nothing, nothingcan take that away.  Amen.

The Right Side of the Boat (John 21:1-19)

John begins his epilogue here, or at least that’s what biblical scholars call it, an epilogue, because it’s almost like he’s starting a new storyline . . . last week we read the end of chapter 20, and it sure soundedlike the end of the story: ”Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” It’s almost as if you could add a “The End” to it, or an “Amen,” like it’s the end of a sermon.

Now we find out that it’s not over after all, and in fact scholars think Chapter 21 was added at a later date, perhaps by John himself and perhaps by someone else. And what I like about it is that whoever addedit doesn’t carewhether we know it or not.  For better or worse, he lets the seams show, something that in our days of artistic finesse is a big no-no.  

Of course, it’s always possible that the original ending was really obvious, something like “and so endeth the tale of Jesus, his life, death and resurrection, the end,” but I don’t think so I just think whoever it was didn’t care one way or another. Or maybe—just maybe—the disjunction is part of what the author is trying to say, that it has some intrinsic theological value, like see: this is an ongoing, dynamic faith, with different remembrances, different stories, but it’s still the same never-ending tale . . . the faith will goon.

Whatever the case, John begins the epilogue to his Gospel with a deceptively simple statement: “After these things, Jesus showed himself again to the disciples” and the phrase “these things”—ambiguous though it is—is one of the biggest understatements of the last couple of thousand years . . . what a lot of “things” they are . . . a tiny thing called the crucifixion, a small event we call the resurrection, multiply-attested appearances by a supposedly-dead rabbi, little things like that . . . and it’s likely John had many other “things” in mind . . . the miraculous birth, the tramping and teachings in Judea and Galilee, and all those miracles, all those seven signs.

And one of the biggest of “these things” had happened after the crucifixion in the upper room, where the disciples were gathered for fear of the Romans and the religious authorities, and at that time, Jesus appeared to them—twice, on successive weekends—and the big “thing” he did thenwas commissionthem as apostles (from the Greek apostolos, “person sent forth”), conferring upon them the Holy Spirit in the process. And does it seem a little weird to you all that after all this, Peter and the others say “I’m going fishing?”  It’s like they’ve simply returned to their old lives.  Did they lose their nerve?  Are they confused and unsure about where to begin, and so retreat to the place they know best, to get their bearings?

Or maybe they’re ashamed at how badly they messed things up when it mattered.  They alldeserted Jesus in the end, but Peter is the deserter in chief.  After vowing he would never deny Jesus, he did it exactly thatthree times, and his shame must have been deep.  And Jesus’ resurrection may have made it even worse, because it highlighted Peter’s lack of faith and brought him face to face with the one he abandoned.  Perhaps that’s what sent himhome to more familiar shores.

Whatever the case, just as Mary didn’t know the risen Christ at first—she mistook him for the gardener—Peter and company don’t recognize him, at least at first.  And in fact, this is a themeamong the post-resurrection stories . . . Luke tells us two of Jesus’ other followers spend a whole trek to Emmaus deep in conversation with him and still don’t get who he is, and all this has led to speculation that Jesus didn’t look like he did before the crucifixion.  And here in John, it’s stranger still . . . first of all Peter and his buddies had seen the post-resurrection Jesus before, twice! And they stilldon’t knowhim?  What . . . did he change how he looked between his upper-room appearances and there on the beach?  Did he shave off his beard or cut off his hair?  Does he disguise his voicewhen he calls from the beach?

But wait . . . it gets even more weird.  After the disciple whom Jesus loves recognizes him, sending Peter naked into the water in his excitement, and after they’d hauled a record one hundred and fifty-three fish out of the boat and Jesus cooks them breakfast, John tells us that “none of the disciples dared to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ because they knew it was the Lord.” HUH?  If they already knew who it was, why would they even think to ask“Who are you?  And why would John feel the need to tell us this in the first place?  It only makes sense if the risen Jesus looks significantly different, so asking, “Who are you?” would arise as an option in the firstplace.  And yet, different as he may appear, he’s nevertheless recognized by his companions over a breakfast of fish and bread– was that they remember the bread and fish with which they fed a crowd of five thousand?

All this has led some scholars to think that Jesus looked very different now that he’s been resurrected.  It’s especially apparent here in John where it seems that Jesus’ resurrection is more than mere resuscitation, which makes sense, in a way: the resurrection, the eighth sign in John’s gospel, blows all the others away, especiallythe seventh sign: the resurrection of Lazarus, which John is at pains to make clearisjust that: the reanimation of a physical body. Jesus’ resurrection is of a completely different order; he’s back, but in a completely different way.

His followers don’t recognize him by how he looks, but by what he does:In Emmaus, it’s in the eucharistic breaking of the bread; in the garden he calls Mary by name;in the upper room he shows them his wounds and breathes upon them the Spirit of Life; and here on the shoreline, he provides for them miraculously andabundantly, before sitting down to anothereucharistic meal.  Now we understand a little better what Jesus might have meant by “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  What is it that they have not seen, and how have they nevertheless come to belief?

If Jesus didn’t look like . . . Jesus . . . if he didn’t look like the guy who’d tramped around Palestine with them for three years, changed water into wine and healed the blind man at Siloam’s pool, who did he looklike?  A random Emmaus-road stranger?  A cultivator of Gethsemane’s garden?  How about a wandering vagabond, camped out on a Galilee beach?  Hmmm . . . is this a symbolic way of showing the reality of Jesus within each and every one of us?  What if it’s like this: the disciples meet a stranger and only afterhe acts like Jesus—feeding them, creating abundancefor them, loving them—do they seeJesus in them?  After all, Jesus doessay that he will be in us and we in him . . . 

Unlike Matthew and Luke, John does not have an ascension scene, he doesn’t show Jesus physically leaving the earthly plane to be “at the right hand of God the Father” as they do.  I wonder: is it John’s intention to show Jesus living on in each and every one of us? And if so, what does that say about Jesus’ present-daypresence in the church? Do people only see the resurrected Christ when we allow him to live through us?

After feeding his disciples Jesus takes Peter aside and asks him if he loves him, and Peter—feeling guilty and more than a little defensive—answers “Yes, Lord; you knowthat I love you.”  Jesus answers “Feed my lambs.”  A secondtime Jesus says, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” and when Peter againanswers “You know that I do,” Jesus says “Tend my sheep.”  And a third time: “Do you love me?”  “You know I do.”  “Feed my sheep.”  And it’s not a coincidence that three times, Peter denied Jesus, and now, three times, Jesus asks him to profess his love.  Jesus knows very well what’s going on, that Peter is a flawed vessel, but he nevertheless tells him: tend my flock.  He nevertheless makes him the shepherd—like Jesus, the leader—of the nascent church.

This is John’s version of the scene over in Matthew where Jesus declares Peter the rock upon which he will build his church; there, it’s based on Peter’s declaration, his acknowledgementthat Jesus is “the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”  Here, it’s based on something else: it’s based on love.  Three times Peter messes up and denies the Lord, three times he declares his love, and three times Jesus names him shepherd.  With this three-part—trinitarian?—declaration, Jesus is saying that not only does he choose Peter in spite ofhow he’s messed up but because of it.  Only one who knows failure, only one who knows fallibility, only one who knows doubt can ever hope to be a compassionate shepherd of thisflock.

And that’s how it is with us today.  Jesus comes to us where we are, aswe are, and he says “You’re worried you’ve let me down, that you’ve been disqualified, but on the contrary: you’rethe ones I’ve chosen.  Do you really think I didn’t know your weaknesses when I called you? I knew you better than you knew yourself, and I called you and taught you and sent you, and now I send you again.  Stop thinking in terms of limitations, of empty nets, and what you can and cannot do!  I come that you might have life, and have it abundantly!  Look at all these fish, filling the net to overflowing!  Gather them up, take courage, and go!”  Amen.