Loading...I just can’t stop thinking about Peter. Maybe because I might identify with him more than I have realized before. He’s never been afraid to ask questions that others were unwilling to or were afraid to ask. Maybe they didn’t want to know the answer or maybe they didn’t want to appear ignorant, or maybe they just didn’t want to challenge anyone in authority.
When I was in seminary, I asked a lot of questions. I would listen to my classmates when we would eat together, hearing their questions and concerns about a syllabus or something that they felt was unclear, and I’d wait for any of them to speak up in class to ask the professor for clarification. It was rare when someone did. So, I asked.
I was told in my last year, that whenever I would raise my hand to ask these questions, classmates would quietly mumble, “don’t do it, Debbie.” They knew at least one professor did not like it when I asked for clarity. But none of them seemed to have the gumption to speak up, even when many of us were wondering. I was raised that “the squeaky wheel gets the grease.” I knew that if I didn’t ask, I would never know. Plus, it wasn’t just me who was wondering. I was doing everyone a favor by asking. Right?
Peter seems a little like that. In those times when Jesus would go off on his own to pray, I wonder if the disciples would gather around the fire and ask each other just what Jesus was talking about with all these parables. Or what was Jesus trying to do when he was eating with outcasts or healing someone with oozing wounds. Or how on earth were they able to feed all those people with five loaves and two fish.
Who would be willing to ask Jesus just what was it that he was up to? And while they wanted to follow him, why were they taking so many risks?
So, it was Peter who appointed himself to ask Jesus what the heck was going on. It was Peter who wanted to build three dwellings for Elijah, Moses, and Jesus. It was Peter who tried to walk on water. It was Peter, always Peter, it seemed, who wanted to know, even if it made him look and feel awkward.
And now, after at least a couple of weeks of being locked in that upper room with these stinky Yayhoos, listening to all their questions, wiping their tears, bemoaning their futures, having seen the resurrected Jesus twice for goodness sake, and still not sure what more any of them could do, Peter decides he’s going fishing.
“I’m going fishing.” Is code for, “I need to get away by myself so I can think.”
But nooo. Some of these dudes decide they want to go along. Maybe they were all a little stir crazy. Maybe they thought that if they stuck together no harm would come. Maybe they needed to breathe the fresh air. Maybe it was time to split up and get back to life.
Jerusalem is not next to the Sea of Galilee. It’s about 102 miles away. Peter’s decision to go fishing meant he had to walk for at least a couple days. I wonder how many deep breaths he took as the group of them gathered their gear and began the journey to the sea. I’m curious if he rolled his eyes when they rehashed another story, trying to make sense of these past three years while they walked.
Maybe he just walked ahead of them all, staff in one hand, bag in the other, with his eyes looking forward and his heart already settling into the rhythm of the sea.
Nonetheless, Peter, James, John, Thomas and two other unnamed disciples fled the confines of that self-imposed prison and headed for someplace familiar and comfortable. They headed home.
Isn’t that where we go, figuratively or literally, when the world seems to have fallen apart and our lives, at least for a moment, feel unhinged? To go back—to click our ruby-slipper-ed heels three times, saying, “there’s no place like home”—to go where we once were, to the places and people who can help us come back to ourselves. To those who will help us remember who we are. Who will welcome us, like the father welcoming back his prodigal son, and will celebrate our return, or who will simply sit with us in our grief and help us heal.
It’s not all that surprising that they would go back to where it all started. Back to their boats, their nets, their hometown, to fall back into the rhythm of a job they knew and that would provide for their needs, even if it meant leaving the life of adventure they had tasted. They still may not have fully comprehended just why they had been asked to leave these nets in the first place and follow this man.
Maybe going back to where it began would help them understand.
Jesus meets them there, again, and invites them, again, to change their lives and trust him. But now, they had seen what it meant to live in a community of people whose lives focused on helping others know the abundant love of God. They had the tools to pick up the mantle Jesus prepared for them and go out to change the world.
While it seems like this story is about Peter, because it follows Peter’s actions and Jesus addresses him directly, couldn’t it also be about all who hear Jesus ask, “Do you love me?”
I mean, isn’t it likely that all those sitting around that charcoal fire, eating fish and bread, heard the question not once, not twice, but three times? Wouldn’t each of them stop chewing, cock their heads imperceptibly, and consider their own answer? Would they have each flashed back to their own interactions with Jesus, wondering if they had ever showed Jesus how they felt about him?
I wonder what they remembered when Jesus told them to feed his sheep. Images of meals together, comingling with the sick, the friendless, and the needy. Memories of the woman touching Jesus’s cloak and being healed. Of children waking up when it was thought they were dead. Jesus showed them what it meant to feed his lambs. It meant to see them and engage with them. It meant to build relationships and help them find their communities. It meant bringing the lost and left behind back into their places of worship, where they would find security and safety.
Each one of those people around that fire must have had some kind of response when Jesus asked Peter, “Do you love me?”
When I think of how that question must have hit Peter and the rest of them, I wonder if they felt shame for not really understanding what Jesus was trying to do much of the time. Now that Jesus was no longer physically with them, was it possible they could see that they had been his apprentices, being trained to do this divine-inspired work of love?
I’d like us to take a couple of moments right now to close our eyes and imagine laying around a small fire on the sand near the shore of a large lake. We’ve just eaten our fill of fish and bread, and we’re weary, but listening as Jesus speaks. Hear him ask, “Do you love me?”
Breathe that question in and in this next minute, give Jesus your answer. Do. You. Love. Me.
[hold for 1 minute]
Now, take a moment and consider how your response felt. What was your internal tone? Peter was hurt by the question, and a little incredulous. Did you feel like your love for Jesus is obvious, or is it something else?
[hold for 30 seconds]
The last thing I’d like you to think about is this question: “What are you going to do about it?” During this time, tell Jesus how you plan to feed his sheep, or how you are already feeding his sheep. I know this might be overwhelming, so think about just one way you can or do impact your world with the love of God.
[hold for 30 seconds]
Jesus meets these disciples at a place that is familiar and comfortable for them to help them remember that they have been chosen to break away from what is familiar and comfortable to do the work of discipleship, of teaching others what a loving, compassionate, kind world can be.
We are the disciples now. Settled in our familiar and comfortable places, being reminded that the work that was started 2000 years ago goes on today.
In every act of kindness you are spreading love.
In each opportunity you stand up for justice, you are spreading love.
In all the ways you embrace the broken-hearted, sick, or lost, you are spreading love.
Jesus asks not just Peter, but each of us, “Do you love me?” telling us to “feed my sheep.” And we answer, “We do, and we will, with God’s help.”
Amen.
