Come and Have Breakfast
May 15, 2022 - John 21
In the gospel of John chapter 21, Peter announces he is going fishing and his friends join him. By now the disciples had already lived through unspeakable grief, stress, and uncertainty. They had already seen the death of their Lord and teacher. They still had ample reason to wonder if they were next. Despite all the signs they had received, I’m not sure they were quite ready to believe in the risen Christ. I’m not sure that they knew what to do now.
So, they do what they know. They go fishing, and they come up empty, empty, empty. They come up empty until a mysterious man on the beach calls out to throw their nets on the other side. That’s when the miracle happens. That’s when their nets fill to capacity and there is more–much more–than enough.
I guess I thought I knew what side of the boat to fish on. I had certain expectations for what I was doing in my life, in my family, in my church, and in the wider community. But when the pandemic hit, my calendar was wiped clean, my family hunkered down in isolation, and gathering for worship as we knew it was deemed unsafe. So many things I had taken for granted were radically changed. And it became clear to me just how much more of the twists and turns of life were out of my control than I would have liked to believe.
Throughout the grief, stress, and uncertainty that the pandemic has brought upon our world, I have heard Jesus’ steady, sturdy call upon my heart to give up my illusions of control, to get clear on what really matters, and to trust as wholly as I can in the grace of God as known in Jesus Christ. For me, that has been how I have thrown my net on the other side of the boat, and I can attest that there I have found the sweetest abundance for my heart, mind, and soul.
As we wonder what the new normal and the next normal looks like, I want to keep my net on that abundant side of the boat. As we ask, “O Lord, what do we do now and now and now?” I want to keep listening for the voice of Jesus calling from the shore.
When my grandmother died the only thing I felt like I could do was make chocolate chip cookies. My grandmother was a beloved matriarch. She took care of my sister and I from the time we were small, while my mom and dad both worked full time to support us. We were lucky to have her as long as we did and that she could offer our growing family so much support. But when she died it was like the end of the world. It was a deep grief for 14 year old me. It was the kind of grief where you wake up and feel mad at the sun for still shining and at all the world for going on like nothing so big had happened at all. I didn’t know what else to do. So I made chocolate chip cookies. It was what she would have done–showed up with food to meet someone in a deep ache.
Now, I wasn’t like a real good cook at 14. So, I don’t know how those cookies really turned out. But they became a thing between my grandfather and I. He survived her by almost ten years, and for every August 15th birthday of his that I could, I would show up with homemade chocolate chip cookies.
He remarried and I got married. And life went on. But between us those chocolate chip cookies were a symbol. I think they were a sign to us both of comfort in the midst of grief and of hope in the midst of loss.
In the midst of the disciples’ grief, exhaustion, and confusion, Jesus is doing something familiar and comforting, too, in John 21. As the disciples haul themselves and their catch up out of the water, Jesus tells them, “Come and have breakfast.” He offers them bread and fish, and no one asks who he is because they know. Because he has done this before. In the midst of hunger, exhaustion, and seemingly depleted resources, he has already turned a few loaves of bread and some fish into enough to feed five thousand.
Ask me about resilience.
Ask me about how we overcome the hardships of our lives.
Ask me about how we put the pieces back together when we fall apart.
Ask me about how we respond to a global pandemic–to a planet, to communities, to families and lives in crisis.
Ask me and I will tell you.
We rely on Jesus. These churches–yours and mine–we rely on Jesus.
We rely on Jesus–the one who turns water into wine!
We rely on Jesus–the one who fed the five thousand!
We rely on Jesus–the one who makes a way out of no way!
–the one who rises even from the dead!
–the one who calls to us in our grief, in our hardship, in our fear, in our uncertainty, in our anger, in our confusion, in our exhaustion, and in our coming up empty after a long, hard night of striving.
He calls to us, “Come and have breakfast.”
We each have pandemic stories to tell. We have our own stories of loss, grief, stress, change, and uncertainty. Despite how much we have already experienced, we are still living out this story, too. What we can do right now might look different from each other. It might look different from the things we used to do. It might look different from what we do in the future. But what we have in common is that invitation from Jesus to “Come and have breakfast” and to be breakfast makers, too.
Sometimes making breakfast looks like actual breakfast with French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. But it can also look like a church ministry that supports victims of domestic violence and works to break that generational cycle. It can look like a Soup Kettle that serves a free meal every Saturday night of the year come rain or shine or COVID-19. It can look like the friend who calls to check on us when we’re sick or a church who rallies around whoever needs help. It can look like the hard work of forgiveness and reconciliation. It can sound like music that uplifts us and sets us free. Whatever it is that offers hope, comfort, and a reminder that our real safety and security lies in the never-ending love of God, that’s the breakfast to which Jesus invites us and that we are called to serve.
We may not be able to control a lot of things that we would like to control but what we can do is start finding ways to share a little breakfast. When we do, I trust we’ll find our empty nets filled with more–much more than enough.
May it be so. Amen.
