Sermon for 10 April 2016: 3rd Sunday of Easter

Sermon for Sunday 10 April 2016

3^rd Sunday of Easter

Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Jerusalem

The Rev Carrie Ballenger Smith

John 21:1-19

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Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

My bishop back in Illinois—who is retiring this summer after 18 years heading up the Northern Illinois Synod—can find a way to fit a fishing story into almost every sermon. Having fishing as a favorite hobby comes in quite handy when you’re a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, especially on Sundays like this, when we hear a story about the fishing misadventures of Simon, Thomas, Nathaniel, and the rest. I can just imagine the detail and color and wisdom Bishop Gary would bring to a sermon this morning if he were here today.

I, on the other hand, don’t have much to say about fishing.

The few times I went fishing with my grandpa, I never quite got past the part about putting the worm on the hook. It’s not that I didn’t like it – I just couldn’t get past it. I maybe liked it a little too much. Worms are squishy and fascinating and disgusting and fun. Waiting for fish to bite—not so much.

I don’t know much about fishing, so I can’t say whether one should fish from the left side of the boat or the right side of the boat. I don’t know if it was weird that the disciples were fishing at night, or if they should have waited until morning. I definitely don’t know what to say about the fact that Simon Peter was fishing naked!

I don’t know much about fishing, but I do know something about casting your net into the water and getting more than you bargained for.

I know about standing outside in the bitterly cold Illinois winter, waiting for my dog to do his business, praying to God about a nagging sense of being unsettled, in spite of being very happy in my call. “Show me the way, O Lord.”

I know about randomly saying one time or another, “Sure, I’d be interested in global service someday. When the kids are older. When the time is right.”

I know about stepping on a plane to Tel Aviv a few months later, shocked and excited about the unexpected adventure of living and working in Jerusalem.

And even though I had prayed, even though I said “yes” to this new job, even though I had cast my net, perhaps like many of you, I still wasn’t prepared for the 153 fish that were suddenly straining the capacity of my fishing net.

153 fish!

Fish called a new language – actually, two new languages to learn.

Fish called a new culture—actually two new cultures to learn.

Fish called work challenges and relationship worries.

Fish called a burning passion to make a difference, but finding bureaucracies, politics, and prejudices standing in the way.

Fish called oppression and suffering around this corner, and beaches and unparalleled beauty around the next.

One hundred fifty-three fish are too many to comprehend, far too many to carry.

The net is bursting! What do we do with it all?

This isn’t what we asked for!

Come on Jesus – I only asked for dinner. And you gave me 153 fish?

But then…there’s that sunrise over the Dome of the Rock. 

There’s the smell of freshly baked bread as I walk to the church.

There’s the Muslim shopkeeper who wishes me “Happy Feast”.

There’s the sound of the collective voices of this congregation, singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today!” at sunrise on the Mt. of Olives.

And suddenly, my net seems a little bit lighter.

Just when we think it’s all just too heavy, when we can’t take a step further, just when we’re this close to throwing it all back in the water, Jesus calls to us from the beach: “Come and have breakfast.”

Jesus is already on the shore, has already started a fire, has already made a place for us to sit and rest in his presence.

We don’t need to be fishermen and fisherwomen to understand the Good News of this morning’s Gospel, which is this: When we are weary and our nets are full, Jesus feeds us.

Just to be clear, we’re not going down the road of “God never gives you more than you can handle” this morning. Sometimes, our nets do break. Sometimes it all spills out. Sometimes we even have to get back in the boat and start over.

Nor is this sermon a step-by-step plan for getting your own 153 fish: “If you are following Jesus’ fishing instructions, your nets will be full! Cast your nets here, not there, and you, too, can be blessed—or rich, or happy, or free.”

Actually, if living in the Holy Land today has taught us anything, surely it has taught us that this kind of theology is just a bucket of smelly rotten fish.

So I won’t be telling any fish tales today.

But I do want to talk about that breakfast on the beach.

I want to talk about the ways Jesus feeds us, nourishes, us, and strengthens us when we’re dealing with nets bursting with change, with illness, with work, with worry, or even with opportunities which excite us and overwhelm us at the same time.

When was the last time you were unexpectedly fed and nourished in a time of need?

When was the last time you had breakfast with Jesus on the beach?

Years ago, when I was pregnant with our second son, things started to look sketchy. All signs pointed to a possible pregnancy loss. We were in graduate school – far from home, far from family, and far from being able to do anything about it. We also had a toddler to care for, classes to attend, and no money for anything extra. Our nets were bursting. We were weary.

And then our neighbor, Heba, showed up to our door. She was carrying a big pot of spinach soup, a recipe from her home country of Egypt. She said it would be good for my health. She said it would be good for my husband’s stomach. But even better – it was good for our spirits. Heba fed us with love and concern and care. She strengthened us for the burden we were carrying. Our net was still full, but we saw that we weren’t carrying it alone. Standing in our doorway with that pot of soup, she might as well have said, “Come and have breakfast.” Heba’s spinach soup was our breakfast on the beach with Jesus, thanks be to God.

Again and again the Risen Christ provides the love, the nourishment, and the strength we need. Like the disciples who didn’t recognize Jesus as first, we also may not recognize it as Jesus. Nourishment may come to us as a phone call from a friend; or a beautiful sunrise; or kindness from a stranger. It may sound like a verse of Scripture; or like music that speaks to our soul.

We may not recognize Jesus at first, but trust me – he’s the one cooking that breakfast.

And thanks be to God for that, because weariness can seem to be our constant companion in this place. I have hardly ever heard someone say about life in Jerusalem, or in Bethlehem, or in Hebron, “It’s okay, but it’s a little boring. I wish something would happen every once in a while.”

On the contrary, carrying full nets is the norm for most of us here – and in fact, the minute we say that out loud, we realize how easy our load is compared to what so many of our local neighbors, friends, and colleagues experience every day of the week.

Still, these nets are heavy. Truly, we cannot do it alone. Truly, we cannot do it on an empty stomach.

And so we come to breakfast.

We come to the Word of God—the psalms, the parables, the Gospel stories which feed us again and again with the grace, love, and forgiveness of Jesus Christ.

We come to the table, where ordinary bread and wine becomes the place we encounter Jesus’ own body broken for us, and Jesus’ blood shed for us.

We come to music, to art, to nature, to the gifts from God which cannot make our burdens lighter, but whose beauty gives us the inner strength and peace to carry them.

And we come to Christian community—as imperfect as it is, as frustrating as it can be—for it is here that we come to recognize the presence of the Risen Christ among us. It is here, among this strange collection of people called the church, where we find breakfast has already been prepared for us. As our sister Dorothy Day once wrote:

“We cannot love God unless we love each other, and to love we must know each other. We know Him in the breaking of bread, and we know each other in the breaking of bread, and we are not alone anymore. Heaven is a banquet and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship.”

Dear people, I don’t know much about fishing.

But I do know that the resurrected life, the life of faith in the Risen Christ, is not without struggle. Some days our nets will be empty. Some days they will be so full we won’t be able to lift them. But every day, the life of faith is about trusting that when we are weary, there is strength, there is nourishment, and there is hope with the Risen Christ. Every day, he calls to us from the shore, “Come. Come to breakfast. Take and eat. This is my Body, given for you.”

Amen, Thanks be to God!