Fish, rocks and Nikki Giovanni

Easter 3

April 10, 2016

John 21:1-19

Earlier this month, I saw on Facebook that the Standing Commission on Liturgy for the Episcopal Church had just approved for trial use a supplement to the Eucharist.  It allows for the addition of fish to the usual elements of bread and wine.  I, perhaps oddly, did not think much about that news until I started working on my sermon for today and read our Gospel story.  The Gospel of John doesn’t have Jesus hand out bread and wine as part of the Last Supper story; this post-resurrection breakfast of bread and fish that we hear today is the closest it gets to the Eucharist in John’s Gospel.  So I went looking again for that Facebook article, interested to see how this resurrection breakfast had been incorporated into the Eucharist.  It wasn’t until I got to the part in the article about finding “sustainable seafood” and “liturgically-appropriate” types of fish and avoiding “distracting fish odors” that it occurred to me to go back to the top of the article to check the date.  Sure enough - April 1st.  They sure fooled me!

And yet, I still would argue that this breakfast by the sea of fish and bread might have been just as important for the disciples as that evening dinner with Jesus, where bread was blessed and broken and passed around with the wine.  All of the disciples have themselves been broken in pretty significant ways since the Last Supper.  And, other than Judas, probably none of them was more broken and bruised than Simon, son of John.

Simon, son of John, was always gung ho, from the very first moment.  He was a simple fisherman when he met Jesus and immediately he left everything to follow him.  That is when Jesus renamed him Peter, meaning “the Rock.”  And he was a Rock for Jesus.  He was the first to confess Jesus as the Messiah, the Christ.  He was always there in those important moments with Jesus.  At the Transfiguration offering to build a memorial for Jesus, Moses and Elijah.  In the garden that last night when Jesus was praying.  And Peter was always the first to act: jumping out of the boat to walk on the water toward Jesus, cutting off the ear of the Chief Priest’s servant when Jesus was arrested.  Peter was always sure he knew what was best, refusing to believe Jesus would be killed, insisting that Jesus should not be washing his feet.  And if there was one thing Peter was absolutely, 100% confident about, it was that he, Peter, was Jesus’ most fervent and dedicated follower.  “I will lay down my life for you,” he promised Jesus.  “Though all become deserters because of you, I will never desert you.”  “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.”

I heard an interview with poet Nikki Giovanni this week that reminded me of Peter.  She talked about growing up in the civil rights area and watching Martin Luther King speak and Rosa Parks sit down on the bus.  She wanted to do something that mattered too but she didn’t know what.  “I thought I could be of some use,” she explained.  “I’m not strong, I’m not fast, I don’t have any talents, I’m not that pretty.  But I am smart, so I have to use my smarts to be of some service to human beings.”  And so Nikki Giovanni decided what she could do is tell the truth as she knew it - she could be a revolutionary poet.

I think Peter wanted to do something too.  And what Peter thought he had to offer the world — the way he thought he could be of use — was by his willingness to jump in.  To step out in faith without overthinking it.  To be certain when no one else around him was.  He was often obnoxious and brash but he was bold!

But then he lost that boldness when it mattered most.  And now here he is, warming himself by a charcoal fire next to the resurrected Jesus, and I’m betting all he can think about is the last charcoal fire he stood near.  In the courtyard of the high priest while Jesus was being questioned on his last night of life.

“You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?”  “I am not.”

“You are not also one of his disciples, are you?”  “I am not.”

“Did I not see you in the garden with him?” “I do not know the man!”

What does all of Peter’s bluster and certainty and following Jesus matter now that he has denied Jesus three times.  He wasn’t there at the most important moment of all.  He is no longer sure about anything.  His confidence is shattered.  His heart is broken.  There is nothing now but darkness and misery for this once brash and obnoxious but always bold follower.  What use can he possibly be now to Jesus or to the aching, longing world around him?  What can Peter possibly offer now?

Well, last week we heard how Jesus came back for Thomas, who had missed him the first time in the locked room and so had trouble believing.  This time he’s here for Peter.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

“Simon son of John, do you love me?”

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Poor Peter hears Jesus keep asking about his love and his heart breaks again.  Even Jesus doesn’t consider him a rock anymore.  Peter is so hurt that this person that he has devoted years to — his beloved leader, teacher, friend, inspiration — has to ask these questions.  Maybe he’s even more distressed when it hits him that Jesus is back to calling him by his old name, the name he had before he discovered Jesus and left everything to follow him.  Doesn’t Jesus know the regret and despair in Peter’s heart?  Doesn’t Jesus know?

I’ve wondered this right along with Peter.  Why does Jesus feel the need to rub in Peter’s failure so repeatedly here?  Lots of scholars think that Jesus’ three-fold interrogation of Peter was a chance for Peter to redeem himself from his three-fold denial of Jesus.

But I hadn’t ever understood the importance of that chance until I heard something in the interview with Nikki Giovanni that made me hear this conversation between Jesus and Peter differently.  Nikki said, “I think you have to make up your mind what you love.”  Maybe that is why Jesus keeps asking Peter this question.  Maybe that is why Jesus uses Peter’s old name.  Jesus is helping Peter to make up his mind about what he loves and about who he wants to be.  Helping Peter realize that all his brashness and boldness and self-assurance wasn’t the point at all.  That Jesus loved him even when he was plain old Simon, son of John.  That Peter could be a rock even in his brokenness.  That it was Peter’s love for Jesus that mattered all along.  Jesus is helping Peter to see that the chasm Peter thinks he has created between himself and Jesus is no match for that love. 

And so three times Peter professes his love:

“Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”  More than I love being first.

“Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”  More than I love being right.

“Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.”  More than I love being certain.

Jesus gives Peter the opportunity to discover the depth of his love for Jesus, and the depth of Jesus’ love and forgiveness for him.  And then three times Jesus recommissions Peter, the unsteady, imperfect, human Rock on which the Church will be built:  

“Feed my lambs.”  Continue loving me by taking care of the ones I love.

“Tend my sheep.”  Even the ones that stray and disappoint you.

“Feed my sheep.”  Even though it will draw you into the heartache of the world.

And finally, Jesus comes full circle, once again inviting Peter to follow him.  This time not as a fisherman or as a Rock but as a shepherd.  Peter who has been brash and obnoxious and certain and bold.  Peter who has fallen short and been broken and wounded.  Jesus is no longer an intriguing stranger.  He knows Peter through and through, obviously far better than Peter ever knew himself.  And Jesus lovingly reinvites him to continue following.  And even though now Peter is fully aware that he has no idea where Jesus is leading, even though now Peter realizes how fraught the following will be, even though now Peter has come face to face with his own imperfection, Peter follows.

And it turns out Peter has a lot to offer both to Jesus and to the aching, longing world around him.  A lot to offer us.  He is the rock after all.  The rock upon which we can learn to follow Jesus even in our brokenness.  The rock upon which we can struggle to feed and tend sheep even as we despair our own woundedness.  The rock upon which we can learn to make up our minds about what we love and who we want to be.  The rock upon which we can learn to live as the sometimes brash and obnoxious, and always imperfect Church in the world.  Amen.