I’ve fought with how to open the Gospel to us this morning.
I’ve tried out history—stories of the lapsi—of Christians who had lapsed under the 3rd century persecution commanded by the Roman Emperor Decius; stories of the traditori—Christians who handed over (traditore—from which derive the English words tradition and traitor) Scriptures and other books for worship to be burned under the last great persecution of the 4th century commanded by Diocletian. In both cases, the question, “What do we do with people who have abandoned the faith?” was intense, immediate, and very practical once the persecution had ended. In both cases, the Church tried to navigate between a message of grace that was tantamount to ignoring the history and a message of holiness that could not move past it. Some wanted to readmit people with only very minimal penance; others wanted no readmission at all.
Do you want to hear about the lapsi, about Novatian of Rome and Cyprian of Carthage? No? How about the traditores and the Donatists and Augustine of Hippo? No? I didn’t think so.
I tried out testimony—stories of Christian leaders who have had to undergo sometimes painful processes of restoration. Points in my own life where I have found the story of Peter’s restoration to be particularly moving. Don’t worry. This is not going to get awkward. I am convinced that clergy across denominations who take their ordination vows (or their church’s equivalent) seriously are very aware of their failures to live up to, in to, and out of those vows and find great hope in our Lord’s restoration of his disciple on a Galillean beach. Peter is not let off the hook—his betrayal mattered. Peter was restored—he was commissioned again to love and tend and feed the sheep whose well-being Christ had entrusted to him.
But that didn’t work either. I don’t think you want to hear about my lapses or those of other clergy; I’m quite certain you can recall lapses of mine and those of previous rectors without too much difficulty at all—some with a wink; others with a chuckle; and still others far more difficult. And we don’t need to rehearse those. For they, after all, are not the point.
So, I’m not quite sure how to open up the Gospel to us this morning. I’ll come back to that. First, let’s look at the story itself.
Notice, first of all, that this is not the first encounter between the disciples and the Risen Lord. In the Gospel of John, it is the third. We read about the first two last week—one on Easter day, with the 10 in a locked room; the other one week later with Thomas present. This is the third.
Why didn’t Jesus restore Peter immediately? Why did Jesus wait until some time after his resurrection? Those are interesting questions. They invite us to pay attention to the details of the setting.
Peter’s restoration took place in Galilee. Isn’t that interesting. It took place at the site of Peter’s first call to lay his nets aside and to fish instead for men and women, to proclaim to them the Gospel of the Kingdom of God come in Jesus. Indeed not just to the place, but to the act. Peter has gone home to go fishing. Does this mean that Peter has given up his calling to be an apostle? Some have thought so. Does this mean that Peter, knowing that Jesus would meet the disciples again in Galilee, went there and well, had to eat? Some have thought so. I don’t know that either explanation matters. What matters is here is Peter, in the place and plying the trade when he first encountered the master. And again, the master calls to him and his companions. He reveals himself to them by repeating the miracle of the fish. And he calls the seven disciples to shore.
Peter’s restoration, second, took place by a charcoal fire. Isn’t that interesting! (no really it is interesting!) Where do we last see Peter named? Standing, warming himself by a charcoal fire in a courtyard in Jerusalem. And what does Peter say? three times he says, “I do not know the man!” Jesus brought Peter not simply to the place of his first commissioning; he also brought Peter to the place of his betrayal. Jesus does not set aside Peter’s sin as though it does not matter. Jesus does not wink at his betrayal. Jesus does not say to Peter, “See, I won. So we’ll just overlook that little betrayal business. After all, you’re only human.” No, he brings Peter to the fire to warm himself. He brings him to the place of his lapse.
Third, Jesus lovingly and searchingly and deliberately undoes Peter’s lapse. “Lovest thou me more than these?” Sometimes it is the most gentle of questions that can undo us. And this one undoes poor Peter. John’s Greek here is ambiguous. Lovest thou me more than these? Jesus may be asking, “Peter, do you love me more than your brothers love me?” And that would make sense. After all, Peter boasted, did he not, that “If all forsake you I will not,” on that awful Thursday night just a few weeks before. Lovest thou me more than these? Jesus may be asking, “Peter, do you love me more than your nets? More than your old life? More than your security?” And that would make sense too. Here we are, Peter, back in Galilee. It’s time for you to choose, once and for all. Will you follow me?
And it is a broken Peter, the boastful disciple long dead now, who says “Lord, you know I love you.” And Jesus commissions Peter again. Feed my sheep.
Two more times the question is repeated. Two more times, Peter answers. Do you hear his repentance in his final answer? I do. “Lord you know all things. You know my heart better than I know it. You know that I love you.” Two more times Peter is commissioned to be a shepherd of souls.
And so it is that the threefold betrayal is searchingly, painfully, systematically healed by a systematic act of restoration. And Jesus knows his disciple will now be faithful. He indeed assures him that he will, from this instant, be faithful unto death.
Now, why is this Gospel difficult to understand? I wonder if it is difficult to understand because we have lost a sense of the divine holiness and accordingly, the divine mercy. We have come to the conclusion that God is obligated to forgive, to restore, to absolve regardless of whether we intend to follow or not. We have come to believe that we can never lapse; and so we never need to be restored. I’ve met people like that. Have you?
Or perhaps it is difficult to understand because we have convinced ourselves that God is so remote, so aloof, so holy, that no matter what we do or desire, we are beyond restoration. We are far too aware of our own inadequacy and far too unaware of the depths of the divine love. I’ve met people like that. Have you?
I do not know how you greet the Gospel this morning. I do not know whether it is closed to you or not. But I know—I know it in my bones—that it is good news. The Lord who commissioned us at our baptism will bring us back to that place, confront us with our failure, and question our love not to humiliate us, but to restore us. To commission us again. To call us to follow. If he would do so for Peter, who fell so far, then he will for you and for me. Amen.