READING:
John 20:19–end
 

Third Sunday Of Easter

“The Energy of the Fire”

Gathered around a fire

Have you ever sat around an outdoor fire? Perhaps a campfire, or the new fire kindled on Easter Sunday morning. Why were you there, and what was your experience?
You may not have gathered around that fire for warmth or to begin cooking. But you may have been  there with others to share in its stillness—that togetherness as darkness falls.
Whether on a beach at dusk, a campsite in the dark, or in a garden after sunset, something happens when we gather around flame.
The flames dance. The light flickers. Shadows deepen. We see people’s faces quite differently.
Words slow. Time bends. And something ancient in us reawakens.
Fire stirs memory. Fire stirs presence.
Fire holds us.
In this morning’s Gospel reading from John 21, the Risen Christ lights such a fire on a beach on the shores of Lake Galilee.
I wonder what pictures and images flashed across your minds as the familiar Gospel words were read?
Let’s try to imagine it… to imagine that we are really there.

Imagining the scene

We look out across the lake and see the disciples out in a fishing boat.
After everything that has happened to them over the past few weeks—the arrest of their mentor Jesus, the loaded trial, the overwhelming scene of Jesus dying on the cross, the tomb, the empty grave—they’ve gone back to what they know: fishing. It was in their DNA.

When our world turns upside down and little makes sense, sometimes there is comfort in doing what we know… that muscle memory that just allows us to function.
But fishing that night produces nothing. Failure now even as fishermen.
Their emptiness and confusion return.
It is not just that their nets are empty, but that their courage fails and their hopes collapse.

Then, at dawn, a figure stands on the shore. A voice calls across the water:
“Children, have you caught anything?”
They don’t yet recognise him.
But in desperation, they follow the stranger’s guidance and cast the net again. Suddenly their net overflows.

We often need the help of others when in grief and sorrow.
And in that moment of abundance, the penny drops. A spark of recognition is kindled. And bravely someone cries out:
“It is the Lord.”

Peter, impulsive and eager as ever, dives into the water and swims to shore.
And there, on the beach, Jesus is waiting.
Not with a scroll. Not with a sermon.
But with a warming fire. Burning coals. Fish cooking. Bread warming.

Breakfast. He, Christ, is with them and feeding their tired bodies.

Peter at the fire

And among the disciples who gather around that life-giving fire sits Peter.
Peter, who not long before had stood by another charcoal fire—outside the high priest’s house.
At that charcoal fire, Peter had denied knowing Jesus not once, but three times.
That fire in the courtyard was the place of failure and betrayal.
But this fire on the shores of Lake Galilee, with waves gently lapping, is the place of his  forgiveness.

Jesus doesn’t confront Peter with anger or shame.
He doesn’t say, “Why did you fail me?”
He simply asks him, three times: “Do you love me?”
From the courtyard charcoal fire of his three denials, Peter receives three invitations—three opportunities to explore his heart and to respond.
“Peter, do you love me?”

These are not questions to punish Peter—but to heal him.

The energy of Easter

This is the energy of Easter. This is the joy and hope of Easter.
Not the flash of a single moment, but the slow, glowing warmth of God’s love poured out again and again.
The fire of Christ’s love that burns not to destroy, but to restore—to bring hope, joy and light into our damaged world and lives.

Feed my sheep

And then comes the call from Christ to Peter:
“Feed my sheep.” “Feed my lambs.” “Tend my sheep.”
This is not a call for him to have status or control over others.
It is a call to walk closely with Christ.
A call to live among the people.
To know their names, their wounds, their stories.
To walk beside them. To smell like the sheep. Humbly being with others.

Pope Francis

This image of tending sheep on the margins and  with humility  was central to the ministry of Pope Francis, whom we remember with love and gratitude following his death.
Very early in his papacy, he said:
“This is what I ask of you: be shepherds with the smell of the sheep.”
Not leaders from above, but companions on the journey.
Not distant preachers, but those who sit at fires, share bread, wash feet.
Pope Francis reminded the Church again and again that the Gospel is not just to be taught, but embodied and lived.
Not thundered from a pulpit, but whispered in kitchens and hospitals and borderlands- amongst people on edges.
He knew that Easter’s energy must be lived out physically – in the body—in closeness, compassion, and courage.

On our beach and in our context

And so we return to the beach, to that fire, to that question asked of Peter:
“Do you love me?” A question he asks us now? “Do you love me?”
Jesus doesn’t ask for our CV.
He asks for our heart.
He doesn’t demand certainty. He invites relationship.
And if we dare to say, even falteringly, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you”—
then he speaks to us as he did to Peter:
“Feed my sheep.”
Not from a distance.
Not from a place of power.
But from beside the fire.
With the memory of forgiveness still warming our bones.
With the smell of the sheep on our clothes.
With the energy of Easter flickering in our hearts.

Christ is Risen

So may we go from this place not only believing that Christ is risen,
but burning with his presence—
a quiet, steady flame of love,
tending the sheep, kindling hope,
and keeping the fire alive.

Amen.