I first began to understand what
the thing called Christian ministry is really all about one autumn morning as I
knelt at the altar rail for communion. I
was just shy of my 29th birthday, and I had been going to Holy
Innocents Episcopal Church in San Francisco for a few months after 17 years of
no regular church attendance. So I was
still getting used to it all, the confession and the creed, the crossing
myself, the standing here and the sitting there, and the weekly communion,
which was not part of my childhood church experience. I was struggling to understand what this
ritual was about, and why the dry, papery little cracker and sip of fortified
wine should matter as much as they obviously did.
On this particular day our two
priests were distributing the bread as usual, dividing the altar rail between
them. I was one of the last to receive,
and just before I did, something awkward must have happened. I was trying to prepare myself inwardly for
communion, so I didn’t see it, but there was a small yet noticeable
interruption of the flow, a hiccup in the administration of the sacrament, a
miscommunication or an accidental collision—I’ll never know. But I looked up and saw Fr. Armand and Fr.
Rob whispering together about it, and sharing a moment of quiet laughter over
whatever it was that had happened. They did
not seem embarrassed or flustered, but more like partners in an improvisational
dance which had taken an unexpected and humorous turn, and without missing
another beat they resumed the distribution of the consecrated bread.
Something stirred in my heart as I
witnessed that brief exchange, and it merged into the next moment, when Fr.
Armand placed the wafer in my hand and I brought it to my mouth. In a way I hadn’t really done before, I
understood that the power of the gift he was passing on to me is not in the
form of the ritual. The priest does not
make it happen by performing it correctly.
In that moment I saw the life that animates the Holy Eucharist, laughing
and playing with the people who celebrate it.
It does not hover somewhere out of sight, above the proceedings, but it
descends and dances with the people, with the people who do the feeding and the
people who do the eating.
That life is what makes possible
the thing called Christian ministry, what we might also call discipleship. It can look like anything, really. It can look like a guy in odd-looking
old-fashioned costume parading around in a church, or it can look like a woman bathing
her granddaughter, or some kids picking up trash on the beach. It can take any form, because its power
doesn’t come from the form. The power of
Christian ministry comes from the reality of human life as it is lived, in all
its vulnerability, and wonder, and incompleteness.
And it comes from obedience to the word
of Jesus Christ, or more properly, of Christ crucified and raised from the dead. The proclamation of Christ’s resurrection is
not the happy ending to an old story. It
is the beginning of a new story, a story in which all who love Jesus, all who
have faith in him, who want to know him and to be healed and transformed by his
grace are the actors. The Resurrection
is the place from which we are sent to meet the reality of human life in all
its dimensions. It is the sign that God
is willing and able to work with us, even
as we are. It is the news that from
here on out God doesn’t work any other way.
Today’s gospel is about the
beginning of this new story, which is actually the re-telling of an old one in
a different key. The story starts over
at the beginning. After being Jesus’
disciple, and going with him to Jerusalem, after the supper and the
foot-washing and the denial, after the crucifixion and the empty tomb, after
the locked room and the breathing of the Holy Spirit, Peter goes back to
Galilee. Back to the shores of the Sea
of Tiberias. Back to his fishing boat.
“I’m going fishing,” says Peter, as
if to say, “I’m at a loss to know what has happened to me. I don’t know who I am anymore, or what I’m
supposed to be doing. But I can’t just
sit here, so I’m going do what I know how to do best.” Strange to say, there are a few of the friends
he made when he was with Jesus who are still hanging around. And whether he wants it or not, Peter is their
leader. So they all go fishing together.
But there’s no going back to the
way things were. It’s fruitless to try,
and so, though they fish all night, they don’t catch a thing until they hear
the voice of the man standing on the shore, saying "Cast the net to the
right side of the boat, and you’ll find some." In the background is the echo of the other
gospels, where the Christian community begins with Jesus calling Peter to leave
his fishing boat and go with him to fish for people. That this summons has not been cancelled by
Jesus’ crucifixion, but is just beginning to move to fulfillment, is seen in
the miraculous catch of fish.
The beloved disciple is the first
to recognize the Lord, but it is Peter who, in characteristically thick-headed
style, throws on some clothes and jumps into the lake. He swims to shore, and when he gets there,
Jesus is waiting, and the fire is warm, and so are the fish and the bread. Just as he ate with the tax collectors and
sinners, just as he fed the multitude in the wilderness, just as he dipped
bread into the dish, on the night he was betrayed, with the one who betrayed
him, now Jesus invites the one who denied him to breakfast.
The memory of that terrible night
looms over this story. The charcoal fire
on the beach is like the fire in the courtyard of the High Priest where Peter
stood warming himself with the servants and the police. And just as they asked him three times, “are
you not one of his disciples?” and three times Peter denied it, so now Jesus
asks him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Three times he asks him, and three times Peter says, “Lord, you know
that I love you.” And by the third time
Peter also knows, and the pain and the shame and the guilt of what happened
that night hangs in the air between them.
But Jesus is not guilt-tripping
Peter. He does not gloss over the truth
of what happened, but he meets the reality of Peter’s all-too human weakness
with forgiveness. He doesn’t condemn him,
he gives him a job. Jesus gives Peter
the gift of a do-over, a second chance to show that he does in fact love his
master. And the sign of that love will
be that Peter feeds Jesus’ sheep.
This is the story of the call of a disciple,
and like the other call stories it ends with the command to “Follow me.” But Peter will no longer follow as the
blundering, impulsive, and self-important disciple that he was before. He will be a true leader, one whose memories
of failure and unmerited forgiveness will be the source of his power to minister
to others. Yet for all that he will
still be Peter. Likewise Saul, after
meeting Jesus on the road to Damascus, will become Paul. But he will never forget how he persecuted
his Lord.
In the same way, our own ministries
will only grow from the roots of our real experience. The people that we are, the histories we have,
even our deep wounds and worst mistakes; as well as the context of our lives—our
spouses and children and parents, our friends and neighbors, our church and
country and century—it all adds up to a calling, to a particular ministry that
only we can fulfill. This is our
gift. It is, by the grace and power of
Christ’s resurrection, the way that leads us to a new life, one that retells
our own familiar story in new words, the words of unconditional love and
forgiveness.
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