Acts 9.1-6 | John 21.1-19
Last Thursday evening was the sendoff, or opening service, for the men’s Purchase Area Walk to Emmaus number 113. Serving on the team as an assistant spiritual director, I had the privilege of being present that night: seeing familiar faces, meeting new folks, and bearing witness to both the excitement and apprehension palpable among the pilgrims. By now, their journey’s nearly over. And I’m confident the majority of them are feeling spiritually renewed in ways they never could’ve imagined. But, as I indicated, the first night’s always a bit anxious. You’re out of your comfort zone. You aren’t sure what to expect. And you’re in very close proximity to a bunch of other people, many of whom are strangers.
That’s why one of the first things that’s done is an activity called “My New Best Friend.” In it, each pilgrim pairs up with whomever they happen to be sitting next to and shares their name, some family information, where they attend church, and an interesting fact. Then, when it’s your turn, the person with whom you shared introduces you (and you introduce them) to the rest of the group. As we went around the room, meeting everyone’s new best friend, we learned about one another, putting names to faces and hearing snippets of people’s stories that we might better understand where they’re coming from.
We reached the end of the table at which I was sitting, and a pair of men stood to introduce each other. The first told his new best friend’s name, about his family, and where he goes church; all pretty standard. Then he shared the man’s interesting fact: he’s a recovering drug addict. But what happened next was impossible to predict. The man who was just introduced began to share about his new best friend, and when he concluded revealed that he too is a recovering drug addict. These men hadn’t been paired up by the team. They just happened, in that room filled with thirty-five or forty people, to sit next to each other. But as they shared their stories, they found that common ground: a starting place, a space to build relationship, and (from my perspective) a sign that God is the gracious giver of new days.
God is indeed the giver of new days. And this was good news for those who first followed Jesus, because (as we’ve been hearing the last couple of weeks) they frequently got it wrong. The disciples frequently missed the point, and stumbled in their fidelity. They spoke out of turn, and acted hastily. They were, simply, very human. Even so, Christ isn’t quick to cut them off. Instead, as we see in this morning’s gospel text, he sets a table for them (metaphorically, of course, as he’s actually built a fire). But the imagery’s similar: he invites them to come, to sit, to rest, to eat, to be filled. It seems like a pretty quiet meal. St. John doesn’t record any words being spoken while they ate. But as they finish, Jesus breaks the silence. Turning to St. Peter, he asks, “Do you love me more than these?”[1] More than what? More than fishing? More than the other disciples? More than whatever for him represents life or security?
Nonetheless, Peter replies, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”[2] Even so, Jesus asks him twice more: “Do you love me?”[3] And twice more, Peter answers in the affirmative—even becoming a bit agitated by the questioning. But I don’t believe it’s merely the fact that Jesus is asking these things that bothers the apostle. It’s that he knows why Jesus is asking. Because it’d only been a few days prior that Peter had been questioned—not by Jesus, but by people outside the high priest’s house—regarding his relationship with Jesus. “You’re one of that man’s followers, aren’t you? I’ve seen you with him.” And Peter answers, “I’m not.”
Not once, not twice, but three times—even denying that he knew Jesus at all. And now, as they sit together, Jesus asks—not once, not twice, but three times—whether or not Peter loves him. He’s giving Peter another opportunity, another chance: a chance to respond the way he should’ve responded before. And what’s more, Jesus is reminding Peter that—even though he’s failed—he isn’t finished. Jesus still has an assignment for Peter: take care of my sheep. Feed them. Tend them. Look after them. Lead them. All this for one who’d blown it pretty badly. And not because he deserved the new day. But because God is gracious, and is the giver of new days.
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| Christ's Charge to Peter by Raphael (detail), ca. 1515-6. |
St. Paul needed a new
day as well. As we catch up with him in
today’s lesson from the book of Acts, we meet him prior to his suffering for
the faith, prior to his composing the majority of the New Testament, prior to
his being among the greatest evangelists of the early Church, even prior to his
being known as Paul. Here, he’s Saul: a
pious, upright, and well-educated Jew who sought to live according to God’s law
and do what God expected of him. And
part of that, in his mind, was destroying the Church: helping to capture and
kill Christians, to stamp out this rogue sect of Judaism that was corrupting
the people and polluting the religious waters of the time. Indeed, scripture records that Saul was
present at the death of the first Christian martyr, St. Stephen—and “approved
of”[4]
his stoning.
In short, Saul was going in the exact opposite direction that God wanted, yet firmly believed that what he was doing was right. His new day came on the road to Damascus, when a blinding “light from heaven”[5] knocked him to the ground. It was there Saul met Jesus. And from that point on, things changed for Saul. He became Paul, and was helped by God to realize how blind to the truth he’d been. And when the “scales fell from his eyes,”[6] he began to preach a new gospel: a gospel not of hate, but of love; not of enmity, but of peace. He began to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
When Kristy and I were in Gatlinburg recently, one of the first things we did was play a round of putt-putt. We’re both fairly decent miniature golfers, but there are some complex courses in that town. So complex, in fact, that both of us shot slightly over par when we played—and we both needed mulligans. We both needed a reset: a do-over, if you will. But in life, there aren’t many situations in which we’re given do-overs. There aren’t many situations in which we’re given second chances. That simply isn’t the way the world works. Often, when we miss opportunities, they’re gone—and we never see them again. And often, when we make mistakes, we just have to live with them; we have to deal with the consequences, and hope we can learn to do better next time.
For these reasons, I’m unspeakably grateful that God is a gracious giver of new days. I’m grateful that God gives new starts, that God allows second chances. I’m grateful that God’s love is deep enough—that God’s mercy is wide enough—for me to acknowledge my sins, yet rest assured that God hasn’t tossed me aside and that God isn’t finished with me. I’m grateful that neither my pride, nor my prejudice, nor all the things I do that I shouldn’t (or the things I should do that I don’t) outweigh God’s affection for me.
What about you? Do you need a new day? Do you need a new beginning, a do-over? Obviously, I can read neither your heart nor your mind. I don’t know the secrets—the hidden blemishes—of every life here. I don’t know exactly what you’re struggling with, or the details of every hurt that’s left you scarred or scared. I don’t even know the whole weight of the guilt you carry, or everything that causes you to be anxious or afraid. But I do know One who invites you to a new day. I know One who invites you to come and rest in the divine presence. I know One who welcomes you to put your whole trust in grace: One who’s well aware of where you’ve been, where you are, and who you are—and loves you regardless.
May we therefore offer ourselves to God, seeking the strength and guidance of the Spirit to navigate this day: doing our best, with the time we’ve been given, to follow the Christ, to reflect God’s image, and to give God glory. And, in the times wherein we fall short (and we will), may we not lose heart—but hold rather to the promise of newness: a new creation, a new hope, a new day.
In short, Saul was going in the exact opposite direction that God wanted, yet firmly believed that what he was doing was right. His new day came on the road to Damascus, when a blinding “light from heaven”[5] knocked him to the ground. It was there Saul met Jesus. And from that point on, things changed for Saul. He became Paul, and was helped by God to realize how blind to the truth he’d been. And when the “scales fell from his eyes,”[6] he began to preach a new gospel: a gospel not of hate, but of love; not of enmity, but of peace. He began to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
When Kristy and I were in Gatlinburg recently, one of the first things we did was play a round of putt-putt. We’re both fairly decent miniature golfers, but there are some complex courses in that town. So complex, in fact, that both of us shot slightly over par when we played—and we both needed mulligans. We both needed a reset: a do-over, if you will. But in life, there aren’t many situations in which we’re given do-overs. There aren’t many situations in which we’re given second chances. That simply isn’t the way the world works. Often, when we miss opportunities, they’re gone—and we never see them again. And often, when we make mistakes, we just have to live with them; we have to deal with the consequences, and hope we can learn to do better next time.
For these reasons, I’m unspeakably grateful that God is a gracious giver of new days. I’m grateful that God gives new starts, that God allows second chances. I’m grateful that God’s love is deep enough—that God’s mercy is wide enough—for me to acknowledge my sins, yet rest assured that God hasn’t tossed me aside and that God isn’t finished with me. I’m grateful that neither my pride, nor my prejudice, nor all the things I do that I shouldn’t (or the things I should do that I don’t) outweigh God’s affection for me.
What about you? Do you need a new day? Do you need a new beginning, a do-over? Obviously, I can read neither your heart nor your mind. I don’t know the secrets—the hidden blemishes—of every life here. I don’t know exactly what you’re struggling with, or the details of every hurt that’s left you scarred or scared. I don’t even know the whole weight of the guilt you carry, or everything that causes you to be anxious or afraid. But I do know One who invites you to a new day. I know One who invites you to come and rest in the divine presence. I know One who welcomes you to put your whole trust in grace: One who’s well aware of where you’ve been, where you are, and who you are—and loves you regardless.
May we therefore offer ourselves to God, seeking the strength and guidance of the Spirit to navigate this day: doing our best, with the time we’ve been given, to follow the Christ, to reflect God’s image, and to give God glory. And, in the times wherein we fall short (and we will), may we not lose heart—but hold rather to the promise of newness: a new creation, a new hope, a new day.
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