John 21:1-19
I
During one of my travels, I happened to stop in a run down shop that sold run down books, operated by a run down man. As I was browsing through the piles of books, stacked up like some child’s building blocks, I gravitated toward the religion section. It was a series of disheveled stacks of books that looked like buildings after they had all been bombed and fallen down. The heaps of religious books were in a seldom searched out corner of the shop, according to the foot patterns in the dust on the floor.
It was hard to see the worn titles in the dimly lit corner, especially on those books that were buried further down and further back than the others. I knelt down and rested my chest against one stack of books. I was excavating through one of those back piles. I felt like an archaeologist who had just stumbled upon a room full of treasures. I handled each book as if it were a priceless work from antiquity.
There were so many fascinating old books with titles done in exquisite, but faded gold lettering. The Institutes of the Christian Religion by John Calvin. The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. A little book simply titled Money, by Rev. Andrew Murray. There was a book by A.J. Gordon with the long title The Twofold Life or, Christ’s Work For Us and Christ’s Work In Us. Another intriguing title was, The Wonders of Prayer: Facts Stranger Than Fiction. And then I ran across a more modern book titled The Tall Preacher, which was an autobiography of Dr. James W. Fifield, Jr. I couldn’t pass that one up.
Then I spied a “well-loved” leather-bound book with no discernible title on the cover. It appeared, at first, to be a Bible. But as I gingerly pulled it from its place and carefully opened the the creaky, leather cover, I discovered it was filled with long-hand writing in the Greek language. I could make out a few of the words, but my Greek language skills were a little rusty. Even though I knew it would be hard going to translate, it was enough of a mystery to entice me into buying it.
I walked out of the shop with my purchased treasures wondering how I was going to squeeze them all into an already jam-packed suitcase.
II
Once home, and with my trip behind me, I set to the task of translating my enigmatic book, handwritten in Greek. It didn’t take me too long to discover that it was a journal or diary of some kind. The more I worked, the more I found that what was recorded on those pages paralleled most of the stories recorded in the Gospels. Especially those that involved the disciple Peter. The author of this journal never used his own name. But it became more and more evident to me that it was Peter.
What was written in this journal that I was holding, discovered in a dusty old book shop, was more than just historical information. These were personal thoughts and reflections on the events that were happening during Jesus’ life and how those events affected the journal writer. I have not completely finished translating my most amazing find.
I would like to read some excerpts from what I am now calling, St. Peter’s Journal. The part that I will read deals with the time Peter spent with Jesus after the Resurrection.
III
I am tired of waiting for Jesus to make some appearance to me. I am waiting here at home. It seems to have been forever since I was at the tomb. My friends have come to tell me that they have all talked with him. They think they are cheering me up. But their words are having the opposite effect. They only depress me and make me more anxious to talk with him for myself, other than his brief, scary appearances. “Why was I left out?” I ask them.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” they tell me. It’s easy for them to say. They speak of these wonderful meetings with Jesus. All I have seen is the empty tomb and the wrapping cloths. I feel strangely left out. I am separated by experience from my one time companions. They all share something in common that I do not. I grow lonelier the more I hear them talk amongst themselves. I sometimes wonder if I slowly backed out of the room and escaped from having to listen to their conversations that I wouldn’t be better off.
IV
Today has been full of the same. I can’t stand just waiting around hoping that Jesus might appear. I keep looking out the window thinking I will recognize his face amongst the crowded alley below. I pretend I see him coming in the direction of my house. But each time it is the same--nothing.
Secretly, I know the reason he has not come. The others don’t know. At this point I’m not about to tell them that three times I denied ever knowing him.
(I must mention, that on this page of the journal there are water stains. Not large ones. Just little drops here and there. I wonder if they were tear drops.)
It is clear then, to me at least, why Jesus has not shown himself to me. Harsh reality evaporates my wishful thinking. I am not good enough. I did not pass the test. I have done something too damaging to our relationship. I have put myself beyond the reach of any life-line that might pull me back and keep me from drifting further and further away.
That look of his that night. Oh, when he turned and caught my eye, after the third terrible denial. I will remember that look as long as I live. The hurt in his expression has countered any sleep I hoped to get. I have cut him too deeply. I have denied him too many times. I have done the unforgivable.
Why would he want to waste his time with me? Others have apparently been more faithful. Jesus must see them as much more useable than me. Maybe it’s time for me to back out of this whole thing. It will be better for everyone involved. I will hold on to my secret yearnings for a while longer. Then I will let them fade. I will keep no more great expectations. Jesus will not waste his time with the likes of me. And I don’t think I can make it through one more evening of having to listen to the others.
V
I have decided to go back to my work of fishing. It is really the only thing I know how to do. What else can I do? It has been a long time--over three years--since I have been out in a boat. I will have to buy all new equipment. When I left fishing before, to follow Jesus, I didn’t think I would ever return to it. So I sold all my equipment, including my boat.
My muscles are not as strong and my fingers have lost all their callouses. I have little money. I will probably have to borrow from my father to get restarted. That will be a hard thing to do. It’s going to be a painful process all the way around. But I have made up my mind.
At least I think I have. I don’t know if I’m just using this as a distraction to help get my mind off of other more plaguing thoughts, or what. At least I’ll be doing something! I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
I’m tired of doing piddly little odd jobs. It’s time I started thinking about my future. I’ll have to tell the others, which won’t be too hard. They may not understand. But that’s tough. I have to do what I have to do. If some of them want to come in on the deal with me, fine. I would welcome them. If not, that’s fine too. I’ll break the news to them tomorrow, just before I go out to look for some new equipment.
VI
We have been out in the boat all night. Thomas came with me. I think he understands me better than some of the others. Nathanael is out here. James and John. And a couple of the others borrowed a boat and were helping me get started. They were scouting the clear waters for any signs of fish.
My arms and shoulders are sore. I’ve lost my sea legs and have fallen in the water twice. Luckily the air is warm enough that I can take off my fishing coat. I must be some sight stripped down to my loin cloth. Thank goodness the darkness has become my coat.
We have not caught a single fish. Not only am I a loser at being a disciple; I have lost my magic touch at fishing as well. Some guy on shore keeps shouting out, almost every hour, asking if we have caught anything yet. Whatever his purpose is escapes me. All I know is he’s getting on my nerves, rubbing salt in my already wounded spirit. Now he’s giving us advice about where we should throw our nets. My gullible friends are doing what he says. If it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a landlubber trying to tell me how to fish. It’s time I give him a piece of my mind.
VI
I am embarrassed to read over what I had, just a short time ago, written here. What I have written has been a grievous blunder. Which is pretty much the story of my life. But how was I to know that the man on the shore was Jesus? John, who is always the perceptive one, recognized him at first. It didn’t take any more convincing on my part to test out John’s vision. I knew I can swim faster than my friends can row. I threw myself into the water and swam as fast as I could before Jesus disappeared on me again.
Little did I know that behind me, John and the others were trying to hold on to one of the largest catches of fish I would ever see. When I crawled up out of the water onto the beach, there he was. He’s sitting by a small charcoal fire, smiling at me. Smiling! I walk slowly toward him and sit by the fire. I can’t believe I’m looking across at his face through the glow and the dance of the orange firelight. I needed to be sure it was him. It was like waking, with a dream fresh in my head, and not sure whether I was still dreaming. Or if I was awake and alert and this is really happening to me.
I ran to help the others pull the net to shore. We counted and divided up the catch amongst ourselves. 153 fish in all! They weren’t just little ones, either. They were all large fish--and that’s not just a fish story.
When we finished our work, Jesus called us over and we ate together. He had brought some bread. And we had the fish we just caught. I mostly sat in silence, like the others. No one needed to confirm who he was. We all, myself included, knew that it was Jesus.
VII
I have a great deal to think about. Maybe it will help to write it down. While we were eating, Jesus leans into me and quietly asks if I love him more than the others. If I loved him more than anything else. I tell him what I hope he already knows--that of course I love him. He asks me again. I give him the same answer. If that isn’t enough, he asks me a third time. I am feeling exasperated at having him ask me three times if I love him.
Maybe it’s important for him. But what I really want to know is does he still love me. After what I had done, what I need to know is, am I still worth loving in his eyes? Can I ever be accepted by the one whom I had wronged? Am I in or am I out?
So, why did he ask me three times? THREE times! Wait a minute! Of course! One for each time I had denied him. Three “yeses” to erase three “no’s.” By giving me the chance to say, “I love you,” he was also telling me that I was loved, accepted, and forgiven. Jesus is giving me an out. No, not an out, exactly. An in. Surely an out of my misery, yes. But also an in, back into the circle with him. He is throwing me a life line even when I was thinking I had swam myself out of reach. So, that’s what he was smiling about at the fire...”
VIII
There is one thing more that happened that night. It happened during my private conversation with Jesus. It has blown my world wide open. After each time that Jesus asked me if I loved him, and I told him that I did, he had the same reply: “Feed my sheep.”
It occurs to me, suddenly, that the two are meant to go together. “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.” Jesus doesn’t want me to just love him. Jesus wants me to love him by showing that love for other people. By taking care of other people.
I had become so self-centered when I was sitting in my stew pot, thinking about my rotten life. I had sat around, for how long? Thinking it was all about me. Poor old me. Why is life so unfair to me? Blah, blah, blah.
I remembered something Jesus had said a couple of years back: “As much as you have done it to the least of these, you have done so to me...” (Matthew 25:40). And then, in one of those brief appearances right after the crucifixion he said, “As the Father sent me, so I send you.”
I feel like Jesus is giving me this amazing opportunity to be a leader in what he started. He is asking me to have a large hand in the direction of the movement. But as long as I, and the others, get locked up in survival mode--self-survival, stewing about what little we think we have--we will not be showing love for Jesus. Showing love for Jesus is an outward-bound, other-oriented, un-self-concerned movement and activity.
Now I am the one smiling. And I feel on fire!
IX
That’s where that journal entry ended. There were many more entries. But for right then, it was like Peter must have put his pen down right at that moment and went and did whatever it was that was upon his heart to do. We can only imagine. And maybe we can do that best by following his personal insights and see where they lead us.
No comments:
Post a Comment