Do You Love Me? Lessons from the third Sunday in Easter

Back to Fishing

The night breeze, scented with the smell of fishing and fishermen, drifts across the Sea of Galilee. The moon, a pale and silent, hovers above a quiet shore. And out on the water, a boat rocks gently, carrying men who are waiting for something they cannot name.

They have gone back to what they knew. Back to the nets, the lake, the old rhythm of cast and haul and hope. But the nets come up empty, again and again. And isn’t that always the way of tender grief, to pull us back, to attempt to relive the familiar?

These are not just fishermen. These are men who have seen the world undone and remade in the space of a few weeks. They have run from death and witnessed resurrection. And still, they do not know what to do with themselves.

So they do what they know – they fish.

The Gospel Story: A Fire on the Shore – John 21:1-19

In the morning haze, a man stands on the beach. “Children,” he calls, a strange tenderness in his address, “have you any fish?”

They do not know it is him.

“Cast your net on the right side,” he says. And the net groans with life, water churning with silver.

Suddenly, the Beloved Disciple whispers, “It is the Lord.” And Peter, impulsive as always, throws himself into the water. The others come in the boat, dragging the full net.

On the shore: a fire already burns, fish laid out to grill, bread warming. No rebuke. No lecture, just breakfast with their friend.

And then, after they have eaten, Jesus turns to Peter.

Not, “Why did you deny me?”

Not, “Are you sorry?”

But, “Do you love me?”

Three times, echoing Peter’s three-fold denial. A question not to humiliate, but to heal.

“Do you love me?”

Not “Did you love me?” Not “Will you love me?” Not past nor future, but now. From the ashes of failure. In the sunrise of this morning, and the hunger in your soul.

“Feed my sheep,” he says.

This is how resurrection moves: not by erasing the past, but by restoring the present.

The Echo of Morning – Psalm 30

The psalmist sings: 
“Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

This is the rhythm of resurrection. Not a triumphant bypass of sorrow, but a slow emergence of first light on dark waters. Or bread warming beside a fire.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing,” the psalmist says, “you have clothed me with joy.”

But not before the dark valley. Not before the silence.

And now, here on the shore, Peter learns what the psalmist knew: 

God does not despise the broken-hearted. God cooks breakfast for them.

The Shattering Light – Acts 9:1-20

Years later, on the road to Damascus, another man walks in certainty. Saul is righteous, resolute, and convinced. He carries letters of authority, a fire of zeal.

And then: light. Brighter than sun. Sharper than guilt. Blinding and beckoning.

“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”

Not “my people.” Not “my church.” 
 But me.

Because to wound the body is to wound Christ.

And when Saul opens his eyes, he sees nothing.

Blind, he must be led by the hand. Dependent. Humbled. Transformed.

Ananias, fearful but faithful, lays hands on him. And scales fall. Sight returns. But nothing is the same.

This is how resurrection works: 
It blinds and then reveals. 
It names the harm and offers healing. 
It knocks us down, only to raise us in a new light.

The Roar of Praise – Revelation 5:11-14

And in some timeless heavenly moment, the chorus erupts.

“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain!” 
Thousands upon thousands, every creature in heaven and earth, cry out in praise.

Not for power seized, but for love poured out. 
Not for vengeance, but for the mercy that rises like bread from a shore-side fire.

This is not triumph in the world’s terms.

It is a throne made of scars.

It is worship that honors the wound.

And it is the Lamb, who was slain and lives again, standing at the center.

Drawing the Threads

In this third week of Easter, we are invited into the mystery of resurrected love.

Not the pristine, polished love of certainty. But the gritty, scarred, open-handed love that meets us on the shore, in the ashes, on the road, in the wake of failure.

Peter, the denier, becomes the feeder of sheep.

Saul, the persecutor, becomes the preacher of Good News.

And we—whatever we carry, wherever we’ve been—are asked the same question:

Do you love me?

It is not a test. It is an invitation.

And if our answer is yes, however trembling, or late, we are sent to love others in turn.

Resurrection is not a one-and-done event. It is a way of seeing. A way of being. A rhythm of grace that pulses through every act of love, every turning of sorrow to song.

We are not asked to be perfect. We are asked to say yes.

Closing Prayer

Risen Christ, 
You meet us on the shore 
while our hands still smell of failure, 
while the nets are still wet with regret.

You do not scold. 
You cook. 
You feed. 
You ask, Do you love me?

And in the asking, you heal us.

Teach us to see resurrection not as a past event, 
but as a present invitation.

Give us courage to say yes. 
To feed your sheep. 
To walk into the light, even if it blinds us at first. 
To sing with all creation: 
Worthy is the Lamb.

Amen.