John 21:1-19 "Two Charcoal Fires"

         During a visit long ago to a mental asylum, a visitor asked the Director how he determined whether or not a person should be institutionalized.

         “Well,” said the Director, ”we fill up a bathtub; then we offer a teaspoon, a teacup, and a bucket to the person and ask him or her to empty the bathtub.”

         “Oh, I understand,” said the visitor. “A normal person would use the bucket because it is bigger than the spoon or the teacup.”

         “No,” said the Director, “A normal person would pull the plug.  Now, tell me, do you want a bed by the door or near the window?'

         Normalcy is a relative term – which is probably a good thing depending on how you solved the problem of the bathtub. Now, I am not one to declare someone normal or not, nor am I one to psychoanalyze motives or behaviors.  However, that does not mean that I am not interested in trying to figure out why people do the things they do. 

         I call that focused “people watching,” and I find the disciple Peter a fascinating person to watch – probably because, when all is said and done, he is so like us – with his faults and failures, his nagging guilt, his bold and brash promises coupled with so little follow through, his wishing he had done things differently, and his hope – however small – that somehow, someday, he would be forgiven and restored.

         By the time we meet Peter here in the last chapter of the Gospel of John, he is a man caught between two charcoal fires.  The first fire, of course, had burned brightly against the cold outside the palace house of the High Priest of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem.  The High Priest was Caiaphas, and he was overseeing the mock proceedings that found Jesus on trial for his life. 

         It was there in the courtyard that Peter stared intently into the glowing embers of that first charcoal fire, warming his chilled hands, not making eye contact on those three distinct occasions when he denied even knowing who Jesus was or that he – Peter - had any role in the Rabbi’s ministry and mission.  It was then (Remember?) that the rooster broke into the whispered Q&A and crowed three times to punctuate in triplicate Peter’s abysmal failure to love when loving was not easy.  Then Peter ran away.

         At that very moment, the guilt, the depression, the confusion, the fear, the constant drumming in his own head – “loser, loser, loser” – gripped Peter and covered him like a thick blanket and would not let go.  Like all good human beings, of course, Peter immediately began to rationalize his disloyal behavior at that first charcoal fire.  The story he told himself and maybe even began to believe was that the whole situation was unfortunate, but Jesus was dead and buried, and so it was time to shed the past and move on. 

         Then, of course, came Easter – and the empty tomb. A niggling anxiety awakened in Peter because he could not help but wonder what would happen…if.  What if he were to be so unlucky as to run into Jesus?  Would Jesus would hold him accountable for his – what? Lack of loyalty? Lack of friendship? Lack of love? 

         Maybe Peter thought he was safe when he saw the Risen Christ first with a group of followers - in an Upper Room in Jerusalem. Jesus slipped through the locked door, more ghost-like than human perhaps.  Then later they all watched as Thomas insisted upon inspecting Jesus’ nail marks and spear wound.  Why - Jesus had barely looked at him (Peter) and certainly did not single him out.  Logically, one should be able to assume that he was in the clear.

         But try as he might to purge himself, the dark emotions continued to haunt Peter.  And when life becomes confusing and fearful like that, we often try to go back to the way things used to be.  And that is exactly what Peter did. 

         He went home, back to what he knew, back to his own safe harbor.  He and six of the other disciples rented a trawler and went fishing in the familiar Sea of Galilee in the waters they knew like the backs of their hands. 

         I wonder though:  Was Peter really intent on fishing for fish – or was he still fishing for answers?  What have I done?  How will I go on?  Where is the meaning in all of this?

        The seven of them fished all night and caught nothing – neither fish nor answers.  And so they headed to shore.  It was that dream-like time – half way between night and day, the mist and fog playing in the trees silhouetted in the background, and the water slapping gently on the shoreline.

         On the beach, they could see the embers of a charcoal fire burning, and a fellow standing tall, looking somewhat tree-like himself.  He called out to the seven across the water: “ “Did ya catch anything?”  “No,” they shouted back.  The fellow answered in return: “Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” 

         And lo and behold, they did – maybe not answers just yet, but certainly fish, 153 of them to be exact (And I wonder who was counting?).  It was only then that one of the disciples recognized the voice and the man and grabbed Peter’s arm.  “It is the Lord,” he gasped. 

         And Peter – as impetuous and spontaneous as ever – leapt out of the boat and slogged his way to the beach, losing one sandal in the muddy sediment, his robe heavy with water, holding him back.  The other six were more circumspect and moored the rented boat before they came ashore hauling the net with them. 

         By that time, the charcoal fire – the second fire – burned brightly.  Jesus deftly fileted a few of the fish, grilled them like a pro, looked at none of the disciples in particular, and simply said, “Come and have breakfast.”  Imagine:  The last supper has become the first breakfast!  And the fish served on gently toasted sesame seed buns tasted better than they ever had before. 

         When the meal was over, Peter found himself staring into this second charcoal fire, perhaps once again warming himself - he in his wet clothes in the chill of the morning.  And it all came roaring back to him – the cold air in the courtyard, the simultaneous heated discussion inside the High Priest’s palace, the three questions, the three denials, the crowing rooster that still haunted Peter’s days.  And the emotions too:  It was like it had happened just yesterday – the fear, the failure, the guilt, loser, loser, loser. 

         However, this time, Peter looked up from the glowing charcoal and made eye contact.  This time he did not run away.  And the saddest eyes in the world stared into eyes filled with such great love.  Perhaps Peter knew that this was the moment.  After the fish were grilled, his moment of grilling would come.  So much had happened between the two charcoal fires. 

         Yet, the bridge between them hung, once again, on three questions – though it surely was an awkward conversation.  After all, this was the first time Peter and Jesus had spoken – just the two of them - since before the first charcoal fire.  And since then, this time, this moment – perhaps always known to be inevitable - had been eating away at Peter.  Maybe Peter had already imagined it many times over – what he would say to Jesus, what Jesus would say to him.  But never in a million years had he expected this.

         “Simon, son of John (That was Peter by his old name), do you love me more than these?” Jesus queried.  Ouch!  As Episcopal priest Rick Morley speculates, “I bet the crowd hushed at this point. Everyone knew Peter had this coming to him. And, everyone loves to see a good fight.”

         “Yes, Master, you know I love you,” Peter responded tentatively.

         Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”

             He then asked a second time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”  How awkward is this?

         “Yes, Master, you know I love you.”

         Jesus said, “Shepherd my sheep.”

            Then he said it a third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

         Peter was upset that he asked for the third time, “Do you love me?” so he answered, “Master, you know everything there is to know. You’ve got to know that I love you.”

         Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.” And then one last time he implored Peter and the other six, and down through the ages his voice echoes to us as well, “Follow me.”

         We follow Jesus not because it is the superior way, or even the only way, or because we are somehow better than everyone else.  We follow Jesus because, for us – gathered here in his church – for us, living our lives in his name gives those lives a meaning greater than ourselves, a meaning they do not have otherwise. 

         And that meaning is grounded in love, in compassion that manifests itself in service and outreach.  Jesus does not call us to do what we do in order to get a first class ticket to heaven.  Our call is not about the hereafter – that will take care of itself. 

         It is about the here and now.  It is about this life and this world that is in such disrepair.  Jesus calls us to do what we do because he knows that we have it within us to change the world for the better and to make a difference in people’s lives.  And, if we choose to do so in his name, he calls us to do it in that community we call the church.

         The church is not a perfect place – and we certainly are not a bunch of perfect people.  We lose our way.  We become caught up in ourselves and in our own needs.  We look inward instead of outward where authentic ministry should be leading us. We convince ourselves that all there is to this discipleship business is having breakfast with Jesus surrounded by like-minded people who look and think and act just like us. 

         You know, reputable Biblical scholars believe that this last chapter of the Gospel of John was really an addendum, an epilogue.  It was added later by someone who realized that there were some loose ends to tie up – mainly having to do with Peter, but also having to do with sending the disciples – and us – out into the world to minister in Christ’s name. 

         And so we have this delightfully vivid tale of a simple breakfast on the beach, a meal that turns first into Peter’s restoration – his own personal resurrection of sorts - and then into a commissioning – a sending forth to follow in the footsteps of the Risen Christ. 

         Religious author Thomas Troeger writes of this ending to the Gospel:  “The epilogue awakens memories of the darkness—the darkness of our hunger, the darkness of our failure to recognize Christ, the darkness of our denial—but at the same time it reminds us that none of this darkness has overcome the light. For the risen Christ still calls, still feeds, still empowers even doubters and deniers for the ministry.”

         If Peter can be rehabilitated, then so can we.  If Peter is called to stand up for and care for the sheep of the world – the unfortunate ones, the marginalized ones, the Dreamers, the war-torn refugees, the ones who haunt the soup kitchens and food pantries – then so are we. 

         No matter where we have been on our journey so far, no matter how far off track we have gone, no matter how many times we have found ourselves in the courtyard with Peter, God gives us a second chance – just like Jesus gave to Peter.  God gives opportunities to try again at those three questions:  Do you love me?  Do you love me?  Do you love me? 

         As Methodist pastor Alyce MacKenzie so poignantly reminds us, Jesus “knows where we live. He stands on the shores of our lives. He stands at our front doors. And when we answer his knock, he has (one final question for us): "Do you love me?" and, if so, "What are you going to do about it?"  Two charcoal fires – and so much happens in between.