John 21:1-23
Do You Love Me?
James Sledge April
14, 2013
“Do
you love me?” Has anyone ever asked you that question? They don’t come much
more freighted than this. If you hear this question from a spouse, partner,
lover, friend, child, or parent, what thoughts go through your mind as you
consider your answer? “Do you love me?” is rarely an innocent question. It is
more than a simple query for information.
The
question could be manipulative. I could arise from a place of hurt and doubt.
It could arise from hope that another will say, “Yes.” But regardless of its
origins, almost all such questions assume that love has a shape to it, that it
is lived out in some way. Sometimes this subtext is even spoken. “If you loved
me, you would…” or “If you loved me you would not…”
“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than
these?” There
is plenty of subtext to Jesus’ question. Peter had earlier spoken of his great
love, presumably greater than the other disciples, when he professed his
willingness to die for Jesus. But in the face of danger, he had folded, had
even denied knowing Jesus. Surely “Do you love me?” was a terrible question for
Simon Peter.
But
this passage is about more than Peter and his restoration. Jesus’ threefold
questioning does seem to undo Peter’s threefold denial. But on a larger level,
this passage is about the Church and its ministry, about how the Church will
live in the world now that Jesus has died and has been raised. In that sense,
Jesus’ question to Peter is a question to every follower. “James, Diane, Bill,
Mary, Sam, Dawn, do you love me?”
There
is a problem here, though. I’m afraid we hear Jesus’ question very differently
than Simon Peter does. For Simon, there is really no question that he does love
Jesus. Just look at his buffoonish behavior when he realizes who the man on the
beach is.
Faith
is such a serious, somber business, we often miss the humor of Peter unable to
wait for the boat to get to shore, plunging into the water. But not before he
takes a moment to make himself presentable by putting some clothes on. I’m sure
he looked most presentable, dragging himself out of the water, clothes dripping
wet.
We
rarely look so foolish as Peter. We don’t plunge headlong into the water. We
form committees. We study all options. Not
that Peter’s impulsiveness is always a good thing, but it comes from a
different place than much of our religious behavior. Simon is so enamored, so
in love with Jesus, that he acts in ways that are ridiculous, and so Jesus’
questions to him are less about whether he loves and more about what shape that
love needs to take.
But
Jesus isn’t so viscerally real and present to me as he was to Simon Peter. Very
often, Jesus is a collection of teachings, a way of living, a call to action,
but not someone I can fall in love with, not someone I would make a fool of
myself for. And so that question, “Do you love me?” doesn’t touch me as it does
Peter. Do I love you? Well I’m not exactly sure. I love your ideas. You’ve got
some great points. But love you? I don’t know.
Perhaps
that is why John’s gospel gives such an elaborate setup to Jesus’ conversation
with Peter. It insists that the risen Christ is still present to the Church, still
directing them and providing abundantly, even miraculously for them. Peter and
the other disciples continue to experience Jesus in ways that prompt the same
devotion and passion that Jesus elicited from them prior to the cross. For
Peter, that passion sometimes leads to the sort of foolishness typical of love.
And so Jesus must channel it. “Feed my lambs… Tend my sheep.”
But
if I have not experienced the presence of Jesus, not felt a devotion and
passion that leads me into occasional fits of foolishness, channeling passion
is not the issue.
On this point I must confess to a rather
typical liberal problem of being just a bit embarrassed by the Bible.
Resurrection, miraculous feedings and catches of fish, walking on water,
stilling storms, turning water into wine; did any of this actually happen? It’s
just metaphor that speaks of God’s presence, of Jesus’ connection to God,
right? After all, I am an educated, even intellectual Christian. I know better
than to take the Bible literally.
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When
I counsel couples I’m going to marry, I have them chart their families back a
few generations, and we use those charts to look for family patterns that get
transmitted from one generation to the next. This charting employs a variety of
symbols and types of lines. One of these lines is labeled “cutoff,
estrangement.” But the label adds, in parenthesis, “still a strong tie to this
person.”
Most
of us have seen this sort of thing. There are former spouses who can’t attend
their child’s wedding if their ex is there, too. There are estranged siblings
who cannot live in the same town. If one moved to town the other would have to
move out. They are estranged, yet they still exert tremendous control over one
another.
We
Presbyterians, especially liberal leaning Presbyterians, fancy ourselves the
smart and sophisticated siblings in our Christian family, and at times we’re
more than a little embarrassed by some of our simpler, less educated brothers
and sisters. But they still exert amazing influence over us. Very often, we
define ourselves in response to them. Some of our ways of being Christian are
largely knee-jerk reactions motivated by fear that we might be mistaken for our
less sophisticated siblings.
Did
the risen Jesus walk on the beach that morning, direct the disciples to a
miraculous catch of fish, and have fish and bread ready for them when Peter got
to shore? Did he calm storms and turn water into wine? And what is it that
leads us to say “Yes” or “No”?
I am struck by the fact that I find it
easier to believe in the Big Bang that gave birth to the universe than in many
of Jesus’ miracles. I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed or defensive about
taking at face value the idea that the entire universe once existed as a
singularity with infinite density and infinite temperature, even though the
mechanics of such an event are every bit as inconceivable to me as those of resurrection
or turning water into wine.
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“Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “James, son of
Ken, do you love me?” In John’s gospel, Simon hears this question and is deeply
wounded by it. But am I? Can I be?
If
I cannot, then Jesus’ command to care for his flock isn’t about divine love
that I have encountered and experienced that fills me with passion that Jesus
calls me to share. It’s just another metaphor about morality, goodness, and kindness.
All fine and admirable things, as the vast majority of atheists, agnostics,
spiritual but not religious, and faiths of every stripe and creed would agree,
but nothing requiring the presence of churches and worship services where we
offer our prayers, our adoration, and our praise.
But
if Jesus really is risen from the dead… If the Spirit indeed allows me to
encounter this risen Christ, to know him and be joined to him… If Jesus really
can direct and care for and provide… If I really can love him…
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