What Jesus told them to do was follow him. Instead, 7 disciples went to the beach. Jesus reminds them their work is building community.
When Jesus sees right through the fishing distraction
Easter 3C | John 21:1-19
We’re at the beach. I really don’t know why. It’s all pretty disorienting. This morning, John drops us off and drives away. What are we doing here?
Time has passed. I’m not sure how long. Enough, I think. Enough that the trauma of the crucifixion has drifted in such a way as figuring it out requires math. Not a week or even two. Must be more than that. They’d have to think about it.
Then the empty tomb and Mary Magdalene telling them, but they wouldn’t believe her.
And that night, when he came to them, walking through the door. Literally…and literally. He showed them that he wasn’t dead. God brought Jesus back.
And Thomas was missing, so Jesus came back a week later so that he too could see and touch and believe.
It all seemed like such a happy ending, didn’t it?
But he didn’t stay.
And now we’re here. On a beach. Lost. Confused. Unsure of what to do next. Waiting for another miracle to happen.
Only seven are here…is that who is left? Or have the others gone out, traveling into those places we call Europe and Asia? Perhaps. We don’t really know. Just who is here. Now.
It’s all so oddly quiet and normal. They were supposed to be building the kin-dom but they’re alone on the beach instead.
And Peter doesn’t invite them out in the boat, he just declares for himself.
“I am going fishing.”
What else will the others do, but follow him.
It’s an odd resurrection appearance, isn’t it?
Barely half of the disciples are there, looking lost and confused.
We know what this all is, right? This being on the beach, going fishing, half the team gone. They’re distracting themselves. Avoiding something.
And into this distraction walks Jesus. He comes to them and makes them breakfast. It doesn’t just happen. He has to gut the fish, clean and cook them.
Maybe they’re reminded of when he tied the towel around himself and washed their feet. {When was that, again? Passover? When he said goodbye. We’d have to do the math…}
We can imagine the apron and the grill tongs. Maybe even complete the picture with a beer. I’m thinking Guinness. But we all know it is probably wine. And not in a box.
It’s such a strange image, like everything in reverse. He fed thousands without batting an eye. Now? Just 7 with so many fish.
I think we’re tempted to say the global has become local. But that isn’t quite right.
Maybe they’re wondering where the teaching is. All those parables which confound or those invocations to love and serve and believe. But Jesus is strangely quiet.
All they have is to watch him and listen to the quiet. Eat with each other. And look at all the leftovers.
Then it turns.
And Jesus speaks to Peter. Right there, maybe. More fish than any of them could eat, the bones and cleanings off to the side. Coals still smoldering. The others waiting quietly.
“Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”
The question seems obvious. But one that should never need asking. Because if you have to ask, it really isn’t felt or perhaps completely understood. Peter hasn’t really made it clear.
Communication is tricky like that. It isn’t enough to say it, but it has to be heard and appreciated.
Peter’s response comes like the aloof husband’s. Of course I do.
Then the short instruction:
“Feed my lambs.”
Again. Do you love me? – Of course – Tend my sheep.
And again. Do you love me? – Yes- Feed my sheep.
Three times, like those three denials, Peter affirms his love. It would seem Jesus puts Peter right with him.
But I think there’s much more than that.
What is love?
English fails to capture the depth of this story. And Greek scholars aren’t entirely sure the true intentions of this exchange. But we do know there’s something more here.
Jesus asks Peter
do you agape me more than these?
And agape is a kind of sacrificial and generous love. Constant, unwarranted, communal kind of love.
Peter’s response is curious then. Because Jesus asked if he agape loves him. And Peter says
‘Yes, Lord; you know that I phileo you.’
Phileo is more brotherly love, like friendship. [Think: Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love]
While Jesus uses both of these words throughout the gospels in ways that many seem to think are interchangeable, this exchange right here seems very much intentional.
Jesus: Peter, do you agape me?
Peter: Yes, I phileo you.
Jesus: Peter, do you agape me?
Peter: Yes, I phileo you.
Jesus: Peter, do you phileo me?
“Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, ‘Do you phileo me?’”
Peter: Yes, I phileo you.
Does Peter get what he’s done here? I think so. Just like we would when we’ve disappointed our mentors yet again.
Jesus was asking for more than Peter felt he could give. And Jesus moved on with that.
Definitely Peter
I’ve heard this called the restoration of Peter because these three affirmations seem to balance out the three denials on Good Friday. For that grand sense of balance, I kind of like that.
But there’s also something very definitely “Peter” about this moment. He hasn’t changed a whole lot, though perhaps his understanding has.
We’ll read about him in Acts and about what Peter will find along the way, how he will keep growing and learning. And along the way, changing.
So this isn’t an example of some great earth-shattering transformational moment like we see at the end of a movie. This protagonist isn’t coming around, in the end, to make his deeply-felt confession that he was wrong, a fool! He isn’t dropping to his knees begging to be taken back.
In fact, Peter’s standing there much like he did many times before. Making excuses and justifying his level of commitment. But this time he’s aware. This time he knows what he’s doing. And he knows that Jesus knows it too.
If Peter Were to Understand
There’s an apocryphal story of Peter escaping from prison and running away. And after he’s put the city and Paul behind him, he meets Jesus on the road. And he asks Peter why he’s done it again. Why he’s run away from him again.
This is when Peter breaks down and begs. And when he turns around and returns. No more running away. No avoiding the hardship. He’s going to face the authorities and deal with what comes next.
There’s a reason Peter is the cornerstone, right? Because chances are, if any of us screws up, it’s because we screw up like Peter.
Follow Me
The Jesus in that apocryphal story is like the one in our gospel this morning. The one who can see us for who we are. Guide us toward our best selves. And encourage us to be our best rather than run from it.
And even when we run and keep running from what Jesus calls us to do, he invites us in any way.
He calls us by name and invites us away from the running, away from the fear, away from the self-deception and the vile alternatives. And he says simply, again: follow me. Like we’ve never heard it before. follow me. Even though it’s been 77 times. Follow. Me.
We don’t need to run away. He’s right here. Always inviting us in. Loving us for who we are. Loving us in spite of our faults. Building a new creation on the slim shoulders of our weakest neighbors.
Follow me, he says.
And then it ends.
Where do we go? We look again. At the distraction of the beach and the fishing, the cooking and the feasting, the invitation and the connecting in love. We look at what we’re called to do and what Jesus came back to do and we see they are the same.
We know the way. How to follow him. It’s in our hearts. Where it always was. And like Peter, we are just too afraid to name. It’s in there. We just need to follow it rather than commanding it.
Peter, do you agape me? Do you love generously and sacrificially? Do you love without expectation of love in return? Is your love offered without strings and expectations? Are you open to the kind of love the Holy Spirit offers?
I know you might not be now. But you will. Just keep following and you’ll see what it’s like to love.