More than sitteth
Commentary
Ask folks to conjure up a picture of Jesus' birth, and many vivid images will no doubt
come to mind. The Christmas story is so familiar and so cherished that we have, in our
mind's eye, an entire photo album of pictures from the occasion.
Likewise, ask folks to picture Jesus' ministry, and their imaginations will inspire a plethora of images. We see him blessing the children and healing the sick. We envision him teaching on the hillside and walking on the water. We imagine the feeding of the multitude, the calming of the storm, and the triumphant entry into Jerusalem.
But ask folks to picture Jesus after the resurrection, and their imaginations will likely struggle a bit. The resurrection appearance stories are fewer and generally less familiar. And while we have a very clear sense of Jesus' ministry, the days between his resurrection and his ascension seem much more vague and uncertain to most of us.
If the people in our pews grew up reciting the Apostles' Creed, then it may be that their default image of the risen Lord is of him sitting down. "The third day he rose from the dead," they know, and then "he ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty."
In our selected lections this week, we get a picture of the risen Lord. No, we get three pictures of him! And we discover that he does more than just "sitteth."
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
"Meanwhile, Saul ..." is the way Luke begins the ninth chapter of his book of Acts. He had first introduced us to Saul very briefly at the occasion of Stephen's martyrdom (see Acts 7:54--8:1). That event was followed by a ferocious, early wave of persecution of the church, and Saul is identified as a key and zealous player in that effort. But that persecution had its good effect -- the believers in Jerusalem scattered, and they took the gospel with them. Luke tracks that spread of the gospel throughout the rest of chapter 8. And then, at the beginning of our selected passage, we return to the story of Saul. "Meanwhile, Saul...."
The language Luke uses to describe Paul is graphic and compelling: "still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord." The image of "breathing threats and murder" is so potent. It has a sinister quality to it, as an antagonism that is at once both deep and invisible. There's a monstrous quality to it, as well: as growls come from within the mad dog, and fire comes from within the dragon, so threats and murder come from within Saul. Then there is the tragic part of the image, which is the irony of breath. Breath came first from God, but see what Saul is breathing now -- and breathing against God, unbeknownst to him. Breath is what keeps us alive, and yet see what contamination and death Saul is breathing.
Saul's zeal for persecuting those early believers prompts him to go out on the road. He is not content merely to fight and stifle the scourge in Jerusalem alone. No, he is motivated to chase it down and snuff it out wherever he can find it.
This early picture of Saul reminds us of the wonder and beauty of conversion. Prior to his encounter with the risen Lord, zealous Saul was on the road, traveling from here to there, in order to fulfill his mission. After his encounter with Christ, zealous Paul was continually on the road, traveling from here to there, in order to fulfill his mission. In conversion, God takes what we are and reorients it to serve and glorify him.
That conversion experience of Saul's is the story found in this week's New Testament lection. Saul was on the road when, suddenly, he was knocked to the ground by a powerful, blinding light, and he heard the voice of the Lord speak to him personally.
God interrupting a person in the midst of a journey is not unique to Saul. We see the Lord stop Moses (Exodus 4:24-26), Balaam (Numbers 22:22-35), and Jonah (Jonah 1:1-17) along the way when he was displeased with them, as well. Plus a couple of bewildered disciples on Easter afternoon also bear witness to a Lord who meets us on the road, along the way (Luke 24:13-32).
After the dramatic flash of light had grounded Saul, he heard a voice call him by name. "Saul, Saul," the voice called out. As we noted in an earlier week from this issue, the double vocative always has a poignant, plaintive quality to it (see, for example, Luke 10:41; 13:34; 22:31).
The Lord asks Saul a pointed question: "Why do you persecute me?" He has been asking us pointed questions from the beginning (see, for example, Genesis 3:9; 4:9; 18:14), but there's no indication that Saul ever answers the Lord's question. We might do well to ponder what Saul's answer could have been.
Rather than answering the question, though, Saul has one of his own. "Who are you, Lord?"
The snapshot of that moment depicts a larger reality. See Saul there, on a mission, and yet blind. The Lord speaks to him, mercifully interrupting his errant errand. The Lord does not kill his misguided opponent, but graciously intervenes. Yet Saul does not know or recognize the Lord. Not yet. Then the Lord gives him an instruction -- get up and go -- that will characterize God's calling for the rest of Saul's life.
The voice that Saul heard identifies itself this way: "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting."
It is striking that Jesus identifies himself so personally with the persecution Saul was conducting. When the Old Testament people of God were cruelly oppressed, the Lord voiced his objection to what was being done to his people, but not to him personally (see, for example, Exodus 3:7; 9:17; Isaiah 3:15; Joel 3:2-3; Obadiah 1:13). But Saul's persecution was not referenced in terms of a third-person victim; rather, Jesus says that Saul had been persecuting him.
Perhaps this watershed event contributed to Paul's strong understanding of the church as the body of Christ. And it adds one more layer to the New Testament's one-to-one identification of Christ with his followers (see, for example, Matthew 25:40; John 13:20; 1 Corinthians 12:27).
Revelation 5:11-14
There was an era in Hollywood when the major filmmakers were inclined to make big productions. Magnificent sets on a grand scale, opulent décor and costumes, and the claim of "a cast of thousands" were all characteristic of those grand productions.
Long before the days of Cecil B. DeMille, however, there were the visions of John. And the epic scene he sees and describes for us here would dwarf even Hollywood's best efforts.
Name the events and scenes that have been breathtaking experiences for you. They are likely occasions marked by grandeur and beauty. Imagine, then, how grand and how beautiful is this scene. "The voice" -- interestingly, rendered as a singular -- "of many angels" suggests a majestic sound. The "myriads" and "thousands" bring to mind a vast multitude stretched out as far as the eye can see toward the horizon on every side. "Singing with full voice" is a pull-out-all-the-stops image.
That spectacle is followed by another, universal chorus -- "every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them, singing" -- that makes the Mormon Tabernacle Choir look like a weak duet. And then the mysterious four living creatures punctuate the moment with a grand "Amen," and the elders set the pace for the only satisfactory response: "the elders fell down and worshiped."
If only we could describe for our congregations the breathtaking splendor of that scene, as I have tried to do, then we would be in good position to refocus the camera lens. All of the magnificence we have expressed is still only the frame around the picture. We haven't yet gotten to the epicenter of majesty and glory.
I remember a family vacation on the Atlantic Ocean. I awakened early enough one morning to be able to walk down to the beach to watch the sunrise. The darkness on the horizon that made the sky indistinguishable from the ocean gradually gave way to a thin line of bright orange. The light grew almost measurably every moment, brightening both water and sky. Soon the whole view to the east was aglow.
I didn't actually see the sun, which I chalked up to haze and clouds. Still, I wished that I had had my camera to record the beauty that I had seen.
I turned to walk back to the beach house where we were staying, but just before going inside, I turned back for one last look. I was astonished suddenly to see the enormous and brilliantly bright orb of the sun emerging from the water. I had not missed the sunrise in the haze and clouds; it hadn't happened yet! All the rest of the light and color was merely the radiant entourage that preceded the real star of the show.
So it is in John's scene. The throngs of worshipers, the thundering angels, the elders, the voices, the creatures, and the supernatural beings -- they are breathtaking in their grandeur and beauty, but they are only the entourage. The center of their awed attention is the throne.
Many of the people in our pews will be most familiar with this passage from George Frederic Handel's musical treatment of it in his Messiah. Relying on the King James Version of the Bible for the lyrics, Handel sang, "Worthy is the lamb that was slain." That, then, is the rendering that may be popularly familiar.
The NRSV, however, chooses a less poetic phrase. Instead, we find far more graphic and startling language: "Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered." "Slain" suggests merely a dead animal. "Slaughtered," however, conjures up a much more violent picture. Yet the term is probably an appropriate one to use, both to do justice to the nature of the crucifixion, and to magnify the marvel of the resurrection.
Imagine for a brief, unpleasant moment the look of an animal that has been slaughtered. And then see the glory of this Lamb, which had been slaughtered, but which is glorified and on the throne!
John 21:1-19
This lovely scene near the end of John's gospel is filled with all sorts of poignancy, as well as some mystery.
We don't know exactly the frequency of contact that the disciples had with Jesus between his resurrection and ascension. We sense that they were with him constantly prior to his crucifixion, but it seems that the contact was more sporadic afterward. Perhaps, therefore, the disciples at this stage felt a certain aimlessness, a lack of direction. And so, when in doubt, go back to what you know best. "I am going fishing," Peter abruptly announced to the group, and they all quickly followed his lead.
What at first seemed like a comfortable return to the familiar, however, became a thoroughly defeating experience. All night, the disciples fished without success. That may not be incomprehensible to the occasional, recreational fisherman who uses a pole. But for these former professionals who fished with a net, the experience must have been bewildering.
Then, at sunrise, Jesus stands unrecognized on the shore, and he calls out to them, "You have no fish, have you?" The question must have been about as welcome as asking a doctoral student with writer's block how his dissertation is coming. When the disciples confirm their sorry status, Jesus responds with a strange instruction: "Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some."
I imagine that the suggestion was both unwelcome and absurd. How is it that this backseat driver on the shore is trying to tell Peter how to fish? And, after an entire night without catching a single fish, how preposterous to suppose that merely switching sides of the boat could possibly make a difference!
In fact, as with so many 180-degree turns, the difference was night-and-day. Where before they hadn't caught a single fish, now their strength and their boat was barely adequate to contain the catch.
The miraculous turnaround prompted John to recognize that the stranger on the shore was Jesus. This is one more piece in a mosaic that may deserve our attention: namely, how people recognize the risen Lord. Over the course of the four gospels, we see a fascinating variety. Mary recognized Jesus when he calls her by name (John 20:14-16). The Emmaus disciples recognized him when he broke the bread (Luke 24:15-35). Thomas recognized him when he was able to see and feel the wounds (John 20:24-29). And, in our scene, John recognized him when he performed this wonder by the sea.
The loveliness of the scene continues as the disciples arrive on shore to find that Jesus has prepared breakfast for them. The one who makes the lepers clean, who makes the blind see, and who makes demons tremble, also makes breakfast. It is a marvelously homey image, and illustrative of his spirit: humble, thoughtful, provident, and loving.
Then the episode takes another poignant turn in the conversation between Jesus and Peter. More than any of the other three gospel writers, John gives us peeks of Jesus in such one-on-one encounters. And, for us to be privy to this particularly personal moment between Peter and the Lord is a genuine treasure.
Jesus' choice to put his question to Peter in triplicate is often identified with Peter's earlier failure. That is to say, since Peter had denied Jesus three times, Jesus offered Peter here the opportunity to affirm his love and loyalty three times. Peter, however, does not seem to feel comforted by the opportunity. Instead, he is hurt by the repetition of Jesus' question.
Each time that Peter affirms his love for Jesus, Jesus responds with some exhortation. Each one is a little different, but they are all under the same broad theme: caring for Christ's flock.
It is striking -- and perhaps especially so for you and me -- that Jesus should make such a one-to-one correlation between loving him and caring for his flock. And Peter must surely have taken the assignment to heart, for when he, himself, later writes to church elders, saying, "Tend the flock of God that is in your charge, exercising the oversight, not under compulsion but willingly, as God would have you do it -- not for sordid gain but eagerly. Do not lord it over those in your charge, but be examples to the flock. And when the chief shepherd appears, you will win the crown of glory that never fades away" (1 Peter 5:2-4).
Finally, the conclusion of this scene features the familiar invitation from Jesus to his disciples: "Follow me." The words take us back -- a few years, and so many miles and experiences before -- when he walked along the same Galilean shore. He encountered several of these same men there, and he extended that very same invitation. "Follow me."
Just as the wedding vows have more meaning after 25, forty, or fifty years of marriage than they can possibly have to the enthusiastic twenty-somethings who stand at the altar on their wedding say, so this invitation to follow Jesus has so much more meaning to these disciples now that they have seen what it means. And this invitation is not a once- for-all. We are continually invited, throughout our lives, to follow him.
Application
The creed's reference to Jesus sitting at the right hand of God is appropriate. It stems from numerous passages (see, for example, Mark 16:19; Luke 22:69; Colossians 3:1; Hebrews 12:2; 1 Peter 3:22), and it is an image of exaltation and victory. At the same time, however, it may slip into being for us an image of distance and passivity. This week's three images of the risen Lord will contribute to a fuller picture of him.
In John, we see the risen Lord continuing to guide, provide for, challenge, and call his disciples. In Acts, we see him graciously pursuing Saul. In Revelation, we see him exalted as the center of the entire universe's worship. And this Lord -- not the baby in the manger or the teacher on the hillside -- this risen Lord is the one we follow and worship today!
Alternative Application
John 21:1-19. "Divine Idiosyncrasies." The people we know best are the people whose idiosyncrasies are familiar to us. Little things that your spouse, child, parent, or friend does that are distinctive, and somehow characteristic of the person.
For me, getting in a car, turning the key, fastening my seat belt, and shifting into gear are practically simultaneous acts. For a good friend of mine, by contrast, these routine things have a specified sequence, and they are completed deliberately one at a time. For both of us, how we start our cars is idiosyncratic, and probably revealing.
God, too, has idiosyncrasies. I don't mean that irreverently, but affectionately. He has some ways of operating that seem, as we get to know him better, marvelously typical of him.
One of God's beautiful idiosyncrasies is how he over-provides.
The account of Jesus' appearance by the Sea of Tiberias includes a small but fascinating detail. After a night of unsuccessful fishing, Jesus instructs the disciples to cast their net on the other side of the boat. When they did, "they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish."
The result of the disciples' obedience to Christ's word was not merely an average catch or a really good catch. This was a back-breaking, net-straining, boat-sinking catch of fish! The Lord did not merely provide -- he overwhelmed.
The same one who taught his followers that they should go the extra mile (Matthew 5:41) has been doing just that with us all along.
This is the God who not only saved the young men from the fire; they didn't even smell like smoke (Daniel 3:27). This is the God whose fire not only consumed Elijah's sacrifice, but burned the stones, scorched the earth, and dried up the moat, as well. This is the Lord who not only fed the multitude of more than 5,000 with just a bag lunch, he generated twelve baskets of leftovers, too (Matthew 14:13-21).
This is the Father who does not merely welcome the prodigal home, but runs to meet him, embraces him, orders clean clothes for him, and celebrates his return with a great party (Luke 15:11-24). This is the landlord who does not only send his messengers, but sends his own son (Matthew 21:33-39). And, this is the Lord who not only rises from the dead, but guarantees our resurrection, as well (1 Corinthians 15:20-28, 51-57).
See on the water those happy disciples, struggling with a blessing too abundant for them to be able to accommodate it all. See on the shoreline the blessed Lord, who always works that way.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 30
What is the difference between happiness and joy? It seems that many of us spend a great deal of time pursuing happiness. Lots of things make us happy. A new convertible, a nice home, a new MP3 player; all these things do make us happy. In fact, the constitution of our nation guarantees us the right to "pursue" our happiness. This is not a bad thing.
But what of joy? This psalm lifts up a God who has "turned my mourning into dancing," who has "taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy." On the surface, one might argue that there is little difference between happiness and joy. Maybe joy is a bit more intense. Perhaps happiness is a touch more giddy. Yet, there is something quite different between the two.
Could it be that happiness is more fleeting, while joy is deeper and more permanent? Could it be that happiness is a serial emotion that leaps like a frog from one lily pad to another? Certainly these thoughts are worth considering.
Joy, though, is a soul thing. It is wrapped up and bound by the chords that tie us to our Creator God. In fact, God created human beings so that they might experience joy. Joy is the vibration that comes when the air of God's spirit vibrates the instrument of our being and God and human resonate together. This is why music and joy are so closely connected. It's why music is thought of as sacred. Joy is the music made by the intersection of human and divine. It is the dance of sacred partnership.
Happiness can be controlled and regulated. Time at the gym makes some folks happy, but there is only so much time. Joy, however, is hard to control. When our spirits intersect with God's, there is no telling where things will end up, no predicting what wonders might take place. When joy is released, healing and hope flourish. When joy is unfurled like a flag of wonder, the promise of love is laid out before us.
Happiness is fine. Happiness is okay. But in this psalm, we are called to embrace the dance of joy as we learn a new step with our Creator and redeemer, the Lord who is our salvation.
Likewise, ask folks to picture Jesus' ministry, and their imaginations will inspire a plethora of images. We see him blessing the children and healing the sick. We envision him teaching on the hillside and walking on the water. We imagine the feeding of the multitude, the calming of the storm, and the triumphant entry into Jerusalem.
But ask folks to picture Jesus after the resurrection, and their imaginations will likely struggle a bit. The resurrection appearance stories are fewer and generally less familiar. And while we have a very clear sense of Jesus' ministry, the days between his resurrection and his ascension seem much more vague and uncertain to most of us.
If the people in our pews grew up reciting the Apostles' Creed, then it may be that their default image of the risen Lord is of him sitting down. "The third day he rose from the dead," they know, and then "he ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty."
In our selected lections this week, we get a picture of the risen Lord. No, we get three pictures of him! And we discover that he does more than just "sitteth."
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
"Meanwhile, Saul ..." is the way Luke begins the ninth chapter of his book of Acts. He had first introduced us to Saul very briefly at the occasion of Stephen's martyrdom (see Acts 7:54--8:1). That event was followed by a ferocious, early wave of persecution of the church, and Saul is identified as a key and zealous player in that effort. But that persecution had its good effect -- the believers in Jerusalem scattered, and they took the gospel with them. Luke tracks that spread of the gospel throughout the rest of chapter 8. And then, at the beginning of our selected passage, we return to the story of Saul. "Meanwhile, Saul...."
The language Luke uses to describe Paul is graphic and compelling: "still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord." The image of "breathing threats and murder" is so potent. It has a sinister quality to it, as an antagonism that is at once both deep and invisible. There's a monstrous quality to it, as well: as growls come from within the mad dog, and fire comes from within the dragon, so threats and murder come from within Saul. Then there is the tragic part of the image, which is the irony of breath. Breath came first from God, but see what Saul is breathing now -- and breathing against God, unbeknownst to him. Breath is what keeps us alive, and yet see what contamination and death Saul is breathing.
Saul's zeal for persecuting those early believers prompts him to go out on the road. He is not content merely to fight and stifle the scourge in Jerusalem alone. No, he is motivated to chase it down and snuff it out wherever he can find it.
This early picture of Saul reminds us of the wonder and beauty of conversion. Prior to his encounter with the risen Lord, zealous Saul was on the road, traveling from here to there, in order to fulfill his mission. After his encounter with Christ, zealous Paul was continually on the road, traveling from here to there, in order to fulfill his mission. In conversion, God takes what we are and reorients it to serve and glorify him.
That conversion experience of Saul's is the story found in this week's New Testament lection. Saul was on the road when, suddenly, he was knocked to the ground by a powerful, blinding light, and he heard the voice of the Lord speak to him personally.
God interrupting a person in the midst of a journey is not unique to Saul. We see the Lord stop Moses (Exodus 4:24-26), Balaam (Numbers 22:22-35), and Jonah (Jonah 1:1-17) along the way when he was displeased with them, as well. Plus a couple of bewildered disciples on Easter afternoon also bear witness to a Lord who meets us on the road, along the way (Luke 24:13-32).
After the dramatic flash of light had grounded Saul, he heard a voice call him by name. "Saul, Saul," the voice called out. As we noted in an earlier week from this issue, the double vocative always has a poignant, plaintive quality to it (see, for example, Luke 10:41; 13:34; 22:31).
The Lord asks Saul a pointed question: "Why do you persecute me?" He has been asking us pointed questions from the beginning (see, for example, Genesis 3:9; 4:9; 18:14), but there's no indication that Saul ever answers the Lord's question. We might do well to ponder what Saul's answer could have been.
Rather than answering the question, though, Saul has one of his own. "Who are you, Lord?"
The snapshot of that moment depicts a larger reality. See Saul there, on a mission, and yet blind. The Lord speaks to him, mercifully interrupting his errant errand. The Lord does not kill his misguided opponent, but graciously intervenes. Yet Saul does not know or recognize the Lord. Not yet. Then the Lord gives him an instruction -- get up and go -- that will characterize God's calling for the rest of Saul's life.
The voice that Saul heard identifies itself this way: "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting."
It is striking that Jesus identifies himself so personally with the persecution Saul was conducting. When the Old Testament people of God were cruelly oppressed, the Lord voiced his objection to what was being done to his people, but not to him personally (see, for example, Exodus 3:7; 9:17; Isaiah 3:15; Joel 3:2-3; Obadiah 1:13). But Saul's persecution was not referenced in terms of a third-person victim; rather, Jesus says that Saul had been persecuting him.
Perhaps this watershed event contributed to Paul's strong understanding of the church as the body of Christ. And it adds one more layer to the New Testament's one-to-one identification of Christ with his followers (see, for example, Matthew 25:40; John 13:20; 1 Corinthians 12:27).
Revelation 5:11-14
There was an era in Hollywood when the major filmmakers were inclined to make big productions. Magnificent sets on a grand scale, opulent décor and costumes, and the claim of "a cast of thousands" were all characteristic of those grand productions.
Long before the days of Cecil B. DeMille, however, there were the visions of John. And the epic scene he sees and describes for us here would dwarf even Hollywood's best efforts.
Name the events and scenes that have been breathtaking experiences for you. They are likely occasions marked by grandeur and beauty. Imagine, then, how grand and how beautiful is this scene. "The voice" -- interestingly, rendered as a singular -- "of many angels" suggests a majestic sound. The "myriads" and "thousands" bring to mind a vast multitude stretched out as far as the eye can see toward the horizon on every side. "Singing with full voice" is a pull-out-all-the-stops image.
That spectacle is followed by another, universal chorus -- "every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them, singing" -- that makes the Mormon Tabernacle Choir look like a weak duet. And then the mysterious four living creatures punctuate the moment with a grand "Amen," and the elders set the pace for the only satisfactory response: "the elders fell down and worshiped."
If only we could describe for our congregations the breathtaking splendor of that scene, as I have tried to do, then we would be in good position to refocus the camera lens. All of the magnificence we have expressed is still only the frame around the picture. We haven't yet gotten to the epicenter of majesty and glory.
I remember a family vacation on the Atlantic Ocean. I awakened early enough one morning to be able to walk down to the beach to watch the sunrise. The darkness on the horizon that made the sky indistinguishable from the ocean gradually gave way to a thin line of bright orange. The light grew almost measurably every moment, brightening both water and sky. Soon the whole view to the east was aglow.
I didn't actually see the sun, which I chalked up to haze and clouds. Still, I wished that I had had my camera to record the beauty that I had seen.
I turned to walk back to the beach house where we were staying, but just before going inside, I turned back for one last look. I was astonished suddenly to see the enormous and brilliantly bright orb of the sun emerging from the water. I had not missed the sunrise in the haze and clouds; it hadn't happened yet! All the rest of the light and color was merely the radiant entourage that preceded the real star of the show.
So it is in John's scene. The throngs of worshipers, the thundering angels, the elders, the voices, the creatures, and the supernatural beings -- they are breathtaking in their grandeur and beauty, but they are only the entourage. The center of their awed attention is the throne.
Many of the people in our pews will be most familiar with this passage from George Frederic Handel's musical treatment of it in his Messiah. Relying on the King James Version of the Bible for the lyrics, Handel sang, "Worthy is the lamb that was slain." That, then, is the rendering that may be popularly familiar.
The NRSV, however, chooses a less poetic phrase. Instead, we find far more graphic and startling language: "Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered." "Slain" suggests merely a dead animal. "Slaughtered," however, conjures up a much more violent picture. Yet the term is probably an appropriate one to use, both to do justice to the nature of the crucifixion, and to magnify the marvel of the resurrection.
Imagine for a brief, unpleasant moment the look of an animal that has been slaughtered. And then see the glory of this Lamb, which had been slaughtered, but which is glorified and on the throne!
John 21:1-19
This lovely scene near the end of John's gospel is filled with all sorts of poignancy, as well as some mystery.
We don't know exactly the frequency of contact that the disciples had with Jesus between his resurrection and ascension. We sense that they were with him constantly prior to his crucifixion, but it seems that the contact was more sporadic afterward. Perhaps, therefore, the disciples at this stage felt a certain aimlessness, a lack of direction. And so, when in doubt, go back to what you know best. "I am going fishing," Peter abruptly announced to the group, and they all quickly followed his lead.
What at first seemed like a comfortable return to the familiar, however, became a thoroughly defeating experience. All night, the disciples fished without success. That may not be incomprehensible to the occasional, recreational fisherman who uses a pole. But for these former professionals who fished with a net, the experience must have been bewildering.
Then, at sunrise, Jesus stands unrecognized on the shore, and he calls out to them, "You have no fish, have you?" The question must have been about as welcome as asking a doctoral student with writer's block how his dissertation is coming. When the disciples confirm their sorry status, Jesus responds with a strange instruction: "Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some."
I imagine that the suggestion was both unwelcome and absurd. How is it that this backseat driver on the shore is trying to tell Peter how to fish? And, after an entire night without catching a single fish, how preposterous to suppose that merely switching sides of the boat could possibly make a difference!
In fact, as with so many 180-degree turns, the difference was night-and-day. Where before they hadn't caught a single fish, now their strength and their boat was barely adequate to contain the catch.
The miraculous turnaround prompted John to recognize that the stranger on the shore was Jesus. This is one more piece in a mosaic that may deserve our attention: namely, how people recognize the risen Lord. Over the course of the four gospels, we see a fascinating variety. Mary recognized Jesus when he calls her by name (John 20:14-16). The Emmaus disciples recognized him when he broke the bread (Luke 24:15-35). Thomas recognized him when he was able to see and feel the wounds (John 20:24-29). And, in our scene, John recognized him when he performed this wonder by the sea.
The loveliness of the scene continues as the disciples arrive on shore to find that Jesus has prepared breakfast for them. The one who makes the lepers clean, who makes the blind see, and who makes demons tremble, also makes breakfast. It is a marvelously homey image, and illustrative of his spirit: humble, thoughtful, provident, and loving.
Then the episode takes another poignant turn in the conversation between Jesus and Peter. More than any of the other three gospel writers, John gives us peeks of Jesus in such one-on-one encounters. And, for us to be privy to this particularly personal moment between Peter and the Lord is a genuine treasure.
Jesus' choice to put his question to Peter in triplicate is often identified with Peter's earlier failure. That is to say, since Peter had denied Jesus three times, Jesus offered Peter here the opportunity to affirm his love and loyalty three times. Peter, however, does not seem to feel comforted by the opportunity. Instead, he is hurt by the repetition of Jesus' question.
Each time that Peter affirms his love for Jesus, Jesus responds with some exhortation. Each one is a little different, but they are all under the same broad theme: caring for Christ's flock.
It is striking -- and perhaps especially so for you and me -- that Jesus should make such a one-to-one correlation between loving him and caring for his flock. And Peter must surely have taken the assignment to heart, for when he, himself, later writes to church elders, saying, "Tend the flock of God that is in your charge, exercising the oversight, not under compulsion but willingly, as God would have you do it -- not for sordid gain but eagerly. Do not lord it over those in your charge, but be examples to the flock. And when the chief shepherd appears, you will win the crown of glory that never fades away" (1 Peter 5:2-4).
Finally, the conclusion of this scene features the familiar invitation from Jesus to his disciples: "Follow me." The words take us back -- a few years, and so many miles and experiences before -- when he walked along the same Galilean shore. He encountered several of these same men there, and he extended that very same invitation. "Follow me."
Just as the wedding vows have more meaning after 25, forty, or fifty years of marriage than they can possibly have to the enthusiastic twenty-somethings who stand at the altar on their wedding say, so this invitation to follow Jesus has so much more meaning to these disciples now that they have seen what it means. And this invitation is not a once- for-all. We are continually invited, throughout our lives, to follow him.
Application
The creed's reference to Jesus sitting at the right hand of God is appropriate. It stems from numerous passages (see, for example, Mark 16:19; Luke 22:69; Colossians 3:1; Hebrews 12:2; 1 Peter 3:22), and it is an image of exaltation and victory. At the same time, however, it may slip into being for us an image of distance and passivity. This week's three images of the risen Lord will contribute to a fuller picture of him.
In John, we see the risen Lord continuing to guide, provide for, challenge, and call his disciples. In Acts, we see him graciously pursuing Saul. In Revelation, we see him exalted as the center of the entire universe's worship. And this Lord -- not the baby in the manger or the teacher on the hillside -- this risen Lord is the one we follow and worship today!
Alternative Application
John 21:1-19. "Divine Idiosyncrasies." The people we know best are the people whose idiosyncrasies are familiar to us. Little things that your spouse, child, parent, or friend does that are distinctive, and somehow characteristic of the person.
For me, getting in a car, turning the key, fastening my seat belt, and shifting into gear are practically simultaneous acts. For a good friend of mine, by contrast, these routine things have a specified sequence, and they are completed deliberately one at a time. For both of us, how we start our cars is idiosyncratic, and probably revealing.
God, too, has idiosyncrasies. I don't mean that irreverently, but affectionately. He has some ways of operating that seem, as we get to know him better, marvelously typical of him.
One of God's beautiful idiosyncrasies is how he over-provides.
The account of Jesus' appearance by the Sea of Tiberias includes a small but fascinating detail. After a night of unsuccessful fishing, Jesus instructs the disciples to cast their net on the other side of the boat. When they did, "they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish."
The result of the disciples' obedience to Christ's word was not merely an average catch or a really good catch. This was a back-breaking, net-straining, boat-sinking catch of fish! The Lord did not merely provide -- he overwhelmed.
The same one who taught his followers that they should go the extra mile (Matthew 5:41) has been doing just that with us all along.
This is the God who not only saved the young men from the fire; they didn't even smell like smoke (Daniel 3:27). This is the God whose fire not only consumed Elijah's sacrifice, but burned the stones, scorched the earth, and dried up the moat, as well. This is the Lord who not only fed the multitude of more than 5,000 with just a bag lunch, he generated twelve baskets of leftovers, too (Matthew 14:13-21).
This is the Father who does not merely welcome the prodigal home, but runs to meet him, embraces him, orders clean clothes for him, and celebrates his return with a great party (Luke 15:11-24). This is the landlord who does not only send his messengers, but sends his own son (Matthew 21:33-39). And, this is the Lord who not only rises from the dead, but guarantees our resurrection, as well (1 Corinthians 15:20-28, 51-57).
See on the water those happy disciples, struggling with a blessing too abundant for them to be able to accommodate it all. See on the shoreline the blessed Lord, who always works that way.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 30
What is the difference between happiness and joy? It seems that many of us spend a great deal of time pursuing happiness. Lots of things make us happy. A new convertible, a nice home, a new MP3 player; all these things do make us happy. In fact, the constitution of our nation guarantees us the right to "pursue" our happiness. This is not a bad thing.
But what of joy? This psalm lifts up a God who has "turned my mourning into dancing," who has "taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy." On the surface, one might argue that there is little difference between happiness and joy. Maybe joy is a bit more intense. Perhaps happiness is a touch more giddy. Yet, there is something quite different between the two.
Could it be that happiness is more fleeting, while joy is deeper and more permanent? Could it be that happiness is a serial emotion that leaps like a frog from one lily pad to another? Certainly these thoughts are worth considering.
Joy, though, is a soul thing. It is wrapped up and bound by the chords that tie us to our Creator God. In fact, God created human beings so that they might experience joy. Joy is the vibration that comes when the air of God's spirit vibrates the instrument of our being and God and human resonate together. This is why music and joy are so closely connected. It's why music is thought of as sacred. Joy is the music made by the intersection of human and divine. It is the dance of sacred partnership.
Happiness can be controlled and regulated. Time at the gym makes some folks happy, but there is only so much time. Joy, however, is hard to control. When our spirits intersect with God's, there is no telling where things will end up, no predicting what wonders might take place. When joy is released, healing and hope flourish. When joy is unfurled like a flag of wonder, the promise of love is laid out before us.
Happiness is fine. Happiness is okay. But in this psalm, we are called to embrace the dance of joy as we learn a new step with our Creator and redeemer, the Lord who is our salvation.
