Easter 3 4/18/10

John 21:1-19

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Today’s Gospel, the final encounter with the risen Christ recorded in the Gospel of John, raises some intriguing questions. For instance, who was the dork that was counting fish at a time like this? And why was the tally, 153, recorded at all?

If this were Luke, we might suppose he just happened to have that information, and is recording it like the conscientious historian he is. But we’re in the Gospel of John; and, when John records such details, they always mean something—often several somethings. This particular scene, though it probably was added later, a kind of PS to the Gospel of John, is a classic example, charged with symbolic significance, every detail standing out in the light of an Eastertide sunrise. So what’s with the 153 fish? What’s that about?

We get a clue about the symbolic significance John perceives in an interesting turn of phrase. You remember that in Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus had called those disciples, Peter and the sons of Zebedee, to leave their nets and become “fishers of people.” So now Peter is back to fishing; and again, as happened before, he’s unsuccessful; his nets come up empty; until at Jesus’ word he tries again and brings in an enormous catch. “Déjà vu, all over again!” But now things are different; Christ is risen; and now we should be thinking “people” in that net, symbolically speaking. All those large fish—“yet the net was not torn.” Literally, “there was no schism in the net.” So, maybe John is talking about churches: a huge catch, and no schism. Maybe, when this PS was added, the evangelist was aware of 153 cities in which churches had been planted. (So this would be John’s “parochial report,” so to speak, his celestial bookkeeping.)

A plausible theory, though it’s sheer speculation; and it’s not very satisfying because it’s so ephemeral. The Church was expanding very rapidly when John was writing; his data would be outdated the following week, maybe—and John is not writing for the newspaper but for the ages.

Another idea is that 153 is what mathematicians in the first century, as still today, call a “perfect number.” That is, it’s the sum of all the whole numbers between 1 and 17. You can see how this works in the “fish pyramid” in today’s bulletin.* The Johannine tradition is fond of significant numbers, and it does make for a neat pile of fish! A “perfect number” might represent completeness, wholeness—and notice that “perfection” means completeness, not flawlessness. But then, why 17? Why not 16, or 18, or 33?

Yet another explanation is that, according to some evidence, that it was believed that there were 153 different species of fish in the sea. So, then, the amazing catch would be representative, one fish for each species. Once again we have the idea of completeness: the catch of fish represents all the fish there are—and so, Peter and the others being “fishers of men,” all Christians, and maybe all humanity: all gathered up at the word of the risen Christ, just as he had promised: “and I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all to myself”—and no tear, no schism in the net.

Now let’s consider another detail of the story, anticipating that it, too, may have some significance which isn’t immediately apparent, but might reward a little digging. When the disciples get to shore, they find that Jesus is already fixing them an Easter breakfast—the biblical precedent for our Easter breakfast tradition!—but more basically, another account of recognizing the risen Lord in a meall--in the Eucharist. Jesus is grilling fish and bread at a charcoal fire. Now that word for “charcoal fire” is an unusual one, used only one other time in the New Testament. You remember where? Just three chapters ago, in the high priest’s courtyard after Jesus’ arrest: Peter is standing at a charcoal fire, and it’s there that he denies three times that he knows or has any connection with Jesus.

We can imagine that this was more than a little uncomfortable for Peter. He’d already rather made a fool of himself in his agitation at seeing Jesus, getting dressed and then jumping in the lake, when the boat was only a few yards from shore. Now here he is, sopping wet, and here’s his Lord, whom he has denied three times; and there’s the charcoal fire, which brings it all back. It’s rather pointed, and, not to put too fine a point on it, awkward. Is Jesus reminding Peter of his great failure—he who had sworn he was ready to die with him? Is he in big trouble now?

What actually happens is that Jesus and Peter have a little heart-to-heart, in which Jesus questions Peter three times: “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Three times, the third time almost in tears, he replies, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” The risen Lord doesn’t say, Oh, come on, Peter, it’s okay, forget it. That might have been easier for Peter in the moment, but it would have been false; it wouldn’t have healed anything. There had been an actual breach in the loving, faithful relationship; Peter had actually denied and forsaken his Lord in the time of his greatest vulnerability. Yes, he had known compunction; he had wept bitterly. But the breach needed to be repaired. And so it was: three times Peter denied Jesus; three times Jesus elicits his affirmation of love, now made more humbly, more realistically, in the knowledge of his own frailty.

And things change for Peter. His vocation changes, in fact. Hitherto, he has been a fisherman, whether of fish or of people. Now he is to become a shepherd. “Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs.” It’s a new model of ministry for Peter: No more hauling ‘em in and counting them. Feed them, Jesus says. Nourish my sheep, my people, with word and sacrament. If you do love me—and I know you do—then love them; care for them. This new vocation, to be a pastor, a shepherd, Peter accepts. And we already know something about the cost of this vocation: Jesus has told us about the Good Shepherd, the model for all pastors, who lays down his life for his sheep. In the same way, Jesus obliquely foretells Peter’s martyrdom, which tradition holds was by crucifixion: “You will stretch out your hands... He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.”

And finally, Jesus renews his original call to Peter: “Follow me.” Peter is now fully rehabilitated, ready to continue Christ’s work in the world, ready, in fact, to become once again the first among the apostles. (The male apostles, that is; Mary Magdalene still holds that honor, though it won’t be recognized in the nascent hierarchy of the church.) Peter had fallen at a charcoal fire; at a charcoal fire he was rescued and restored. Peter was to become the representative figure for the whole catholic church—not because he was perfect, but because he represented the whole, which of course is what “catholic” means.

And what does all this mean for us? Whatever else it means, it sets forth a crucial aspect of the Paschal Mystery—the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and our participation in it. The risen Christ encountered Peter precisely at the scene of his greatest failure, his sin, his brokenness—“by the charcoal fire”. So also with us, Christian experience has found again and again. The things about ourselves and our lives of which we’re most ashamed, give us most grief, or are most broken, are the very places where we’re likely to encounter Christ. Naturally we shy away from such places; they’re too painful, too laden with guilt or shame or sense of worthlessness. But often, when we find the courage to go there, we discover that our dearest Lord is waiting patiently for us, preparing breakfast on the charcoal grill, ready to do whatever work it takes to repair the damage and make us whole. Remember: it’s wholeness, not flawlessness, which is “perfection” in the Bible, and in Christian lives.

Not only that: it’s often out of just such experiences of falls retrieved, damaged relationships recovered, sins not only forgiven but repaired, that we come to a new understanding of what we’re in the world for, a new call to a life of higher purpose than we would have dared to dream. As with Peter. As with any number of members of AA, who will often tell you, “I’m grateful to be an alcoholic; that disease which was destroying my life has been the doorway into a deeper, richer life than I could have imagined—a life with God, in service to others.” As I can testify in my own repeated experience, and many others as well.

And as we can perceive in the life of this congregation. Shepherd of the Hills has suffered greatly; there have been tears, schisms in our parish, though not in the blessed Net of Christ’s love, the net of the invisible Church. Three and a half years ago it appeared to many that things were so falling apart that the parish could not survive. Well, by God’s grace, we have survived—survived and started to flourish again. We encountered Christ at the place of brokenness, and have found a great deal of healing. It’s not perfect, and we’re not perfect—but that’s okay. Remember, the “perfection” to which God calls us is not flawlessness but completeness, wholeness—and that’s a work in progress, and will be as long as we’re in this earthly pilgrimage.

It has been a great privilege for me to be with you, to share the Paschal feast with you at the charcoal fire, and to realize that our host is the risen Christ himself. And now, Shepherd of the Hills is on the brink of a new chapter, new adventures, new joys and challenges, as you welcome Greg Hoover, now officially rector-elect of this parish. Remember: don’t be afraid of failures and falls and brokenness, past or present, personal or corporate: instead, look for the risen Lord by the charcoal fire; seek him, and you will find him.

And he himself will serve us Easter breakfast; he will feed us with his own life, poured out for us, and risen from the dead. As he does today, in this Eucharist. And today—right now, at this very moment—he renews his original call to us: “Follow me.”

153 fish – a “perfect number”