"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
-T. S. Eliot, “Little Giddings” from Four Quartets
Have you ever experienced déjà-vu?
You know what I mean, the experience of thinking that a situation that you find yourself in has occurred before? It is that moment when familiarity and uncertainty collide. Where you are is a place that feels both old and new at the same time. At first glance, that is what some of the disciples are going through at the start of the 21st chapter of John.
When six of the disciples decide to join Peter on a spontaneous fishing trip, their intent seems to be passing the time. Jesus told them to wait for him in Galilee. They’ve had two encounters with the risen Christ already. Who knows if there will be a third or a fourth visit? Jesus assured them that there was more to come but when would it arrive? When would Jesus appear again? What was next for them?
Time passes faster and waiting gets easier when you go back to something familiar. Together they went back to the life they had left and a trade that they had spent most of their lives learning and mastering—fishing. They returned to their past, to a time before Jesus called them to follow him. Where they ended up was not where they expected but was nonetheless a place with which they were very familiar.
Technically the definition of déjà-vu is “the illusion of having already experienced something actually being experienced for the first time.” For the disciples, what happened that morning by the shore of Galilee was no illusion. And as night gave way to dawn, it was not the first time they experienced such an encounter together.
Night fishing. Empty net. Been there, done that. A voice from the shore tells you to recast just one more time. At the sun breaks through the horizon, you make the catch of the day—the kind of haul that threatens to sink your boat and burst your nets. We’ve heard that one before.
As you labor to bring the weight of your bounty to the beach, you believe that you are the founder of the morning’s feast. But the sight of a charcoal fire and the smell of broiled fish knock you to your senses. Loaves and fish. This reminds us of something. And then that same voice from the shore calls out “Bring what you have but breakfast has already been prepared!” All of this--it feels like the first time but it’s different even as it is familiar.
Encountering the dead man walking is like that. You’ve seen Jesus before, you recognize him, but all the same you want to ask, “Who are you?” You get so fixated on how different he is that you miss what is really going on—Jesus hasn’t changed, Jesus is changing you.
Resurrection life is like that. We become so engaged in the day-to-day rhythm of our lives that we barely notice what happens in the brief transition from night to dawn—when the death gives way to life, when the extraordinary breaking through the ordinary. Living a post-Easter existence means being reoriented by the presence of the risen Christ. It is having our senses heightened to the ripples of grace that are cascading into the smaller moments of our existence. It is realizing that our nets are empty until God fills them, that what we bring before Jesus isn’t something he is lacking but something that he’s already provided. It is answering the invitation to join a meal that has already been prepared and a table that has already been set.
I love the phrasing, "ripples of grace cascading into the smaller moments of our existence." Who wouldn't want to have their daily senses heightened to this? Thanks, Chris!
Posted by: Larry | May 02, 2009 at 12:28 PM