Starting Over
Commentary
Sometimes the healing of our hurts starts only when we find another song to sing. Take the story of Helen, for instance. She had her sights set on a law degree from Ohio Wesleyan College. But then the flu epidemic of 1918 hit, taking her father as a victim. Suddenly everything had changed. Helen could not go to college; she had to get a job to support her mother.
For the next ten years, Helen worked at an electrical utility company, a simple, repetitive cog in the company machine. Just when she thought she was destined to remain lonely and unmarried, young Franklin Rice stepped in. He was a dashing entrepreneur, an up-and-coming banker. When they married in 1928, Helen’s future was bright with promise.
A year later, though, the stock market crashed, and Franklin’s financial world fell apart. He could not take the pressure, so he committed suicide. The litany of Helen’s life had become an unrelenting nightmare of overwhelming: a deceased father, a lost career, a vanished fortune, a dead husband, a lonely existence.
Still, more people know Helen than we might think. You see, Helen eventually took a job with the Gibson Greeting Card company. As she began to write the verses for card, people began to realize how much she was able to articulate the thoughts of their hearts and the passions of their souls. It was during these creative days that Helen Steiner Rice became a folk poet who spoke the language of thousands of Christians.
Some years ago, Helen was asked which poem she thought was her best. She hesitated for a moment. She could not tell, she said. Then she went on. There was one that had meant the most to her, ever since the words tumbled out. It was this verse:
So together we stand at life’s crossroads
And view what we think is the end.
But God has a much bigger vision
And he tells us it’s only a bend.
For the road goes on and is smoother,
And the pause in the song is a rest.
And the part that’s unsung and unfinished
Is the sweetest and richest and best.
So rest and relax and grow stronger.
Let go and let God share your load.
Your work is not finished or ended;
You’ve just come to a bend in the road. (Public Domain)
Powerful! And we all know what she is talking about, don’t we?! And in today’s lectionary readings, Jesus’ disciples have to start over, Paul is forced to start over, and creation itself prepares for the greatest start-over of time and eternity.
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
The story of the expansion of Christianity is intimately connected, at its beginnings, to the person of Paul. While the specific details of his conversion are told in Acts 9, a larger portrait of Paul emerges in snippets from his letters. A paragraph in Philippians 3 tells us that Paul’s parents were strict observant Jews (“circumcised on the eighth day”), openly religious (“of the people of Israel”), conscious of their family history and lineage (“of the tribe of Benjamin”) and careful to maintain ethnic purity (“a Hebrew of Hebrews”).
Added to these bits of information come notes found in Paul’s personal testimony in Acts 22–23. He was raised in a Diaspora Jewish community in Tarsus (22:3), a Roman citizen from birth (22:8) and aligned through parental influence with the Pharisees in the sociopolitical mix of first century Jewish culture (22–23:6).
Paul’s Hellenic name (meaning “small” or “humble”) was popular throughout the Roman world and may have been a simple cognate to his familial Hebrew name, “Saul” (“asked for” or “prayed for”). This name might have shown the family’s pride in its Benjamite roots since Israel’s first king (likely the person after whom Paul was named) was from that tribe. Paul seems to have taken great pride in his vocational training outside of the religious instruction he received, for he reminded the Corinthian congregation that while he was with them, he “worked with [my] own hands” (1 Corinthians 4:12). When Luke reports on Paul’s stay in Corinth, he mentions that Paul was busy in the marketplace plying his trade as a “tentmaker” (Acts 18:3).
In his religious education, Paul’s instruction was at the top of the Jewish mountain, literally and figuratively. Although born in Tarsus (at the northeastern corner of the Mediterranean Sea, near Antioch), his family must have had high hopes for him in religious leadership, for he told a Jerusalem audience that he was “brought up in this city” and that “under Gamaliel I was trained in the law” (Acts 22:3). It appears likely that Paul showed early promise in synagogue studies in Tarsus, and that his rabbi or the community thought he was a prime candidate to learn from the leading Jewish teacher of the day, Rabban Gamaliel in Jerusalem. Paul’s older sister, probably married at the time, was either living in Jerusalem, or was sent to live there and create a home for the young lad while he studied with Gamaliel. When Paul was later arrested in Jerusalem in 54 A.D. (Acts 21), and imprisoned there, we learn that his nephew (“the son of Paul’s sister,” Acts 23:16) was coming and going from the jail, taking care of his uncle’s needs, and serving as the link with the rest of Paul’s family.
Gamaliel was a leading figure in the Jewish ruling Sanhedrin, and the brightest light among the Pharisees of his day. Not surprisingly, under the influences of both Paul’s father and Paul’s great teacher, Paul himself forthrightly adopted the Pharisaic religious perspective and lifestyle as well (Acts 23:6). Paul excelled in his studies, for he said that it was out of his religious zeal that he began to persecute the church (Philippians 3:6). Even more, in his words, “as for legalistic righteousness” Paul judged himself “faultless” (Philippians 3:6) in his day-to-day behaviors. Paul lived and breathed his religious identity with a passion that was true and straight and unyielding.
But then Jesus confronted him (Acts 9), and suddenly Paul needed to rethink the whole of his theology and practices (Galatians 1:13-17). The outcome was a synthesis between zealous conservative Judaism and energetic Christian missionary engagement. Soon Barnabas took Paul along as a partner in the planting of a cosmopolitan missional congregation in the heart of Antioch (Acts 12), the third largest city of the Roman empire. It was the administrative capital of Rome’s eastern district, close to Tarsus (Paul’s family home), and also near Cyprus, where Barnabas’ family lived (Acts 4:36). During those years a large colony of Jews made their homes in Antioch, perhaps as many as 20,000 out of a total metropolitan population of around half a million.
Energized by a man who started over in the middle of his life, the mission of Jesus moved from a minority testimony of hope to a global community of social transformation.
Revelation 5:11-14
John writes that he is on the island of Patmos, as he receives these visions. Patmos is about fifty miles to the southwest of Ephesus, where John had been pastor and church leader for the previous three decades. Although the book of Revelation does not mention the Roman emperor Domitian, early church sources indicate that an empire-wide persecution of Christians took place during his reign (81-96 A.D.). Tertullian adds a note about this in Chapter XXXVI of his On the Prescription of Heretics, stating that in Rome, “the Apostle John was first plunged, unhurt, into boiling oil, and thence remitted to his island-exile.”
There is evidence on Patmos today, that the island had been a quarry for building stones during Roman times, and that slave labor was used in this arduous work. However, it came to be that John was on Patmos, he remained vitally connected to both his resurrected friend Jesus, and to the congregations back on the mainland of Asia Minor who were praying for him.
In the opening vision, Jesus is identified as the Creator and consummator (“the first and the last”), and is shown symbolically in the temple (walking among the lamp stands), bringing the glory of God into the human arena. While Jesus is clearly human in his physical features, these have been translated by his resurrection (Revelation 1:18) so that they pummel the observer with transcendent power and glory.
Each of the seven letters that follows (Revelation 2–3) begins with a self-description by Jesus, in which some aspect of his revealed glory in chapter 1 is reiterated. The letters are a mixture of warning and encouragement, clearly articulating the experiences of actual congregations living in the first century. They appear to be representative messages, so that even as they speak directly to these seven churches, they communicate Jesus’ ongoing relationship to all congregations generally.
In John’s second major vision of Jesus, the scene shifts from earth to heaven (Revelation 4–5). God is not represented by creatures or beings or shapes or symbols, but only as the shimmering of pure light itself, in pulsating and changing hues covering the whole spectrum. The throne from which God rules is not backed against the wall of some palace room, but is at the center of all things, so that all of created reality flows out from it, and surrounds it with worship, and receives its light and life from God. Everything everywhere participates in synchronized waves that emanate out from this point of origin, and the pulsating undulations send back to the throne of God choruses of praise and songs of reverence.
Occupying the key places of honor closest to the divine throne are the twenty-four elders, representing the combined leadership of the people of God through biblical history—twelve patriarchs in the Old Testament, twelve apostles in the New Testament. As the rhythms of worship resound and catch everything in heaven and on earth and in the seas in their vibrations and beats, a new element is suddenly introduced: a scroll is extended out from the indescribable light of the one on the throne. This parchment is covered with writing and appears to be of critical importance for whatever has to happen next. Yet no one seems to have access to it, so John weeps.
Quickly, however, John is told that the “Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” is approaching, and that he will unfasten the seals that bind the scroll. Expecting a roaring and powerful beast, John is amazed to see instead a “Lamb, looking as if it had been slain.” It was “standing in the center of the throne.” Subsequent lines make it clear that this one is Jesus. In these quick descriptors John tells us several things. First of all, Jesus is human, a king in the line of David. Meanwhile, he is also the “root” of that whole royal family, giving the rest of its members their royal authority. At the same time, he is the one who died as the true Passover lamb, fulfilling the meaning of that ritual right which gave identity to the nation of Israel. But he also came alive again in the resurrection of Easter Sunday, and rules over all things with supreme and unequaled authority. He is, in fact, truly God (notice that he stands at the center of the throne, which is a position that can solely be claimed by the Creator deity of the universe).
While the agony of cleansing judgment is to come, the celebration has also begun. John is seeing the vision we all need: this world, created good by God, has too long shuddered under cosmic shivers of sin’s pandemic. Now, however, recreative glory surges through the universe, initiating the song of worship that accompanies the transformation of a world waiting to be born.
John 21:1-19
The disciples had been displaced from their homes and careers. For a while they experienced the exhilaration of being “married” to Jesus, sharing a life that was no less than bringing the kingdom of Heaven to earth. They walked in humble pride next to their wise and miracle-working leader.
But then things were catastrophically upended. Jesus was ripped away from them, shamefully treated and torturously executed. So now they are cautious. Tenuous. Hoping, but fearing. Jesus came back to them, to be sure, but all is not the same. Jesus is not the same. And their daunting mission of revolution has less clarity than it did before. What kind of revolution? What kind of kingdom? And would Jesus even stick around long enough for them to find out?
“I’m going fishing,” Peter says. What else is there to do? So, they all stumble down to the sea, and numbly go through the motions they learned as lads.
No fish this night. But that was really not the point of coming out here anyway. The men needed to do something routine and ordinary. They needed to live again.
Then, out of the darkness, shines Jesus. They wonder at first, nervous about the shimmering ghost on the shore. But his voice steadies them, and his command strengthens them. All at once they are wildly successful fishermen. The net can hardly hold their enormous draught.
Yet it is not the fish that excite them. Nor do they conceive of themselves as successful lords of the sea. Instead, they are drawn to Jesus. They need to be with Jesus.
It is fascinating to note that the Gospel of John is actually quite complete at the end of chapter 20. Although no manuscripts exist of the book without this 21st chapter, it is often viewed as a later appendage. Still, even if it was written later by the evangelist or one of his disciples, the story it tells brings further completeness to the rest of the gospel.
For one thing, it sets the mission of the church in motion. In John 20, Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit into this new body of his which will recreate the human race, like the divine creative story in Genesis 2. Yet these new living souls do not set out immediately on the campaign of resurrected life before that chapter closes. There is intent; Thomas’ great testimony is a prelude to all the other testimonies of faith that will be given, but it does not lead naturally directly into them. Here in John 21, the story of the church begins to roll forward. The disciples need to make choices about their futures, Jesus restores Peter to his leadership role in the enterprise, and the Lord of Life articulates a vision about the future that will lead them on.
Secondly, the failures of Peter, so pronounced in the passion story, are rectified. Peter is resurrected by the resurrected Jesus, and re-empowered to take initiative again. Yes, he is a good fisherman, and this is a noble calling in life. But he has been transformed by Jesus to a new career, one which involves tossing his nets into an even greater sea.
Third, the missionary character of John’s gospel is re-invigorated by the story of this morning meal on the beach. The prologue to the gospel makes the whole story of Jesus a divine missionary enterprise: Jesus is the word, the light penetrating the blackness of our world, the radiance of almighty God. But that blaze of glory is veiled for a time as those around Jesus wrestle with his identity. Then the miracle of Easter happened, and, for a time, the disciples wrestled with the meaning of all these things. Now, finally, questions of Jesus’ identity can be set aside. He is risen! He is Lord! He is all powerful! So, it is time to get back to the mission. While Jesus is heaven’s bright light, he is laser-focused and limited by his physical limitations. Only when the disciples begin to glow can the light be spread, and the mission recovered. John’s gospel is all about “light” and “darkness.” Here, after a night in the darknessthat proved unprofitable and seemingly wasted, they are brought into the light of glowing campfire as dawn is breaking, and they are given a new purpose. They are able to start over. Jesus, who is the vision of heaven, becomes their vision here on earth. The church is born.
Application
A.J. Cronin described his work as a doctor in 1920s England in his autobiography, Adventures in Two Worlds. He remembered working in the hospital of a poor northern mining district early in his career.
One evening a boy dying of diphtheria was brought to him. The hospital was dirty and poorly equipped, with no trained help. Still, Cronin had no alternative but to cut a hole in the boy’s throat and insert a breathing tube in his windpipe. Only this emergency tracheotomy saved the fellow’s life.
Exhausted, Dr. Cronin left the room. He called a young nurse to sit by the bed. She was only a wisp of a girl, and half starved, but she was a nurse, and she would have to do. “Make sure the tube stays clear, and don’t take your eyes off of him,” he told her. Then he lay down in a corner and slept.
Suddenly the young nurse was shaking him. She had fallen asleep too, and the tube had shifted. The boy had suffocated; he was dead.
Dr. Cronin’s eyes blazed in anger. He told her that he would report her, that she would never work as a nurse again. Standing in front of him, frail, timid, and shaking like a leaf, she mumbled something under her breath. “What’s that you’re saying?” he demanded.
So she said it a little louder: “Please give me another chance!” But he was furious that she dared ask such a thing. “You’re finished,” he said. “There will be no more chances for you!”
He stormed away and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come because her words echoed through his mind: “Give me another chance. Please. Give me another chance!”
In the morning he tried to write the letter of discipline, but the picture of her pleading face wouldn’t leave him. Finally, he tore the letter up.
But that was not the end of the story. That poor, feeble creature, more child than woman, went on to become the matron of one of England’s greatest children’s hospitals. In her later years, she was known throughout the nation for her wisdom and devotion.
You see, she never forgot what happened that night. She never forgot her failure; but neither did she forget the grace that had given her a second chance. She carved her future out of her past, based upon one slim vision of eternity. She saw a new future. God’s future. And she became part of it.
Alternative Application (John 21:1-19)
Centuries ago, the great theologian Cyprian said that a person who has God as his father, has the church as his mother. Why? Because the church is the means by which God strengthens and deepens and restores our faith. We learn of God from the psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs of the church. We see God in the testimonies of the saints. When we’ve lost our way, the church whispers to us of the one who lives within her and draws us back to him. Of course, at the heart of the church is Jesus, head of the Body.
It is a bit like the experience columnist Robert Fulghum wrote about years ago. He said that long before he gave up any significant relationship with God. He didn’t really want God, the church, or religion to cramp his style.
Then he met someone who prevented him from banishing God from his life. He was so amazed that he put her picture on the mirror above the sink where he washes each morning. Every time he cleans his hands, she’s there to cleanse his heart. Whenever he scrubs his face, she’s there to wash his soul.
He met her in Oslo, Norway, during the Nobel prize ceremonies one year. He was standing among the crowd of guests that filled the doors and hallways of the auditorium.
Then she passed by. She stopped for a moment and smiled at him. For a brief moment, it seemed as if she reached into his heart and understood him. There was no condemnation in her look, only genuine care. Then she went to the front of the auditorium to receive the Nobel Peace Prize from the hand of the king of Norway. It was Mother Teresa of Calcutta.
Somehow, said Fulghum, she reminded him of the things that were missing in his life. “We can do no great things,” she said, “only small things with great love.” With that, wrote Fulghum, “she upsets me, disturbs me, shames me. What does she have that I do not?”
But deep inside, he knows. That’s why he keeps her picture on his mirror and looks into her eyes again and again. That’s why he writes about her. He knows that she has God. That’s the source of her strength, her energy, her inner beauty.
But Mother Teresa was herself only a reflection of the one who first gave her a vision as well. Like the disciples at the seashore, in the initial encounter, we all need to see Jesus. And when we see him, we can start life again. With purpose. With mission. With passion.
For the next ten years, Helen worked at an electrical utility company, a simple, repetitive cog in the company machine. Just when she thought she was destined to remain lonely and unmarried, young Franklin Rice stepped in. He was a dashing entrepreneur, an up-and-coming banker. When they married in 1928, Helen’s future was bright with promise.
A year later, though, the stock market crashed, and Franklin’s financial world fell apart. He could not take the pressure, so he committed suicide. The litany of Helen’s life had become an unrelenting nightmare of overwhelming: a deceased father, a lost career, a vanished fortune, a dead husband, a lonely existence.
Still, more people know Helen than we might think. You see, Helen eventually took a job with the Gibson Greeting Card company. As she began to write the verses for card, people began to realize how much she was able to articulate the thoughts of their hearts and the passions of their souls. It was during these creative days that Helen Steiner Rice became a folk poet who spoke the language of thousands of Christians.
Some years ago, Helen was asked which poem she thought was her best. She hesitated for a moment. She could not tell, she said. Then she went on. There was one that had meant the most to her, ever since the words tumbled out. It was this verse:
So together we stand at life’s crossroads
And view what we think is the end.
But God has a much bigger vision
And he tells us it’s only a bend.
For the road goes on and is smoother,
And the pause in the song is a rest.
And the part that’s unsung and unfinished
Is the sweetest and richest and best.
So rest and relax and grow stronger.
Let go and let God share your load.
Your work is not finished or ended;
You’ve just come to a bend in the road. (Public Domain)
Powerful! And we all know what she is talking about, don’t we?! And in today’s lectionary readings, Jesus’ disciples have to start over, Paul is forced to start over, and creation itself prepares for the greatest start-over of time and eternity.
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
The story of the expansion of Christianity is intimately connected, at its beginnings, to the person of Paul. While the specific details of his conversion are told in Acts 9, a larger portrait of Paul emerges in snippets from his letters. A paragraph in Philippians 3 tells us that Paul’s parents were strict observant Jews (“circumcised on the eighth day”), openly religious (“of the people of Israel”), conscious of their family history and lineage (“of the tribe of Benjamin”) and careful to maintain ethnic purity (“a Hebrew of Hebrews”).
Added to these bits of information come notes found in Paul’s personal testimony in Acts 22–23. He was raised in a Diaspora Jewish community in Tarsus (22:3), a Roman citizen from birth (22:8) and aligned through parental influence with the Pharisees in the sociopolitical mix of first century Jewish culture (22–23:6).
Paul’s Hellenic name (meaning “small” or “humble”) was popular throughout the Roman world and may have been a simple cognate to his familial Hebrew name, “Saul” (“asked for” or “prayed for”). This name might have shown the family’s pride in its Benjamite roots since Israel’s first king (likely the person after whom Paul was named) was from that tribe. Paul seems to have taken great pride in his vocational training outside of the religious instruction he received, for he reminded the Corinthian congregation that while he was with them, he “worked with [my] own hands” (1 Corinthians 4:12). When Luke reports on Paul’s stay in Corinth, he mentions that Paul was busy in the marketplace plying his trade as a “tentmaker” (Acts 18:3).
In his religious education, Paul’s instruction was at the top of the Jewish mountain, literally and figuratively. Although born in Tarsus (at the northeastern corner of the Mediterranean Sea, near Antioch), his family must have had high hopes for him in religious leadership, for he told a Jerusalem audience that he was “brought up in this city” and that “under Gamaliel I was trained in the law” (Acts 22:3). It appears likely that Paul showed early promise in synagogue studies in Tarsus, and that his rabbi or the community thought he was a prime candidate to learn from the leading Jewish teacher of the day, Rabban Gamaliel in Jerusalem. Paul’s older sister, probably married at the time, was either living in Jerusalem, or was sent to live there and create a home for the young lad while he studied with Gamaliel. When Paul was later arrested in Jerusalem in 54 A.D. (Acts 21), and imprisoned there, we learn that his nephew (“the son of Paul’s sister,” Acts 23:16) was coming and going from the jail, taking care of his uncle’s needs, and serving as the link with the rest of Paul’s family.
Gamaliel was a leading figure in the Jewish ruling Sanhedrin, and the brightest light among the Pharisees of his day. Not surprisingly, under the influences of both Paul’s father and Paul’s great teacher, Paul himself forthrightly adopted the Pharisaic religious perspective and lifestyle as well (Acts 23:6). Paul excelled in his studies, for he said that it was out of his religious zeal that he began to persecute the church (Philippians 3:6). Even more, in his words, “as for legalistic righteousness” Paul judged himself “faultless” (Philippians 3:6) in his day-to-day behaviors. Paul lived and breathed his religious identity with a passion that was true and straight and unyielding.
But then Jesus confronted him (Acts 9), and suddenly Paul needed to rethink the whole of his theology and practices (Galatians 1:13-17). The outcome was a synthesis between zealous conservative Judaism and energetic Christian missionary engagement. Soon Barnabas took Paul along as a partner in the planting of a cosmopolitan missional congregation in the heart of Antioch (Acts 12), the third largest city of the Roman empire. It was the administrative capital of Rome’s eastern district, close to Tarsus (Paul’s family home), and also near Cyprus, where Barnabas’ family lived (Acts 4:36). During those years a large colony of Jews made their homes in Antioch, perhaps as many as 20,000 out of a total metropolitan population of around half a million.
Energized by a man who started over in the middle of his life, the mission of Jesus moved from a minority testimony of hope to a global community of social transformation.
Revelation 5:11-14
John writes that he is on the island of Patmos, as he receives these visions. Patmos is about fifty miles to the southwest of Ephesus, where John had been pastor and church leader for the previous three decades. Although the book of Revelation does not mention the Roman emperor Domitian, early church sources indicate that an empire-wide persecution of Christians took place during his reign (81-96 A.D.). Tertullian adds a note about this in Chapter XXXVI of his On the Prescription of Heretics, stating that in Rome, “the Apostle John was first plunged, unhurt, into boiling oil, and thence remitted to his island-exile.”
There is evidence on Patmos today, that the island had been a quarry for building stones during Roman times, and that slave labor was used in this arduous work. However, it came to be that John was on Patmos, he remained vitally connected to both his resurrected friend Jesus, and to the congregations back on the mainland of Asia Minor who were praying for him.
In the opening vision, Jesus is identified as the Creator and consummator (“the first and the last”), and is shown symbolically in the temple (walking among the lamp stands), bringing the glory of God into the human arena. While Jesus is clearly human in his physical features, these have been translated by his resurrection (Revelation 1:18) so that they pummel the observer with transcendent power and glory.
Each of the seven letters that follows (Revelation 2–3) begins with a self-description by Jesus, in which some aspect of his revealed glory in chapter 1 is reiterated. The letters are a mixture of warning and encouragement, clearly articulating the experiences of actual congregations living in the first century. They appear to be representative messages, so that even as they speak directly to these seven churches, they communicate Jesus’ ongoing relationship to all congregations generally.
In John’s second major vision of Jesus, the scene shifts from earth to heaven (Revelation 4–5). God is not represented by creatures or beings or shapes or symbols, but only as the shimmering of pure light itself, in pulsating and changing hues covering the whole spectrum. The throne from which God rules is not backed against the wall of some palace room, but is at the center of all things, so that all of created reality flows out from it, and surrounds it with worship, and receives its light and life from God. Everything everywhere participates in synchronized waves that emanate out from this point of origin, and the pulsating undulations send back to the throne of God choruses of praise and songs of reverence.
Occupying the key places of honor closest to the divine throne are the twenty-four elders, representing the combined leadership of the people of God through biblical history—twelve patriarchs in the Old Testament, twelve apostles in the New Testament. As the rhythms of worship resound and catch everything in heaven and on earth and in the seas in their vibrations and beats, a new element is suddenly introduced: a scroll is extended out from the indescribable light of the one on the throne. This parchment is covered with writing and appears to be of critical importance for whatever has to happen next. Yet no one seems to have access to it, so John weeps.
Quickly, however, John is told that the “Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” is approaching, and that he will unfasten the seals that bind the scroll. Expecting a roaring and powerful beast, John is amazed to see instead a “Lamb, looking as if it had been slain.” It was “standing in the center of the throne.” Subsequent lines make it clear that this one is Jesus. In these quick descriptors John tells us several things. First of all, Jesus is human, a king in the line of David. Meanwhile, he is also the “root” of that whole royal family, giving the rest of its members their royal authority. At the same time, he is the one who died as the true Passover lamb, fulfilling the meaning of that ritual right which gave identity to the nation of Israel. But he also came alive again in the resurrection of Easter Sunday, and rules over all things with supreme and unequaled authority. He is, in fact, truly God (notice that he stands at the center of the throne, which is a position that can solely be claimed by the Creator deity of the universe).
While the agony of cleansing judgment is to come, the celebration has also begun. John is seeing the vision we all need: this world, created good by God, has too long shuddered under cosmic shivers of sin’s pandemic. Now, however, recreative glory surges through the universe, initiating the song of worship that accompanies the transformation of a world waiting to be born.
John 21:1-19
The disciples had been displaced from their homes and careers. For a while they experienced the exhilaration of being “married” to Jesus, sharing a life that was no less than bringing the kingdom of Heaven to earth. They walked in humble pride next to their wise and miracle-working leader.
But then things were catastrophically upended. Jesus was ripped away from them, shamefully treated and torturously executed. So now they are cautious. Tenuous. Hoping, but fearing. Jesus came back to them, to be sure, but all is not the same. Jesus is not the same. And their daunting mission of revolution has less clarity than it did before. What kind of revolution? What kind of kingdom? And would Jesus even stick around long enough for them to find out?
“I’m going fishing,” Peter says. What else is there to do? So, they all stumble down to the sea, and numbly go through the motions they learned as lads.
No fish this night. But that was really not the point of coming out here anyway. The men needed to do something routine and ordinary. They needed to live again.
Then, out of the darkness, shines Jesus. They wonder at first, nervous about the shimmering ghost on the shore. But his voice steadies them, and his command strengthens them. All at once they are wildly successful fishermen. The net can hardly hold their enormous draught.
Yet it is not the fish that excite them. Nor do they conceive of themselves as successful lords of the sea. Instead, they are drawn to Jesus. They need to be with Jesus.
It is fascinating to note that the Gospel of John is actually quite complete at the end of chapter 20. Although no manuscripts exist of the book without this 21st chapter, it is often viewed as a later appendage. Still, even if it was written later by the evangelist or one of his disciples, the story it tells brings further completeness to the rest of the gospel.
For one thing, it sets the mission of the church in motion. In John 20, Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit into this new body of his which will recreate the human race, like the divine creative story in Genesis 2. Yet these new living souls do not set out immediately on the campaign of resurrected life before that chapter closes. There is intent; Thomas’ great testimony is a prelude to all the other testimonies of faith that will be given, but it does not lead naturally directly into them. Here in John 21, the story of the church begins to roll forward. The disciples need to make choices about their futures, Jesus restores Peter to his leadership role in the enterprise, and the Lord of Life articulates a vision about the future that will lead them on.
Secondly, the failures of Peter, so pronounced in the passion story, are rectified. Peter is resurrected by the resurrected Jesus, and re-empowered to take initiative again. Yes, he is a good fisherman, and this is a noble calling in life. But he has been transformed by Jesus to a new career, one which involves tossing his nets into an even greater sea.
Third, the missionary character of John’s gospel is re-invigorated by the story of this morning meal on the beach. The prologue to the gospel makes the whole story of Jesus a divine missionary enterprise: Jesus is the word, the light penetrating the blackness of our world, the radiance of almighty God. But that blaze of glory is veiled for a time as those around Jesus wrestle with his identity. Then the miracle of Easter happened, and, for a time, the disciples wrestled with the meaning of all these things. Now, finally, questions of Jesus’ identity can be set aside. He is risen! He is Lord! He is all powerful! So, it is time to get back to the mission. While Jesus is heaven’s bright light, he is laser-focused and limited by his physical limitations. Only when the disciples begin to glow can the light be spread, and the mission recovered. John’s gospel is all about “light” and “darkness.” Here, after a night in the darknessthat proved unprofitable and seemingly wasted, they are brought into the light of glowing campfire as dawn is breaking, and they are given a new purpose. They are able to start over. Jesus, who is the vision of heaven, becomes their vision here on earth. The church is born.
Application
A.J. Cronin described his work as a doctor in 1920s England in his autobiography, Adventures in Two Worlds. He remembered working in the hospital of a poor northern mining district early in his career.
One evening a boy dying of diphtheria was brought to him. The hospital was dirty and poorly equipped, with no trained help. Still, Cronin had no alternative but to cut a hole in the boy’s throat and insert a breathing tube in his windpipe. Only this emergency tracheotomy saved the fellow’s life.
Exhausted, Dr. Cronin left the room. He called a young nurse to sit by the bed. She was only a wisp of a girl, and half starved, but she was a nurse, and she would have to do. “Make sure the tube stays clear, and don’t take your eyes off of him,” he told her. Then he lay down in a corner and slept.
Suddenly the young nurse was shaking him. She had fallen asleep too, and the tube had shifted. The boy had suffocated; he was dead.
Dr. Cronin’s eyes blazed in anger. He told her that he would report her, that she would never work as a nurse again. Standing in front of him, frail, timid, and shaking like a leaf, she mumbled something under her breath. “What’s that you’re saying?” he demanded.
So she said it a little louder: “Please give me another chance!” But he was furious that she dared ask such a thing. “You’re finished,” he said. “There will be no more chances for you!”
He stormed away and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come because her words echoed through his mind: “Give me another chance. Please. Give me another chance!”
In the morning he tried to write the letter of discipline, but the picture of her pleading face wouldn’t leave him. Finally, he tore the letter up.
But that was not the end of the story. That poor, feeble creature, more child than woman, went on to become the matron of one of England’s greatest children’s hospitals. In her later years, she was known throughout the nation for her wisdom and devotion.
You see, she never forgot what happened that night. She never forgot her failure; but neither did she forget the grace that had given her a second chance. She carved her future out of her past, based upon one slim vision of eternity. She saw a new future. God’s future. And she became part of it.
Alternative Application (John 21:1-19)
Centuries ago, the great theologian Cyprian said that a person who has God as his father, has the church as his mother. Why? Because the church is the means by which God strengthens and deepens and restores our faith. We learn of God from the psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs of the church. We see God in the testimonies of the saints. When we’ve lost our way, the church whispers to us of the one who lives within her and draws us back to him. Of course, at the heart of the church is Jesus, head of the Body.
It is a bit like the experience columnist Robert Fulghum wrote about years ago. He said that long before he gave up any significant relationship with God. He didn’t really want God, the church, or religion to cramp his style.
Then he met someone who prevented him from banishing God from his life. He was so amazed that he put her picture on the mirror above the sink where he washes each morning. Every time he cleans his hands, she’s there to cleanse his heart. Whenever he scrubs his face, she’s there to wash his soul.
He met her in Oslo, Norway, during the Nobel prize ceremonies one year. He was standing among the crowd of guests that filled the doors and hallways of the auditorium.
Then she passed by. She stopped for a moment and smiled at him. For a brief moment, it seemed as if she reached into his heart and understood him. There was no condemnation in her look, only genuine care. Then she went to the front of the auditorium to receive the Nobel Peace Prize from the hand of the king of Norway. It was Mother Teresa of Calcutta.
Somehow, said Fulghum, she reminded him of the things that were missing in his life. “We can do no great things,” she said, “only small things with great love.” With that, wrote Fulghum, “she upsets me, disturbs me, shames me. What does she have that I do not?”
But deep inside, he knows. That’s why he keeps her picture on his mirror and looks into her eyes again and again. That’s why he writes about her. He knows that she has God. That’s the source of her strength, her energy, her inner beauty.
But Mother Teresa was herself only a reflection of the one who first gave her a vision as well. Like the disciples at the seashore, in the initial encounter, we all need to see Jesus. And when we see him, we can start life again. With purpose. With mission. With passion.
