“Breakfast on the Beach”
Psalm 30; John 21:4-17
Rev. Deborah L. Clark
April 10, 2016
We were hungry. That’s why we went fishing. Only a few days ago I thought I would never be hungry again. We were sitting around the Passover table sharing bread and wine with Jesus. I only ate a little piece of bread—but it was what I needed to fill my soul. I only took a sip from the cup—but it quenched something so deep inside me I thought I would never again be thirsty. I was wrong.
Three years ago Jesus called us to leave our boats and our fish and become fishers of people. We gave up everything to follow him. But now he was gone. So we went back to the one thing we knew how to do on our own. We went fishing for fish, in our boat on the water. We didn’t know what to do about the emptiness returning to our souls; at least we could fill the hunger in our bellies.
But we couldn’t even do that very well. Not a single fish in our net. We didn’t know how to fish for people without Jesus here to lead us, and now it seemed we didn’t even know how to fish for fish anymore.
We heard a voice coming from the shore—“Children, you have no fish, have you?” We admitted we didn’t. When the voice suggested the other side of the boat, I didn’t think twice about it—fishermen often give each other advice. But when we tried it, and suddenly there were hundreds of fish, my friend John realized who it was.
“Look,” he cried, “it’s Jesus.”
Something inside me leapt, and then I leapt—over the side of the boat and into the water. I swam as fast as I could.
When I got to shore I stopped short. Jesus had built a charcoal fire on the beach, and the wind blew the smoke right to where I stood.
I turned away. The last time I had smelled a charcoal fire was that fateful night—the night that started out with me certain I would never be hungry again, the night that ended with my world falling apart. In between was the moment of my deepest shame. While Jesus was inside being questioned by the priests, I was outside, waiting with their servants, warming myself by their charcoal fire. One of them looked at me: “Hey, aren’t you one of the followers of Jesus?” It wasn’t a friendly question. I panicked. “No, you’re mistaking me for someone else.” Three times they asked; each time my denial was more vehement. Then I realized I had done exactly what Jesus said I would do, exactly what I swore I would never do.
So when I smelled that fire on the beach, it was like a wave of shame washing over me. I couldn’t face Jesus. I busied myself by pulling the overflowing net out of the water, until the other disciples were with me and I could hide.
My friends crowded around the fire. I positioned myself carefully behind the others so Jesus wouldn’t notice me.
Of course, he looked right through my friends—right at me. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
“Yes, of course, Jesus,” I started, “You know that I love you.” I tried to go on. I wanted to explain what had happened, how I had been so scared and how I really hadn’t meant to deny him. But he cut me off.
“Feed my lambs,” he said.
“Me? Look at me. Look at us. We couldn’t even feed ourselves. If you hadn’t come along we would still be out there with our empty net. You know I want to, but how can I feed anyone when I’m so hungry myself?”
Jesus didn’t answer for a minute, just turned back to the fire and tended the fish. He pulled a few off the grill and passed them around. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat.
He looked at me again. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
“Yes, yes, you know that I love you…..I really thought I could stand beside you; I really did, it was just…” I had so much to say, but once again he interrupted before I could get it out.
“Tend my sheep,” he said.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m no shepherd, but I know what they do. Shepherds stand watch; they stand between the sheep and danger; they stand firm. I couldn’t do that for you. I can’t do that—not for sheep, not for your followers, certainly not for all the people out there who are desperate for direction. Ask someone who’s stronger.”
Like the last time, Jesus didn’t say anything, just pulled a few more fish off the grill and passed them around. The plate went by me, but I didn’t take any.
For the third time, he looked right at me. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
“Jesus, you know everything. You know that I love you.”
“Feed my sheep,” he said.
This time I didn’t argue. This time I got it. Jesus knew I loved him. He knew my shame. He understood how hungry I was; how weak I could be.
Jesus knew exactly what he was doing. He called me to feed his lambs because I know their hunger. It is my hunger too. I don’t see quite how it will happen, but Jesus seems to think my hunger could help lead us all—lambs, disciples, seekers, even people who don’t know they’re hungry—toward the bread that truly satisfies.
Jesus called me to tend his sheep because I know their fear and confusion. I know what it is to be weak—and somehow behind my weakness Jesus sees a strength I cannot see.
Jesus called me to proclaim his message because only someone who has known shame can understand the gift of God’s forgiveness. Only someone with a broken heart can know the overwhelming love that makes us whole.
I will do it. I will feed the lambs—trusting that the bread I offer will feed my soul as well. I will tend the sheep—daring to believe that when my own courage fails, there will be someone beside me to share her strength with me. I will proclaim the good news—praying that every time I do, I will come to believe it a little bit more myself.
Jesus passed around some more fish. This time I took a big piece and I ate. I took a deep breath as the smoke from the fire blew in my direction. I will never forget the smell of a charcoal fire—but it will no longer be a symbol of my failing. Now it will be a sign of my calling.
I looked right at Jesus and I gave him my answer:
Yes, Jesus, you know that I love you.
Yes, Jesus, I know you are always with me, surprising me with fish, calling me out of my shame, strengthening me with breakfast on the beach.
Yes, Jesus, I will feed your sheep.