Feed My Sheep

John 21:15-19

A Sermon Preached by Catherine Foote

April 25, 2004

University Congregational United Church of Christ

Seattle, Washington

With the text we just read, of course I have to start by talking about feeding my sheep. Every morning before I come into Seattle, I bring the sheep out from the barn and toss them some hay. I have learned, when I do this, to be sure I am dressed in my farm clothes. There have been times feeling the pressure of catching a ferry, when I have rushed to dress for work and then gone to feed the sheep. But I have discovered, through hard experience, that alfalfa has a notorious way of weaving itself into wool jackets. The amount of time I saved in my rush to work quickly evaporates as I spend hours picking alfalfa flakes out of my black wool coat. And when I can remember, even in the midst of pressure, not to put my dress coat on before I feed my sheep, I do well. It is remembering in the face of pressure, remembering our truths, that is the tough part. And on a much deeper level, it is remembering in the face of pressure that today’s story of Jesus and Peter is about.

Which brings me to another story, one of Hindu tradition, regarding an orphaned tiger cub. The cub, it seems, was adopted by a flock of goats, and soon learned to live like a goat, to eat like a goat, even to speak like a goat. Still, the food did not seem to fill her up. Then there came one day to the edge of the meadow a King Tiger. Seeing the tiger cub, he asked, “What are you doing here?” The tiger cub looked up, grass falling from her mouth. “Don’t you know who you are?” the tiger asked. The cub bleated feebly. So the tiger took the cub to a pond, and told her to look at her reflection. She saw the image of a tiger staring back at her, but still did not understand. Then the tiger gave her meat, and she ate it, and found her hunger satisfied, a hunger that she did not even know existed. The story ends as the roar of the young tiger fills the forest.

For many of you, that story may sound familiar. The heart of it is retold (with the tiger changed to a lion) in the Walt Disney movie, “The Lion King.” And you might recall, in that movie, when the young lion Simba, struggling for self-understanding, sees the image of his father in a dream. “Simba,” his father says, “remember who you are. Remember who you are.”

I have been in a study group called “The Wenk Group,” (referring to Ed and Carolyn Wenk), that meets monthly at the home of Dave and Margaret Rose. Together we have been looking at John Shelby Spong’s book, A New Christianity for a New World. It is a thought-provoking book, calling us to stretch our understanding of faith in some challenging ways. Spong suggests that the essence of Christianity, behind images of Jesus and God, behind stories that convey truth about God, is a threefold call: to live fully, without fear, engaging all that life offers us; to love extravagantly, Spong even says “wastefully,” giving of ourselves completely; and to be all we are created to be, to “remember who we are,” and to live honestly in that reality.

How does this story of Peter and Jesus relate to the Hindu tiger tale, and to the invitation of Spong’s, to live, and to love, and to be? To answer that question, I believe we need to expand the story; because the story of Peter here by the Sea of Galilee, sharing a fire with Jesus, cannot be understood without the story of Peter in the courtyard. There he was warming himself before another fire, waiting to hear what would become of Jesus, on trial inside.

There, when called to account for himself, to state his truth, to declare his allegiance to the one who had loved him, there when all was on the line, Peter forgot. He forgot the joy he knew when Jesus had called him to follow, and promised that they would go after the big fish. He forgot that Jesus had taught him how to lay down his burdens, how to be himself, and how to walk boldly into life. He forgot how Jesus, showing him that God’s resources are always sufficient for God’s tasks, had fed 5,000 people. He forgot that he had committed his very life to Jesus, saying when others turned away, “Where else would I go? For I have come to know that you are the Holy One of God. I have come to know that you have the words of life” (see John 6:66-70). In the pressure of the moment, there in the courtyard waiting to here what the world would do with Jesus, who spoke the truth to power, Peter forgot.

“Surely you are one of them,” the crowd said to Peter, and Peter shrunk back and denied that he ever knew Jesus, that he ever knew the truth. Three times he said “I never knew him;” then the cock crowed, and Peter remembered.

I would guess that every one of us have known such moments. There have been courtyard fires where we have warmed ourselves, as we listen and wait to see what the world shall do with those who speak truth to power. The church has a history of warming itself by that courtyard fire; when it has been called upon to account for itself, to state its truth, to declare its allegiance to the one who loved it. In those moments, there have been times when it has considered the warmth of the fire, and the assumed consequences of being true to itself, and it has said “I never knew him.”

So the church has turned away from those who have who wrestle with their knowledge of reality, with life as they have come to know it, only to be persecuted in the name of religion. For examples we can reach as far back as the Copernicus revolution when the church felt justified in killing those who asserted that the world revolved around the sun. Or we can look at something as close as yesterday’s headlines regarding who might be allowed to receive communion in the Catholic church, where religious leaders have stated that some, speaking the truth as they see it, are to be turned away.

Remember the one who called us to truth? “I never knew him,” says the church.

The church has turned away when love has demanded offering ourselves completely for the sake of others. We can reach back as far as World War II, when a complicit church in Germany turned its back as those considered “less than human” were loaded into cattle cars. Or we can look at today’s reality, where the church remains silent as the world continues to struggle with understanding compassion and community.

Remember the one who taught us that God is love? “I never knew him,” says the church.

The church has turned away when people have worked to be faithful to who God created them to be. We can reach back as far as the early church, which struggled to learn inclusiveness, watching as Jesus welcomed everyone they might exclude (Samaritans, and Gentiles, and prostitutes, and tax collectors); then as it was wooed to power, found ways to exclude those who were less powerful. Women were barred from leadership on the basis of their very being. Or we can look at what is happening here and now, as faith communities feel free to proclaim whose faithfulness God blesses, and whose love God sanctifies, and what commitments can be consecrated, not based on promises to one another, but simply based on who we are.

Remember the one who told you who you are, and proclaimed that you are good? “I never knew him,” says the church.

And I have known those courtyard fires as well. I have known my own personal times, when the fire seemed so warm, and the threat seemed so overwhelming. I have also said, “I never knew him.”

So that is the context we bring to this other fire. Jesus is on shore and Peter sees him from a distance. Could that be Jesus, coming to him again? Could it be true that the invitation is still open, that my fears and betrayals and failures have not destroyed God?

And Jesus feeds Peter, food that will fill him up. Then Jesus looks him right in the eye, and asks, “Do you love me?” Three times he asks, giving every opportunity to repeal the three-time denial. And as if to confirm the call, Jesus assures Peter that the opportunity will indeed come again. Peter will eventually find himself by some courtyard fire and be asked again about his truth. And this time, Jesus says, Peter will remember. He will speak his truth, he will drink the cup, he will follow Jesus, even to the cross.

Then Jesus, as always, invites Peter to do just what Jesus has done. “Feed my sheep.” As Jesus went to the seashore and lit the fire and fed the hungry Peter, who no doubt wondered if he would ever again taste the goodness of God, so Peter now is invited to feed others.

And the invitation is there for us as well. We hungry people who have come back to Jesus after every failure, wondering if we can know resurrection too; we who have then tasted and known that God is good; we are also offered the call. “Feed my sheep.” “Follow me.” Because the invitation will come again, and again. The invitation to stand in the cold when the fires of the empire cannot offer us warmth, the invitation to state clearly who we are and what we are called to do, the invitation to the cross, and the invitation to resurrection, will come again. May we be people who live fully, who love extravagantly, and who are able to be completely ourselves. May we be people who trust resurrection.