"Do You Love Me?"

Acts 9:1-6(7-20); Ps. 30; Rev. 5:11-14; John 21:1-19

Dr. George R. Sinclair
Pastor

April 18, 2010

             Over Easter I finished a woodworking project and whenever I work in my shop I listen to music, mostly radio, rock and roll.  Rock stations play the same songs over and over again. They have play lists which is fine if you like the songs they choose, but boring if you don’t.  One song, by a group I had never heard of—The Avett Brothers—got a lot of airplay last week—“I and Love and You.”  That was the song I heard over and over again. I really liked the melody—very soulful, a lament. And the lyrics—one line in particular: “Three words that became hard to say. I and Love and You.”

The song, I and Love and You, written by and performed by The Avett Brothers, tells the story of a man or a woman (it could be either) who leaves home.  I assume he’s leaving home. He could be leaving a wife or parents or children. The one leaving is not leaving for some great adventure or to seek fame and fortune. Rather, the one leaving is escaping something tragic. The lyrics suggest some kind of conflict or unhappiness:  “When at first I learned to speak,” the song goes, “I used all my words to fight. With him and her and you and me.”  Whatever has happened, the man or the woman, now grown, must leave. Staying is too painful, too complicated, too beyond repair.

Lives do get broken. Things get out of whack. They can’t be fixed.  So we escape. We leave—we “cut the ties and jump the tracks,” as The Avett Brothers sing, “never to return.” 

When you leave, where do you go?  Escape changes scenery, but where do you go?  Everybody must be some place.  When you leave, where do you go? Sometimes escape feels like our only option. We must run, we must flee—the Jews did that. They escaped slavery in Egypt. But where do you go? Where do you land? 

Ever want to run away?  Ever want to escape?  Life can get complicated.  You try, you try so hard, but you can’t quite get it together. You never quite fix whatever is broken. The hurt you’ve given, the hurt you’ve received, it just won’t go away. Three words become hard to say: “I and Love and You.” 

Where do you find those words?  How do you find those words? “I and Love and You.”   What more important words are there—“ I and Love and You?”  With those words, we can do anything.  With those words, nothing is beyond repair.  With those words, we can find home.  .  . “I and Love and You.”

“Simon, Son of John, do you love me more than these?”

Imagine how those words stung?  “Lord, I’ll die for you.” That had been Simon’s pledge.  Maybe Peter was just bragging. Maybe he was carried away.  You know, one of those moments. We all have them—moments when we feel like we can do anything:  “O, I can do that, no problem.  I’ll sign on for that. It will be fun. No problem.”  And then you bite. And your chewing grows bitter. It makes you sick.  “I can’t do this anymore.  If I do this one more day, I’m going to be sick. I’ll throw up. I can’t take it anymore.”

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

Simon was on trial. This is Simon’s second trial.  This first happened in the courtyard or outside a courthouse.  In his first trial, his accuser, according to Mark, was a little girl, a servant—“Weren’t you with the Galilean?  Come on, you were with Jesus weren’t you?” 

At the first trial, John numbers slaves and police among Peter’s other accusers. They were hanging out around a charcoal fire--Peter rubbing his hands, his arms wrapped around his shoulders in that way people do when they’re not just cold, but edgy. Edgy and cold—a terrible combination—“My hands they shake, my head it spins.” That’s how The Avett Brothers describe it, the edginess of dislocation: “My hands they shake, my head it spins.”

Peter had been so sure. How could he crack in front of a little girl?  Cops, maybe and even slaves—but a little girl? Peter hadn’t always been so weak. Once he was certain, so sure, so convinced, so positive: “Lord, I’ll lay down my life for you.”  I think Peter really meant those words.  I don’t think he was just bragging, trying to one-up the other disciples.  I think Peter was sincere. He really was.  People mean well, don’t they?  We have good intentions? We make high promises: “I’ll love you until the end of time, till death do us part.” 

“Peter, do you love me more than these?”

That had to sting.  And think about—it’s not like Peter and Jesus are having a private conversation.  Everybody’s there. And in this second trial, Peter is in front of his peers. John names names—Thomas, called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples John doesn’t name—they’re all there. They’re all witnesses. They had left Jerusalem together.  They had all escaped together.  Every single one left Jerusalem.  When you leave one place, you must go to another. Where do you go?  Everybody’s got to be some place. The disciples escaped to their nets.  They left Jerusalem and returned to Galilee. They escaped to their nets.

They’ve been out all night and haven’t caught a thing. Someone calls to them from the beach:  “Try the other side.”  The Beloved Disciple recognizes the stranger, “It’s the Lord.”

Peter jumps in. Peter jumps in the lake, but firsts he puts on his pants.  It’s meant to be funny—Peter getting dressed to jump in the lake.  But that’s Peter—ready to go. “I’m down for that. Sign me up. Send me in coach. I’m ready to play.”

Soon enough they’re all on the beach together, reunited with Jesus. And Jesus is feeding them breakfast—bread and fish.  The disciples aren’t real sure though about their host. They suspect it’s Jesus but they’re afraid to ask out loud.  The veil has been lifted but not completely—they see but see dimly. They are fully known but they do not fully know. 

“Simon do you love me more than these.”

That’s how the second trial begins. And we all know Peter’s accuser.  The little girl, the slave, and the cop, they’re all gone. They’re out of the picture.  Peter now faces Jesus, the Lord: “Simon do you love me?”  Peter’s pants are still wet—in that sticking-to-your-bottom kind of way—“Simon do you love me more than these?”

“Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

Notice Simon drops the comparison.  There’s no more more. Just “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” 

My beautiful wife of 36 years sometimes asks me if I love her. Truth be told, she asks that regularly. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

And I say, “Thirteen.” I always say “thirteen.”

 And she says, “What’s the scale?”

And I say, “Thirteen.” You can’t get any higher than “thirteen.”

“Simon son of John, do you love me?”

If I’m Simon, I’m beginning to think Jesus doesn’t believe me.  And I’m probably wondering how many times I must say, “I and Love and You?”  Is there a quota? What’s the standard in your house?  I hear people tell their spouse every time they hang up the phone, “I love you.” Every time they get off the phone. They can talk three times in ten minutes and each time—“I love you.” “Me too.”

“Simon son of John, do you love me?”

“Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”

“Simon son of John, do you love me?”

John explains, as if we needed the help: “Peter felt hurt because Jesus said to him a third time, ‘Do you love me?’”  Well, I guess. 

Clearly, Jesus the trial lawyer, judge and jury is making a point with his repeated query.  Some say he’s undoing Peter’s threefold denial. Some say this is Peter’s ordination.  You have to wonder who the questions are for.  Are they for Peter or for Jesus?  Is Jesus trying to find out something he truly doesn’t know?  Or, are the question for Peter’s sake, you know, the way you go over something with your child several dozen times.  You know the answer in advance but you want to make sure your child knows:

“You’re going to be home at 11, right?”

“ Right, dad.”

“You’re going to be here no later than 11?”

“ That’s right.”

“11?”

“I got it.”

Peter says as much—his final answer. “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.”

“Lord, you know everything.”

What’s Peter going to say?  I guess he could list all of the good things he had done for Jesus.  That happens in the gospel story. The disciples argue about greatness. And greatness is always about less and more. Greatness is about who’s done what lately—who’s washed more dishes. Who’s washed less. Who’s put up more laundry. Who’s done less. Who’s watched the kids. Who’s watched less.  How do you win a contest like that? 

“Lord, you know everything.”

Classical protestant theologians weigh in at this point with nuanced arguments about salvation by grace and how Peter was saved by grace rather than works. I think they’re right. In this moment, Peter learns he is saved by faith through grace.  For truly what the Lord knows is Peter’s heart.  “The Lord does not see as man sees.  God looks upon the heart.” 

“Lord, you know everything.” 

Peter discovers something in his second trial that he didn’t or couldn’t in the first.  In the first trial, Peter surely knows his betrayal, his failure, his guilt. But that is all he knows.  In the second trial, Peter learns a deeper truth. He receives a sentence beyond sin and guilt and failure. The discovery does not come at once. It is not without agony. And it is one Peter finally concedes only reluctantly:  “God sees straight through us. And what God sees, God loves. And God loves not because what he sees is good or sincere or convincing. God loves because God is God. 

“Lord, you know everything.”  It was Peter’s moment of truth, the judgment that saved him.  “I have no secrets.  God knows me.  God sees me inside out.  God sees me when no one else sees me. God knows I’m a mess. God knows I’m a bundle of contradictions.  Yes, Lord. You know I love you. You know everything.” 

Peter throws himself on God’s mercy. Mercy alone and nothing else. Three words that became hard to say, “I and Love and You,” take Peter home. Three words that become hard to say, “I and Love and You,” save Peter.

Peter: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.” 

Peter must go back.  “Feed my sheep.” Love doesn’t allow Peter to escape to no man’s land.  Love sends Peter back.  “When you were young, you went where you wanted. But when you’re old, someone is going to put a belt around you and take you where you don’t want to go.  You’re going to stretch out your arms and somebody’s going to take you where you don’t want to go.” 

Three words that become hard to say, “I and Love and You,” are not risk free. They are not pain free.  They do take us home. And they do set us free. But they are not risk free or pain free. Love never is. Amen.