On John 21
Sunday, June 14, 2026
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It’s possible, in the playful world of this fourth gospel, that Jesus has been watching from the shore, standing at the edge where the slurpy waves lap the beach, all night long. It’s possible. The disciples don’t see him, of course, because it’s dark, really dark; and because they’re lost, really lost, in their own frustration--fishing all night long, working all the angles, saying all the prayers. And catching nothing at all.
Sunday, June 14, 2026
Welcome, friends of God:
Come as you are; come, beloved and blessed, to the crowded Table!
You know, the version of Christianity we’re leaning into, here, is not that tired version that claims salvation for some at the expense of the many. And it’s not that preachy version that promises easy answers if you play by the bully’s rules.
No, this Christianity, this Gospel – like the Teacher himself – invites vulnerability and collaboration. This Gospel insists on wild mercy and justice, and partnerships with friends from a thousand faiths and all walks of life and every possible way of looking at the world.
So come, beloved and blessed, to the crowded Table –
where many become one,
songs become prayers,
and everyday bread, the promise of a whole new world,
which is the world beneath our feet!
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1.
It’s possible, in the playful world of this fourth gospel, that Jesus has been watching from the shore, standing at the edge where the slurpy waves lap the beach, all night long. It’s possible. The disciples don’t see him, of course, because it’s dark, really dark; and because they’re lost, really lost, in their own frustration--fishing all night long, working all the angles, saying all the prayers. And catching nothing at all.
I’ve always imagined that Jesus shows up (even magically) at daybreak, as the sun’s just sneaking out of the hills. But John’s story’s ambivalent on this. And it seems quite possible that Jesus has kept this vigil through the long night, that he’s pulled his cloak close against the darkness; because we know that love does just that when the beloved are grieving, when pain exhausts their efforts, and everything comes up empty. Love shows up. Love keeps a vigil. So I imagine Jesus in the gloaming keeping vigil, and then into the darkest hours of the night keeping vigil, and I imagine him waiting, waiting, waiting for daybreak. And watching, all the while, from the shore.
And their futility may seem familiar to us. The collapse of their movement in the days after his crucifixion. The unnerving reality that empire so often crushes dissent, that violence so often overwhelms compassion, that fear seems to win every time. So they fish and they fish and they fish, deep into the night, even all through the night, and the crushing reality of those very dark days sinks into their hearts, and then their hands, and even their feet. They catch nothing. Not a single fish. All night long. Scarcity demoralizes them. Cruelty wins again. Empire rules the world. And they can do exactly nothing to stop it.
Except. Except God’s mercy keeps watch. Except Jesus has kept his fearless vigil all through the night. And when he calls out from shore, begging them to cast their nets on the other side, challenging the soul-crushing logic of scarcity itself, there are suddenly so many fish now, that they can’t possibly haul the net in. (And in case anybody’s keeping score, there are 153 of them.)
And this is the power, my friends, it’s the only power resilient and resolute and strong enough to transform hearts of steel into spirits of grace; it’s the only power resilient and determined and strong enough to transform frightened fisherfolk into daring ministers of grace and peace. The power is love. And it’s always been so. The power is love. Jesus is love.
And on the beach, around the fire, the warm bread and fresh fish seal the deal. Weeping may endure for a long night, but joy, joy, joy comes again in the morning.
2.
So maybe this story, this resurrection story, is an invitation to sacramental imagination, and a particular practice of communion that joins us to those first friends and their breakfast feast. Peter’s soaking wet. And there are 153 fish in the net. And love lives again. (And love lives again.) And maybe it’s a practice, communion, that meets our despair with a joy so complete that every moment is holy again, and every sibling is a child of God again, and every breath is a sacrament and a gift. And the hungry are fed, and the naked are clothed, and guests are strangers no more. And that is, yes, that is—sacramental imagination!
It strikes me then that this particular story isn’t satisfied with the status quo—not among the disciples, not for the church, and not for any one of us. When Jesus keeps vigil for these friends, and then when he dares them to claim abundance as the secret, and then when he feeds their hungry hearts around that simple fire—in this story, Jesus is insisting on intimacy in a community of equals, transformation of their many spirits, and the empowering of their ministries. So that love might abound. So that justice might prevail. For all peoples and beings and all landscapes and ecosystems.
Maybe, then, our communion with Jesus clears out the dank darkness of night, and the fog of early morning, and opens our hearts to God’s love—so radically—that we come to know love as the DNA weaving its way through every one of our lives, and through the rivers and streams, through the fields and forests of the planet itself. And maybe this same practice, this same communion insists on sweet vulnerability, not headstrong certainty, and authenticity, not bravado, so that we are open indeed to the transforming power of love, the healing power of mercy, present in the bread, and the fish, and the cup, in all of it. Sacramental imagination. Holy communion.
This little meal on the beach shatters the monotonous drone of bad news with reunion and delight. This little meal on the beach is something like holy imagination of a world to come, and sustenance for the work ahead, and Jesus’ promise of divine friendship in all of it. And every time that bread is before us, every time a friend looks you in the eye and says, “The Body of Christ,” you get to say, “Yes!” “I see him too.” “Yes!” “This story is our story too.” “Yes!” “Love abounds in my life.”
3.
But if this story has any relevance at all to our liturgical practice, it’s also a matter of formation and discipleship. Who we are at this table and what we remember together at this table shapes us for ministry and witness and kindness beyond these doors. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Jesus says to Peter. At breakfast, he’s inviting Peter to discern his calling in their particular movement. Around the fire, passing the basket of warm bread and fresh fish around, he’s suggesting curiosity and reflection, and something like commitment. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Notice what he’s not asking. He’s not asking Peter for any kind theological conformity. He’s not asking him to genuflect and accept ecclesiastical or patriarchal authority. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Are you ready to love love like it’s the only thing? Are you ready to give yourself to love and sacrifice anything in your life that misses that mark? Are you ready to love me, Jesus asks, in your neighbor, and in the stranger among you, and even in your enemy? “Do you love me?”
What we do, then, when we praise God for creation at this table, and for bread and for wine and for everything and everyone else on this planet—what we do is we place love at the center of our universe. And what we do when we remember Jesus and his ministry at this table, and his commitment to mercy even in disappointment, and his courage in resisting violence with hope—what we do is we ask all over again what does love ask of me? What does love ask of us? How will my Monday life shine with my Sunday faith?
So Jesus says to Peter, and to you and me, “Feed my sheep.” Knowing that it’s not always easy, and it’s not always clear, he says, “Feed my sheep.” Sacramental imagination, right? What does that mean—for us? What does that mean—for you?
So communion, you see, is not transactional. It’s not a quid-pro-quo thing—where you do your bit, and you follow the recipe, and you sleep tight for another week. Communion is breakfast on the beach with Jesus. Communion is Peter’s wildly exuberant and wholly entertaining plunge when he sees what’s going on, when he sees who’s cooking. And communion is a beloved community, on fire with visions of abundance in creation and justice among nations, and reconciled communities in thriving cities and towns. Thy kingdom come. On earth as it is in heaven.
And then, in the breaking of the bread, and the sharing of his cup, his life, his spirit—communion is Jesus’ question: “Do you love me?” “Do you love me?” So let us answer, Yes! In every song we sing. Yes! In every chord and every riff. Yes! In every march for justice and peace. Yes! In every meal we cook and every loaf we break. Yes! In every act of kindness for friend and foe alike. “Yes, Lord, you know that we love you.” “Yes, Lord, you know that we love you.” “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Amen and Ashe.
