A Meditation on Discipleship and John
21:1-19.
1.
The large man who asked us to
baptize him, this week, at the county jail, is going on trial next month for
murder. And I honestly don’t know
whether he committed the crime or not.
But I caught myself Tuesday, just the same, holding this cup of water
high over the big man’s head, and wondering, what kind of difference does it
make. To be baptized. To follow Jesus. You know what I mean? What happens when we make that decision to
follow?
We huddled around this serious man:
inmates in orange jumpsuits, and five of us from the church. And he talked about wanting to start over, and
knowing he really couldn’t. And he
talked about leaning on Jesus and learning from Jesus and living and forgiving like
Jesus. And then we all laid our hands on
the big man’s shoulders.
It was a first for me: baptizing a
man accused of killing another. And I
have to tell you it shook me—a little; it made me question the sacrament in a
whole new way. Standing there with this
gorgeous cup full of water. Looking this
man in the eyes. And feeling surprised—by
a strange kind of kinship. Faith does
some funny things. Because here’s the
thing. I’m not going to trial; but if
I’m completely honest, if I’m laying it on the line, I’m violent too. It’s not just this guy in an orange jumpsuit.
But I’m violent too.
You see, it’s easy enough for me to
grieve the violence in the ‘hood, drug deals gone bad, drones raining fire on
Afghan villages, too many dads beating too many kids. But I caught myself Tuesday, holding this cup
of water over the big man’s head, and wondering about the violence that stirs
in me. What about my own tendency
to judge? What about my
temper? And what about my complicity in a
system that impoverishes children and venerates violence and wages war against
the poor all over the planet? I’m
standing there in the jail, with this big man, with this beautiful cup filled
with beautiful water. And I’m thinking:
I’m not going to trial…but I’m violent too.
And now I’ve got this Flannery
O’Connor line running through my mind.
She was paraphrasing another couple of verses in John’s gospel this way:
“You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free; but first, it’s
gonna make you flinch.” So I guess I
flinched a little on Tuesday. Surrounded
by inmates in orange jumpsuits. Turning
this beautiful cup in my hand.
And I want you to know what happened
in there—because baptism is a sacrament of the church. The whole church. It’s not a little blessing we do privately;
it’s a celebration of grace, a dynamic promise made by God, and a commitment we
make to one another. It’s a sacrament of
the church. And yes, I believe, I want
to believe, it makes a difference.
So we stood there together—in the
middle of the room—and I took this cup full of water and I looked him in the
eyes. And then I poured it out—the whole
thing—on his head. And the water ran
down his forehead, and then into his eyes, and then down his cheeks, and then
across his jumpsuit. All over the
floor. And you could have heard a pin
drop. Moments of complete and sacred
stillness.
I have to tell you, quite honestly,
that the big man looked a little stunned.
That we were gathered around him in that way. That we were praying for him in that way. That we were anointing his body, his spirit,
his life in that way. But I looked him
in the eye at that moment and I saw not a killer, not a jumpsuit, but a
brother. Jesus had baptized both of us—and
anointed both of us. The same
faith. The same mission. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus says. Not because you’re better than anyone else or
even more peaceful than anyone else. But
blessed are the peacemakers—because the truth might be hard, but the truth’s
going to set you free. The truth might
be hard, but it’s going to set you free.
And there was a kind of freedom in the room on Tuesday afternoon, the
kind of freedom that Jesus cares about most.
Even the kind of freedom that makes it possible to heal and forgive and
embrace love as the only way, the only way, to peace.
2.
Now during that baptism Tuesday, we
read the same story we’ve read here this morning. You remember how Peter hears that it’s the
Lord on the beach, and he quickly puts on some clothes, for he is naked, he’s
been fishing all night without his clothes on, and he jumps into the lake. Fully clothed. Crazy with gratitude. Just jumps into the lake. How about that? Peter’s baptism. Total immersion. Peter choosing love and only love. Peter leaping into the lake. Surrendering to a brand new day. This is the life-altering moment. This is the love-expanding encounter. This is where peace heals a broken heart and
grace absorbs even Peter’s betrayal. Even
Peter’s.
Because we remember Peter’s betrayal. How he left Jesus to hang there, executed by
empire, Good Friday; how Peter turned his back that day on love and
discipleship. Violence was everywhere
and everything. It was the way things
worked: cultures, religions, governments.
In Jerusalem and everywhere else.
Peter had seen enough to know things would always work that way. Violence and despair. So he—gave up. And left Jesus to hang there alone. There’s something about Peter’s impotence,
about his betrayal, that seems so contemporary, so modern, so personal to
me. Violence does that to us. And Peter walked away.
Then the long night on the
lake. Casting nets and catching
nothing. Their little economy in
complete collapse. Their families,
anxious and powerless.
And now—this. Just after daybreak. Something wildly new and wholly
unexpected. A fire on the beach. Jesus is alive. Jesus is love. Jesus is back. Not because God is magic. Not because God contradicts the laws of
nature. But because God is generous. Because God is love. Because God wills life.
The sun is rising. After a long night. Thin rays of light find Peter’s face. Fish—suddenly—all over the place. Fish everywhere. One hundred fifty-three fish. “So he puts on some clothes, quickly, for he is
naked, and Peter jumps into the lake.”
Jesus is alive. Grilling fish now on a charcoal fire. Fixing space for breakfast and conversation. So Peter pulls his pants on and hurls himself
into the lake. You see? This isn’t magic. What this is is total immersion. What this is is baptism. That little fishing boat rocks wildly behind
him. Nearly capsizes in the
excitement. Nothing will ever be the
same. Violence no longer victorious. Despair no longer inevitable. Because Jesus changes everything. Love rises like the sun on a new day. And Peter throws himself, hurls himself into
the lake.
3.
So here’s what I want to say to you
about this story—whether it literally happened this way or whether it’s a
gospel truth wrapped up good in the storyteller’s genius. This is your story. This is our story. This is the story of our brother in jail,
finally coming to grips with violence in his life and turning now to Jesus for
new start. This isn’t about magic; this
isn’t some Halloween script about a zombie back from the dead. This is a story about baptism and
discipleship. This is a story about
following Jesus. In a world that’s tried
out every imaginable strategy around violence and war. In a world that’s just plain exhausted from
all the hurting and warring and all the people-hating and wall-building.
You see, we miss something of this
story’s edge, and something of its invitation, if we forget what’s happening
here. All the violence casting shadows
across that lake, and across the bow of that little boat, and across the faces
of its frenzied fishermen. There’s the
economic violence of a bi-polar culture; something like the 1% chewing up the
99% and caring nothing for the carnage.
There’s the armed violence of the raging Roman empire; and all the ways
the threat of violence gets under the skin and into the hearts of the
people. And there’s the theological
violence of religion run amok. Prejudice
and hubris and scapegoating in the name of God.
All this violence—and the emblem of it all, the icon of it all is Jesus
hanging on the empire’s cross, abandoned by his friends, left to die
alone. Good Friday.
So in a sense, this morning’s story
finds the disciples in a kind of extended Good Friday experience. Shadows and despair. They’re catching nothing. They’re frenzied and anxious and fishing all
night long. Impoverished and bereft and
hopeless. Violence casts long shadows on
their lake, on their communities, on their faces and spirits.
Do you see what’s going on
here? Jesus on the beach. The charcoal fire. Peter hurling himself into the lake. This is a story about following Jesus and
resisting that violence, healing the violence within us and around us. This is about baptism and discipleship.
4.
I think. Maybe.
Because there are choices to be made.
For Peter and for us. On the
beach there, Jesus puts those choices to Peter as plainly and clearly as he
can. “Do you love me?” Jesus asks him,
not just once, but three times. “Do you
love me?” And, of course, Peter’s wiping
the lake from his eyes, toweling off at the fire; and he says, “Hey, look at
me, Jesus, I’m soaking wet here. Of
course I love you!” His exuberance is
great. Baptism is thrilling. But Jesus persists: Jesus is after more than
exuberance and thrills. Jesus is calling
disciples. Jesus is forming
peacemakers. Jesus is after love.
Remember, Peter. Remember how I washed your feet that night in
the upper room. I want you to do that
for others. I want you to wash their
feet. I want you to feed my sheep. And remember, Peter. Remember how we stood with that woman they
wanted to stone in the city square.
Remember how we stayed with her until every last stone was dropped. I want you to stand with the vulnerable, with
the poor, with the forgotten. I want you
to feed my sheep. Dedicate your life to
feeding the hungry kids in villages far beyond this fire. Dedicate your life to forgiveness and
nonviolence and justice and peace.
“Peter, do you love me?” “Hey,
Jesus, you know that I love you.” “Then
feed my sheep,” Jesus says to Peter, to us.
“Feed my sheep.”
So baptism can make a
difference. It does make a
difference. IF we read this story all
the way through. IF we look Jesus in the
eye and read his lips carefully. IF we take
up the word and learn the practice he practices in the dusty roads and city
streets of Palestine. Lay down your
weapons, he says. Lay down your
pride. Wash one another’s feet. Feed the hungry children. Love love and only love.
5.
Next week around this time, nineteen
of us will be walking the troubled streets of Hebron in the West Bank,
Palestine. It’s one of the most
conflicted cities in the world, Hebron.
A place where orthodox Jewish settlers and armed Israeli military units
dig in against puzzled Palestinian families.
Settlers toss buckets of scalding water on Arab kids in the streets
below their settlements; and Arab kids respond in kind, hurling rocks, stones,
anything they can find at angry Jewish settlers. You want a picture, a symbol of the impotence
of violence? The dead end. The destructiveness of it. Hebron’s your city.
We’re not going to Hebron because
we’ve got all kinds of answers. And
we’re not going to Hebron because we’re so much more peaceful, more loving than
they are. I’m taking this delegation to
Hebron because, for me, faith means looking violence in the eye. My violence, our violence, the world’s
violence. I’m taking this delegation to
Hebron because, for me, discipleship means finding a way through our violence
to love and human kindness. We’re going
to Hebron next week because giving in to anger, and giving in to bitterness is
not an option. Not for Jesus. Not for people of faith. And not for us.
So I want you to think about today’s
story not as a magical tale where a savior comes back from the dead, but as a
discipleship story where love seeks us out and calls us by name. Where love seeks you out and calls you
by name. I want you to think about this
story as an invitation to new life and new love in a world tangled up in
violence. This is a story about what it
means to see love rising in the dim light of a new day. This is a story about what it means to give
your life to that love, and to God. This
is a story about gratitude and second chances and total immersion. Baptism, right? Pulling your pants on every morning and
hurling yourself into the mystery and compassion and communion of God. Something like Peter. Something like discipleship. And in the end, Jesus says to you, to me, to
every one who takes this stuff to heart: “Follow me.” It’s time to go. Follow me.