Do You Love Me?

Peter went back to the boat.

He had seen the empty tomb. He had seen Jesus alive, twice, in a locked room. And then, back home in Galilee by the lake where he'd worked most of his life, he said the most ordinary sentence in the whole story.

I am going fishing.

Six of the others went with him. They knew this work. They'd done it before any of the rest had happened. They fished all night, and they caught nothing.

At first light a man stood on the shore and called out across the water to a boatload of grown fishermen.

Children, do you have any fish?

No, they answered.

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That's the whole report of the night. One word.

The man on the shore told them to throw the net on the right side of the boat. They did, and they couldn't haul it back in for the weight of the fish. One of them said, It is the Lord! and Peter grabbed his outer garment and went over the side into the water, making for a shore about a hundred yards off, leaving the others to bring in the boat and the catch.

When they came up onto the beach, there was already a fire going. They saw a charcoal fire there with fish on it, and some bread.

Breakfast was already cooking. He had fish of his own on the coals.

And then he said this. Bring some of the fish you have just caught.

He didn't need their fish. He had fish. He had bread. He had, a few minutes earlier, filled their empty net from the shore. And he asked them to bring what they'd caught anyway, and put it with his, and he said Come, have breakfast, and he served it to them with his own hands.

Anyone who knew Peter's story would have heard an echo. Luke tells of another morning, years before, at the start of everything, when Peter had worked all night and caught nothing, and a teacher sitting in his boat told him to put out into deep water and let down the nets. Master, Peter said then, we have worked hard all night without catching anything. He let them down anyway, and the nets began to tear, and that was the day he left the boat behind and followed.

Now he'd gone back to the boat, and the night had gone the same way, and the morning went the same way too. Except this time the net held.

Peter was the one who went back and dragged the net ashore. The account counts the fish. A hundred fifty-three, all large, and the net didn't tear. Somebody sat on that beach and counted them, the way fishermen do.

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The fire is worth a second look. John's word for it, a charcoal fire, shows up in only two places in the whole New Testament. Here, and in the courtyard of the high priest, on the night Peter stood warming himself among the servants and was asked, three times, whether he was one of this man's disciples. Three times he denied it. I am not, he said.

Now he was standing at a charcoal fire again, with the smell of it in the air, and after they had eaten, Jesus asked him a question.

Simon son of John, do you love Me more than these?

Not Peter. Simon son of John, the name he'd had before anyone ever called him the rock, the name from the day his brother first brought him over to meet this man.

More than these could mean more than the other disciples love me. It could mean more than the boat and the nets and the fish lying on the beach, the life he'd just gone back to. The text doesn't settle it, and either way it lands.

Yes, Lord, he said. You know I love You.

Feed My lambs.

He asked again. Same answer. Shepherd My sheep. He asked a third time, and John says plainly that it hurt. Peter was deeply hurt that Jesus had asked him a third time. Three times by one fire he'd said he wasn't one of his. Three times by this one he was asked whether he loved him. Nobody had to say the number out loud. Peter could count.

Lord, You know all things, he said. You know I love You.

Feed My sheep.

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Then Jesus told him something nobody wants to hear about the end of their own life.

Truly, truly, I tell you, when you were young, you dressed yourself and walked where you wanted; but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.

John adds that this pointed to the kind of death Peter would die. But the first part of the sentence is something anyone past sixty can read without help. There was a time you dressed yourself and went where you liked. There will be a time someone else does the buttons.

And notice where it falls. He told Peter this right after handing him the sheep, and he didn't take the sheep back. The work wasn't for the young Peter only. It came with the old Peter already in view.

Then two words. Follow Me.

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The story keeps going one more step, and it's a very human one.

Peter turned around and saw the disciple Jesus loved walking behind them, the one who wrote this account down, and he asked, Lord, what about him? He had just been told how his own life would end, and the first thing he wanted to know was how somebody else's would.

If I want him to remain until I return, what is that to you? You follow Me!

A rumor got started from that, that this disciple wouldn't die. He takes the trouble to correct it himself, at the very end of the book. That isn't what he said. He only said, what is that to you.

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The last of these questions is not about what anyone accomplished. He didn't ask Peter what he'd built or how many he'd brought in or what he could still do with his hands. He asked whether he loved him. And every yes came back with people to feed, even after he'd been told what old age would take.

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Where this meets your week

The fish nobody needed. When a role is gone, one of the hardest sentences to hear is some version of "we've got it covered." The successor runs the place fine. The kids handle their own taxes. Nobody calls to ask how it's done. Jesus had fish on the fire and asked for theirs anyway, and put them together.

The next time somebody asks you to bring something small, a dish, an opinion, a story about how it used to work, don't answer "you don't need me for that." Bring it, and bring it without strings. If a grown child asks what you think of the new car, say what you think in two sentences and then say, "It's your call, and I'm glad you asked." If the person who runs the place now calls about an old customer, answer the question they asked and nothing more. Being asked is the fish. Don't spoil it by bringing the whole boat.

Someone else will dress you. Bodies stop doing what they did. The knees, the eyes, the driving at night. For people who were always the capable one, being helped can feel like being finished. Peter was told plainly, by the one who loved him, that a day was coming when someone else would lead him, and in the same breath he was told to follow.

Let one person help you with one thing this week, and don't apologize for it. Pick it ahead of time so you can't talk yourself out of it: the gutters, the drive to the airport, the jar you can't open. When they help, say "thank you" and stop there. Leave off "I'm sorry to be a bother" and "I used to do this myself." If it goes well, notice that the person helping seemed glad to. Most people are.

What about him? There's always someone to look at. The friend who's still working. The brother whose health held. The couple who travel. Peter looked over his shoulder the moment he'd heard his own future, and the answer was short.

When you catch yourself measuring your days against somebody else's this week, stop and say what he said to Peter, under your breath if you need to: "What is that to you?" Then write down one thing that's yours to do this week. Only yours. Leave the other person off the page. If you catch yourself three times in one day, that's not failure. It's three chances to turn back around.

Asked three times. Some people carry one failure that replays. The meeting where they said nothing. The year they weren't there. The thing they said to a parent who died before it got fixed. The question on the beach came by a fire built of the same charcoal, and it came three times, and it hurt. But the questioner wasn't digging for a confession. He was asking for a yes, and he handed over work with each one.

If there's a failure you've been replaying, say the yes you still mean this week, out loud, to the person or to God. Then do one piece of work that goes with it. If you weren't there for a brother, call his kids. If it was a parent who's gone, do one thing they cared about: plant what they planted, visit who they visited, give where they gave.

Doing it with someone else. A couple, two old friends, or a small group can take this one together, and it works best around food, the way it did on the beach. Cook breakfast for each other. Afterward, each person answers the same two questions: "Who could I feed this month?" and "What could I hand on while I can still watch?" Write the answers on one sheet of paper with everyone's name and a date. Meet again in a month, over breakfast again, and read the sheet out loud. Nobody grades anybody.

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Feed one person this week.

Not a crowd. One. Pick the person tonight, and the day. Cook for them, or take them to breakfast, or bring them something you made. Do it for someone who doesn't strictly need it: the widower down the street, the young couple with the new baby, the friend who always picks up the check. Plan on about an hour. Sit down and eat with them if you can.

Then hand one thing on while you can still watch it being used. A tool, a recipe, a skill, the way you always did the books. Choose one this week and set a date within the month. Show somebody how, once, start to finish. Then let them do it while you're standing there, and keep your hands in your pockets.

If they do it differently than you would, let them. If the meal goes badly, the bread burns or the visit is awkward, that's fine. It still counts as fed. If they don't want the skill, offer it to somebody else. What matters is that it leaves your hands while you can still see where it goes.

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The last fire Peter stood beside, he was warming his hands among strangers and saying he was not one of his.

At this one, somebody had cooked for him. He was asked three times, and three times he said yes.