Scripture: Genesis 33:1-11 can be found here; John 21:1-19 can be found here.
I’m going to say that, today, we have two unusual stories to wind up a stewardship season, to be sure. One, an ancient recollection of a family broken apart, only beginning to take the tentative steps towards gluing it back together. And the other, a resurrection story—which should be the ultimate joy, the ultimate victory, no? And yet, in this story we find Jesus’ disciples disheartened, maybe a little confused. Certainly, hungering for something that feels like normalcy.
Hungering for normalcy. On November 22, in the Year of Our Lord 2020, I would say we are all hungering for something that feels like normalcy.
In this year in which a pandemic has swept the world, and is not done with us yet… in this year in which we have seen perhaps the most contentious, conflict-ridden presidential election in most of our lifetimes… in this year in which I pray most of us will not gather for Thanksgiving with large groups, but will, instead, stay close to home in our safe and small pods of people … in this year in which, my heart breaks to say it, we will not, for the sake of one another’s lives, be gathering in our sanctuary to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful”…
We are all hungering for something… anything… approaching normalcy.
Jacob and Esau… it’s hard to say if normalcy is what they’re hungering for. But they are hungering. Jacob has been on the run for something like twenty years, after stealing his brother’s right to the family inheritance of both wealth and leadership. Esau’s story, scripture not been following, since he was last seen howling in rage at his brother’s theft. He’s here, now, though, with an army of 400 men.
A couple of thousand years later, Jesus, who was crucified, has now been seen around town, three or so times, hanging out in gardens, walking through locked doors, showing off the holes in his body made by the nails and spears, and breathing peace on everybody. Resurrection notwithstanding, you can tell that, for his disciples, the whole thing has been more like a crazy, perhaps not-entirely-trustworthy dream, because Peter says, in a kind of monotone, “Guys, I’m going fishing,” and a bunch of his buddies follow Peter down to the sea. Jesus follows, too.
Everyone has been through a lot. Death. Heartbreak and loss. News that is just, plain, unbelievable. Change, and change, and change again. (Last thing I saw before I sat down to write this sermon: a species of Argentinian lizard the size of small dogs is now spreading throughout the southern United States. What can I say? It’s 2020.)
It’s a lot.
Jacob hedges his bets by sending a whole lot of presents ahead to his brother, but he has no idea how they will be received. Peter’s in the opting-out-of-all-this for at least a minute category, by returning to something that was his livelihood: fishing. Talk about familiarity. The smell of the sea and the nets; the creak of the boat; the feeling in your arms when the wind snaps the sail taut, and you can let out the sheetline, and know—we’re going somewhere, guaranteed to be away from here.
Everyone is trying to restore something, but not everyone is on the same page as to what, exactly. Esau seems to be prepping to restore his honor and primacy in the family system. Jacob is hoping to restore some semblance of a relationship with his brother that does not involve his own death.
Peter is trying to restore himself to an earlier moment in his life—to go back to when things were simple, and the worst thing that could happen was a lousy haul of fish. But even more than that, Peter is trying to restore himself to a time before he did what feels like the worst thing he ever did in his whole life: On the night when Jesus was arrested, and was on trial for his life, Peter pretended he didn’t even know him.
Jesus is trying to restore everyone to themselves.
Does that make sense?
Everyone is shaken—everyone in both these stories—shaken by how events have taken them, and shaken them, and driven them away from themselves, the core of who they are.
And whether they know it or not, that’s what they want back.
It’s so easy to lose ourselves, if we're not keeping track. To lose ourselves in the regular, day-to-day routines, to become what we produce, or how quickly we get it done, or how well people like it. To lose ourselves in the extraordinary—the painful, life-altering events, like those that have affected us all this year. The times life has battered us. The times we have fallen short, and we can’t forgive ourselves. But we can also lose ourselves in the good extraordinary times… falling in love, becoming a grandparent, getting a new job, making a move. We can lose track of ourselves.
God wants to restore us to ourselves, which, when all is said and done, is the same thing as restoring us to God.
For Esau and Jacob, it seems as if God restores them to their original state of being brothers… holding onto one another. Giving to one another. Traveling… even for a short time… side by side. We are made in God’s image, and to be restored to one another is to be restored to God.
For Peter, the restoration is a bit more complicated. He denied knowing Jesus three separate times, on the one night Jesus needed him the most. And so now… following the time at sea in familiar surroundings, time designed to remind Peter of who he was for a long time, he has an astonishing catch of fish. A huge catch. One that reminds him of who he was, but more importantly, who God is. He also gets an opportunity to remember with Jesus who he has grown to be.
Do you love me?
Of course I love you.
Asked and answered, three times, one time for each denial. Restored. Peter and Jesus are restored to right relationship—and even more, Peter is restored to himself, to who God created and guided him to be.
Feed my sheep.
Three times… along with words of love, words of responsibility.
Why are we talking about restoration, on this last Sunday of our stewardship season? Because in the end, good stewardship is about healing us as individuals and restoring us to right relationship with one another, as well as with God. Jacob and Esau find one another again, and they find themselves, and they remember the God who gave them to one another in the first place—“To see you, is to see the face of God,” Jacob says, of the brother he thought might kill him. Jesus finds his lost disciples, and fills their empty fishing nets, as well as filling their hearts with hope and commissioning them, once again, to the work of caring for all God’s children.
God is love. Have I mentioned that? In the end, that is our best and most reliable guide, in the life of faith. God is the One who loves us into being, and who tells us, we are enough. God is the One who is revealed to us in the faces of those we love, and those with whom we are in conflict, and those who are utter strangers. God is the One who entrusts us to one another’s care—who tells us, gently, insistently, “Feed my sheep,” and lets us figure out, together, how to do that.
Together, we can figure out how to do that.
Thanks be to God. Amen.