Thread by @dianabutlerbass

Tomorrow's lectionary text is John 21:1-19, a post-resurrection appearance of Jesus.

In the story, the disciples have fished all night and caught nothing. Jesus shows up and they catch a great haul of fish. And then Jesus invites them to breakfast on the beach.

It is a "coda" story in the Gospels. John's original ending was at the end of chapter 20. This story was added later.

In a way, it reminds me of the ending of Harry Potter. You get the end and then you get "19 Years Later," a second ending.

If John was written just before 100, it means this ending came a decade or two later than that. Maybe even later.

So why two endings? What's the deal here?

I think it is a story of loss and hope. Of holding on in bad circumstances. Of the endurance of love over despair.

Between 66-136, Rome and Jews were at war. The Temple was destroyed, Jerusalem laid waste. Christianity at that time wasn't much more than a Jewish sect, and Romans turned to vicious persecution of all Jews -- regardless of their theological opinions.

It was brutal on the Jews.

And it physcologically had profound impact on the emerging Christian movement.

You see, Christians thought Jesus was going to return quickly. Within a generation or so of his death/resurrection/ascension. But he didn't. And not only did he fail to return and establish the Kingdom, but things got worse and worse for his followers.

They expected triumph but wound up in a fight with their Jewish cousins as the Romans pressed in on both groups.

Hopes for resurrection faded in war and death. You can actually feel the despair in many 2nd century Xian writings.

Unexpected death and loss is the setting for this addition to John's gospel. There's no "glow" of resurrection here. This is a much grittier story than other resurrection accounts.

It opens with the disciples who really don't know what to do with themselves. Sure, Jesus is raised (whatever that means -- they still don't have a clue), but he isn't "alive" like he used to be. He comes & goes. It is weird.

So, what do they do?

They go back to their old lives. Fishing. That's what they did before Jesus.

Their friend is dead (or not) and their dreams are dead with him.

They return to the only thing they know.

But now, they are bad at it. They fish all night and nothing. Empty nets. The dark, the cold. The text says that they had stripped down to nakedness.

A picture of complete despair.

(This is the same thing those early followers were feeling. The Christians around 100. Who knows? You may be feeling the same today. I have. With my friend dying.)

What happens next?

Jesus shows up on the beach at dawn. At first they don't recognize him. But they wind up catching a big haul of fish after he tells them to lower their nets, and a couple of them realize it is him!

The fish are a big deal for lots of reasons. Rich people ate fresh fish. Rich people treasured large fish. The text specifically says that they caught many LARGE fish. In effect, they have reaped the riches of the lake.

Jesus is reminding them that his is a vision of abundance and provision, not scarcity and fear.

But he doesn't say sell the fish and get rich. He says, "Let's eat! Breakfast time!"

They are in despair and he invites them to a feast.

They eat the BIG fish. The fish usually eaten by the elite, by people like Herod and Pilate and Caesar.

They are poor and in despair, but Jesus feeds them as if they are the most important people in the world.

This is a clear contrast between an imperial feast (where large fish would have been a gourmet course) and the thanksgiving feast of the Jesus community.

An imperial feast would end with people declaring their loyalty to Caesar, loyalty based on fear of violence & death.

Because if Caesar invited you to dinner, you owed him everything. You owed him an infinite debt of gratitude, one that could only be repaid by giving your whole life to the Empire.

Now, that's not what happens with Jesus.

He feeds his friends. And, interestingly enough, there is a "loyalty" oath.

Jesus asks Peter if he loves him.

Caesar would never do that.

Caesar asked: "Do you fear me?" "Do you obey me?" "Do you worship me?"

Jesus asks, "Do you love me?"

He asks the same question a second time. And then, a third time he asks, "Do you cherish me?"

Imperial feast = a feast of fear
Jesus feast = a feast of love

It is the thanksgiving feast, the banquet of love, that is offered at the edge of the sea of despair (note: the Sea of Tiberius is actually named for a Roman Emperor). And there, on that isolated beach, the humble are exalted by love.

They are dined as if kings. Yet, there is no threat or fear in this kingdom. They eat not bondage. They eat of love. They cherish and are cherished.

This is what they "fish" for the rest of their lives.

They will set the thanksgiving table, God's feast.

The empire seems to have won. Death is strong. They are at a loss as to what resurrection means.

This is what it means: breakfast at the edge of the sea. Feasting like the richest people in the world, but freed from the violence that attends their power.

There will be a feast without fear. Because there already has been. It isn't just the future of the the world, but it is the past. It happened. Jesus held his non-imperial/truly regal banquet on the beach.

And sadness and fear ebbed away with the tide of being cherished. Of being loved. Of forgiveness and restoration and being sated. The thanksgiving feast comes in with the dawn. Even after the deepest darkness of empire's death grip.

In the wake of the new day, after feeding and sharing oaths of love, Jesus says again, "Follow me."

Follow this way. This is the way to the gracious feast. The feast of true victory, the feast that has already begun. Follow me. You are invited. Sit. Eat.

And that is what Christians say in the face of death and despair.

Sit and eat. Partake of God's endless abundance. The table has seats for those gone before, those sitting on the beach even now, and all those yet to be born.

Come and feast.

Love and cherish one another.

Make sure all are fed.

This evening, as so many of you are hurting, especially with the death of our friend Rachel, remember these things.

The mystery of all this is everything I have to offer you, everything I need my own heart to hear.

You are loved. You are cherished. We love. We cherish.

Amen