Sermon May 4 – John 21:1-19    Moving Forward                         Rev. Betsy Hogan

Have you ever done one thing when you knew you should really be doing another? This past week I really had to scrape out writing time. Like, when it appeared I had to use it. Peak efficiency. Laser focus. No time for the wandering mind and the floaty contemplations and the doodly doodly do something else and come back to it later.

And it was going great! Boom, done. Boom, send. Knocking things out like some kind of superstar, not a minute wasted, getting stuff done.

Until… until it was time to sit down and write the sermon, and I thought to myself, “I wonder why the gospel is so specific that there were 153 fish?” And THEN I thought to myself “I think I’ll look it up.”

And I KNEW it wasn’t what I should have been doing – it was like I was watching myself google it while at the same time telling myself “this is a mistake” – but there it was. An hour later I was kneedeep in a pile of explanations. 

St. Augustine, the preeminent Christian theologian of the 4th century, he apparently noticed that 153 is a perfect triangular number from 17. Now, he didn’t offer any theories about why that was important, beyond triangular numbers being kind of cool – but others later wondered maybe something something about the Holy Trinity? 

But then why 17? And there are theories about that too. It represents the 10 commandments plus 7 fruits of the Holy Spirit. I think that was the point at which I gave that one up as a wash.

And turned instead to other explanations, loads of them, based on code-breaking using the Hebrew alphabet – 153 representing the phrase “children of God” or “children of love” or “I am the divine”. Any of which might be perfectly plausible IF the gospel of John had been written in Hebrew, or IF Jesus and the disciples had even spoken Hebrew – but it wasn’t and they didn’t, so those didn’t really land for me either. 

In the end, the theory that I liked best, that made the most sense and didn’t need any instinctive sense of math or codes or both, was that John’s gospel recorded that there were 153 fish… because there were 153 fish. Because it was a huge catch of fish and so someone counted. 

So yes. That was the result when I did one thing, when I knew I should really be doing another. Just 153 fish… and realizing it was time to move on.

Just like the disciples. Because they knew – sitting there stuck in that Upper Room, they’ve seen Jesus risen, they know they should really be out, talking to others who followed him, spreading the word of having experienced him alive again, they know. 

But is that what they decide to do? It isn’t. They know it’s what they should be doing but instead? “I guess I’ll go fishing,” Peter says. And the rest of them kind of shrug. “I guess we’ll go with you.”

And so out they go, back to the Sea of Galilee, they haul out their boat, they haul out their nets, and they’re right back to where they were before any of it happened. Before Jesus had risen, before he was crucified, before they followed him, before they even MET him.

Back out in their boats to do what they’d always done for an entire lifetime – not just BEFORE any of it happened, but as though it never had. They’d always been fishermen, there’d been this sort of blip on the screen, so now they’re back to being fishermen.

It’s kind of like they sort of… pick up where’d they’d left off. Not that it’s easy for them to put aside what they’ve experienced in the last few years, in the following of Jesus on the road, in their time of discipleship, in his having risen – but what else are they supposed to do? It happened, it was meaningful, it’s done. Time to go back to fishing. Right?

Well, maybe not, Jesus says. Okay, he doesn’t actually say that. What he DOES say, from the shore of the Sea of Galilee – even though the disciples don’t realize it’s him when he’s saying it – is actually (if they’d happened to be thinking about it) quite familiar.

Because it’s exactly the same thing he said way back when he first called them to be disciples. When they were also out fishing. “You’re not catching anything, are you,” he calls out to them from the shore. “Try the other side of the boat!”

So they do. And what do they get? 153 fish. 

An enormous catch, and just like the first enormous catch at the very beginning, it’s how they realize it’s him. And they can’t get to the shore fast enough. Although Peter at least stops to put his clothes back on because he's inexplicably naked. But once they’ve all arrived?

“Come and have breakfast,” Jesus tells them. And they sit down around the campfire he’s built, and they cook the fish, and he passes around a loaf of bread, and then he makes it absolutely clear.

It’s time for them to start the thing they know they should be doing. They can’t just go back, like it never happened. 

So “Do you love me?” Jesus asks Peter. “Then feed my sheep.”

They can’t just put it off, go back to fishing, back to the same old same old, like it never happened. It happened. Things have changed. The disciples have been changed by what they’ve experienced in that Upper Room, what they’re experiencing in this moment on the shoreline – Jesus alive again in their midst. 

Everything’s changed. And it’s time. “Do you love me?” Jesus asks Peter. “Then take care of my lambs.” It’s time for them to start the thing they know they should be doing. They can’t just go back to fishing.

What I love about this passage is Jesus’ gentleness with them. It’s funny because as usual Peter totally misses the point, gets exasperated and hurt when Jesus asks him a third time “Do you love me” –

But what Jesus is doing here is pushing them forward… but gently. There’s no big God voice here, proclaiming a commandment “Go ye forth and take care of my people” – what Jesus invites Peter into here is listening for the same still small voice of God that Elijah heard out of the whirlwind in his own time of crisis.

Do you love me? Then feed my sheep. 

Everything’s changed, the disciples are stuck, they know they can’t go back – Do you love me? Take care of my lambs. 

They’re standing on the beach, looking back at those nets without one sweet clue what they’re meant to do next -- Do you love me? Feed my sheep.

The gentleness of it. The understanding that change is hard, that newness is daunting, that what helps isn’t a commandment but the still small voice of encouragement and of guidance. If we can just quiet ourselves enough to listen for it.

These are almost the last words of Jesus in John’s gospel. His last wisdom shared, his last still small voice of encouragement and guidance to the disciples, and to us. And what do they amount to?

Change is hard. Newness is daunting. You’re not alone and at the end of the day if you’re not sure what you should being doing in the midst of all of it? Just start with love. Just start with compassion. Feed my sheep, take care of my lambs, remember that you too are of more value than many sparrows – just start with compassion and you’ll be on the right track.

And also, stop looking things up and get that sermon written. Thanks be to God for the still small voice of encouragement. Amen.