Close Your Eyes. Listen. And Follow.

Third Sunday of Easter

Acts 9:1-20; Rev 5:11-14; John 21: 1-19

Art: "Breakfast on the Beach" By Peter Koenig

The situation is, unfortunately,
with which we are familiar.

A small group of people
are being targeted for arrest
and deportation to another country.

A man, who has recently approvingly
witnessed the death of one of this group
and who has openly threatened to kill them,
has been given the authority to seek them out,
put them in restraints, remove them from their homes,
and bring them to the religious authorities
in another country. 

The man is named Saul, 
known for his violence
towards the followers of the Way,
the followers of Jesus. 

We read in Acts 9
that Saul was on his way to Damascus,
in modern-day Lebanon,
on a search mission 
to find those who followed Jesus,
put them in chains,
drag them away
from their homes and families
and take them to a land they do not know:
Judea.

He was going to take these believers to Jerusalem,
where they would be imprisoned
and . . . well, the story doesn’t say
what would happen to them once
they were taken to Judea. 
But the mention of murder 
at the start of the story
sounds ominous. 

It’s a story that we know too well. 

This was, of course, 
also the story
in which the book of Revelation was written.
John, exiled—we could say “deported”
— to the island of Patmos
by the authorities,
had a vision, a revelation,
of the realities that surrounded him
and the communities
he was writing to.

Using imagery and symbol
he created an impressionistic painting,
an imaginative swirling picture
of the overwhelming reality 
that surrounded the early believers.

They were part of an empire
led by an emperor who considered himself
to be well on the way to divine
—for this book was written 
when either Nero or Domitian was emperor.

Both considered themselves 
the protector and saviour of the world,
both maintained their power by violence. 

Throughout the book of Revelation
the descriptions of economic injustice,
the overwhelming destruction 
of the earth, the rivers,
the forests and animals
—all of this described the suffering
and destruction brought
by the Roman empire. 

Perhaps there was no way to write rationally
about all of this suffering,
perhaps John could only write in
these shifting kaleidoscopic images
about this overwhelming and disastrous reality. 

And yet, there are moments of clarity.
Like today’s reading from the end of Revelation 5,
which is the end of the very first vision
that John sees.

It is an orienting and grounding image.

It is literally a grounding creation-focussed image,
for among the voices singing praise 
to the Lamb who was killed, 
are the voices of every creature 
in heaven
and on earth 
and under the earth
and in the seas
and all that is in them. 

It is as if the heavenly chorus
echoes down to earth and under the earth, 
and into the waters 
where all creatures pick up the song
and sing it back to those in heaven.

A glorious antiphonal hymn
reverberating from heaven to earth
and back again:
all creatures caught up in this choir of praise
towards the Creator and the Lamb. 

It is important that this is the first image John sees. 
For in the midst of all of the violence
that surrounds him,
in the midst of those breathing threats and murder, 
in the midst of violent rulers
who don’t seem to have a firm grasp on reality,
all of creation defiantly
shines forth the grandeur of the Creator.

Just beyond the range of normal sight,
there is a community of praise in the heavens,
and a community of praise on the earth
and in the waters,
that are celebrating a different kind of leader.

This leader is the Lamb who was killed,
the Creator of all things, 
who doesn’t inflict violence
but bears it.

The Lamb who creates space 
for the honour of all people,
for every tribe, language and nation. 

It is this praise that surrounds those
to whom John is writing.
It is this praise that permeates reality
that challenges the suffering,
the violence,
the arrogance and the greed
that seems to control reality. 

Listen and look, says John,
listen for those voices celebrating a different rule, 
the suffering one, the Lamb who was killed.

In the midst of hopelessness,
in the midst of feeling like 
the agents of violence have all the power, 
and that there is no longer room
for truth, for empathy, for loving kindness,
know that we are surrounded
by creatures in heaven and on earth
who celebrate the compassionate Saviour,
the crucified one who breathed forgiveness on the cross,
the one who will make all things new. 

That sounds so good, doesn’t it?
But it’s hard for us to hear that praise sometimes.
It seems like a pipe dream.
Too good to be true. 

And it’s not just that we don’t hear the voices
of creation singing praise,
or that we don’t hear the voices of others
singing praise to Jesus.

We often don’t have the ability to imagine
how the suffering Saviour,
the Lamb who was killed,
the crucified Jesus
can solve the problems that we are facing. 

And, I don’t know about you,
but sometimes I don’t feel like 
I am singing that praise either.

It’s easier to be comfortable
with threats and retaliation,
than with suffering for others.
Sometimes we are better 
with exclusion
than with embrace. 

Sometimes we are more like Peter the denier
than like Jesus, the Lamb who was slain. 

Which is why it is important
to remember the funky little story
of Jesus standing on the shore,
calling out to the disciples as they fished. 

For three years these disciples
had followed Jesus,
had hoped he was the one to bring healing,
and justice,
that he would be the one to end the violence.

They had seen his death on the cross.
They had heard of his resurrection.
But they had no idea what this meant for them.

And so here they were, back at their old jobs,
casting the net yet again. 

And then they heard a voice calling them. 

This had happened once before.
They had been called from their nets by Jesus 
way back at the start of their story with him. 

But this time
there is—how shall we put this?—
there is some history. 
For Simon Peter, especially,
there is the heavy memory of betrayal,
the recollection 
that he has denied Jesus three times. 

Even the joy of seeing Jesus alive once more
can’t lift this weight from his shoulders.

Until, after they’ve all had breakfast
and Jesus speaks
“Simon, son of John,
do you love me more than these?”

Now you need to know that Jesus 
uses a very specific word for love here:
agapas (think of agapē).
It means total, unconditional, self-sacrificing love.

“Do you have this kind of 
total, self-sacrificial love for me, Peter?”

And Peter answers,
“Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

But Peter uses another word for love: philō
(from which we get many English word like 
philosophy - love of sophia, love of wisdom,
or philanthropist - someone who loves their fellow human beings).

In Greek the verb phileō describes 
the love that one has for one’s friends.
Perhaps the best way to translate it here is
“a very deep affection.”

“Simon, do you love me
more than these?” Jesus has asked. 

And Peter, well aware that he is the 
one who denied Jesus,
the one who did not have that total 
unconditional love,
answers,
“Yes, Lord, I have a very deep affection for you.”

Instead of the boasting Peter from the gospels,
we have a chastened Peter saying,
“This is all that I am able to give:
a very deep affection.”

Jesus responds, “Feed my lambs.”

Jesus asks a second time 
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Peter again answers, 
“Yes Lord, you know
that I have a very deep affection for you.”

And Jesus responds, “Tend my sheep.”

Jesus asks a third time,
but this time he changes the question:
“Simon, son of John,
do you have a deep affection for me?” 

And Peter was grieved, 
not, I think, because Jesus asked three times,
but because the third time
Jesus changed the question to reflect what Peter could offer. 
“Do you have a deep affection for me?”

Peter knew that he was not capable
of the total, unconditional, self-giving love
that Jesus was asking him for. 

And he had made that clear to Jesus:
this is all I have to offer,
this imperfect affection
that was not able to avoid denial,
and might not be able to hang in there
in the future. 

So when Jesus asks him if he even
has that level of imperfect love,
Peter is grieved.
Does Jesus doubt that he can even
offer deep affection?
Is even his imperfect love in question? 

But he answers once again,
“Lord, you know everything,
you know that I have a deep affection for you.”

And Jesus says to him “Feed my sheep.”

And then Jesus goes on to tell Peter
that he would fall victim 
to the very authorities
breathing threats and murder,
that Saul represented.

The very authorities 
that sentenced John
to the island of Patmos. 

In the face of these threats, 
this very deep affection
would be enough. 
Peter would be able to offer
that self-sacrificial love,
that agape love,
that he thinks he is not capable of. 

And Jesus ends with the words,
“Follow me.” 

In spite of his imperfections,
in spite of his past betrayal,
in spite of the fact
that Peter is a deeply broken man,
Jesus still calls him 
to tend to and feed the community
that Jesus has gathered around himself. 

In spite of his inability
to imagine himself up to the task,
Jesus calls Peter to follow,
follow where Jesus has led,
even though that will also lead
to a cross.

Jesus does this because forgiveness
is at the heart of resurrection. 
Forgiveness is at the heart of resurrection.

Which brings us, of course,
back to Saul,
breathing threats and murder
against the followers of the Way,
followers of Jesus.

Saul, on a mission to capture and deport
as many as he possibly can. 

Saul, who is then lightening-struck on the road,
hearing the voice of Jesus
asking “why do you persecute me?”


Saul, then discovering that he is blind,
being led into the city. 

When Jesus asks Ananias
to go and heal Saul,
Ananias essentially responds:
“Are you kidding? 
Have you heard the violence
he’s done in Jerusalem? 
He’s here to detain and deport
everyone who believes in you.
I don’t think so.”

“Even so”, says Jesus to Ananias,
“this violent man is the one
who will carry my name 
to all peoples, to the powerful,
and his own people.
And he will discover how much
he will suffer for the name of Jesus.” 

And so Saul, receives a healing touch
from one of the people he wanted to kill.

The one who inflicted suffering
becomes the apostle Paul,
the most well known of Jesus’ followers,
the one who will now bear suffering
for the sake of Jesus. 
Because forgiveness 
is at the heart of resurrection. 

In some way,
these are the same stories. 

The one who denied Jesus,
and the one who inflicted violence and terror
on the followers of Jesus:
both called to follow Jesus,
both called to proclaim the gospel,
both called to create communities of healing
and forgiveness and welcome
for the poorest,
most excluded members 
of their towns and cities. 

Both, in spite of their imperfections,
called to embody resurrection. 

I don’t know about you, 
but I find this very encouraging. 

When it feels as though 
I am not at all able 
to live up to the calling 
of following Jesus,
of protecting those who are vulnerable,
of caring for those at risk,
of proclaiming forgiveness and welcome
in the face of violence and exclusion,
when I’m in that place,
it is helpful to remember these stories.

The stories of two people
who, on the face of it,
have a history that would exclude
them from any ministry position
in our churches. 

And yet, these deeply imperfect people
are the ones that Jesus calls.

So what about us, 
with our histories of betrayal and denial,
our stories of violence and threat,
our inability to hear the voices of praises?

What about us,
with our sense of unworthiness 
and our feeling that the task is too big,
the threats too overwhelming, 
the sorrow too deep 
for the pitiful offerings of affection
that we bring? 

What about us,
surrounded by a culture of violence,
watching the most vulnerable in our midst
fear for their lives,
watching our fragile creation
be destroyed even
faster than we had imagined.

To us, in all our imperfections, 
Jesus says,
“Stop for a moment 
on the road that you are walking. 
Close your eyes and listen
for the voices of praise
echoing from the heavens to the earth
and back again. 
Feel the healing touch
of the ones who surround you
with forgiveness.” 

And when you open your eyes again,
Feed and tend to the community
that surrounds you.

And follow. 
Even in these perilous times.
Follow Jesus on the Way.

For even though that is a Way of suffering. 
It is also the only Way to new life.

Amen.