The Rev. Noah Van Niel
Christ and St. Luke’s
May 1st, 2022
Easter III: Acts 9:1-6; Psalm 30; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21:1-19
(You can view the full service here. The sermon begins at 23:30)
At my ordination to the priesthood, the preacher, Br. Geoffrey Tristram from the Society of St. John the Evangelist, a friend and mentor of mine, told a story about John Constable, one of England’s most famous painters. Constable was active in the 19th century and is known for painting gorgeous landscapes of the English countryside, particularly along the eastern coast in the county of Suffolk (which happens to border the county of Norfolk). Constable was a consummate artist but also a family man. He married late but he had seven children and adored them all, even becoming their primary caregiver after his wife died shortly after giving birth to their seventh.
The story went like this: Constable was hosting an exhibition of his paintings at his home. Although famous now, during his lifetime John Constable was not very financially successful. So, this exhibition was a big deal for him, potentially lucrative–a chance to enhance his legacy. Critics and patrons were in town to see what he had in store. And the focal point of this exhibition was a very large painting hidden behind a curtain. At the end of the night, the moment came for the big reveal. Constable came forward, and with the room hushed in expectation and excitement, drew back the curtain to uncover his masterpiece. There was an uncomfortable silence. Because right through the beautiful canvas, from the top to the bottom, was a huge, irreparable tear. After a while, people shuffled out, leaving Constable with his ruined masterpiece. Eventually, he went and found his eldest son, John Charles, just a boy at the time. He brought him in and stood him in front of the torn canvas. “John, did you do this?” “Yes,” he confessed. “Oh my dear, my dear… [and] What shall we do to mend it?” That’s what Constable said to his son. After this transgression, this ruination of his important exhibition, this destruction of his hard work, not words of wrath or fury or indignation. No inquisition into “Why did you?”, or “How could you?” But instead, “What shall we do to mend it, my dear?” Words of grace and mercy. Words of love and tenderness. Words of care and kindness. Words so stunning, that they were remembered and recounted in writing years later by a friend who witnessed the exchange. [1]
It’s been a while since I first heard this story, but I have never forgotten it. For Constable to have faced such disappointment, and embarrassment, and hurt, and yet to have responded so generously and gently left an indelible mark. And I thought of this story this week, as I sat with our Gospel passage, a passage that, in my opinion, is one of the most beautiful, most powerful in all of Scripture.
It starts on the shores of the sea of Galilee, back home, where it all began. The disciples, unsure what to do with themselves now, return to what they know: fishing. And as they labor in vain out on the water a stranger appears, calling out to them to try the other side. And suddenly their nets are full, and they recognize that it is the Lord. They rush into shore where he has prepared breakfast. And they sit and eat. Just like old times. And then, Jesus turns Simon Peter. Now, I’m sure that Peter was very excited that Jesus had come back. But I wonder if he wasn’t also, a little bit worried. Remember, the last time we saw Jesus and Peter together, Peter was denying even knowing Jesus. Three times! As his best friend was being led to the slaughter, he was spitting out words of betrayal. Can you imagine the shame he must have been carrying? The guilt? The disgust he must have felt at himself? Was he now going to have to answer for his words and deeds on that fateful Friday? When Jesus pulls him aside after their miraculous breakfast, Peter must have felt that pit of anxiety that knots up your stomach, making you sick. The kind of feeling you get when someone you love and admire but who you know you’ve let down, knocks on your door and says, “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” Shame. Fear. Guilt. How could he not have been carrying all of that with him? I can just see him, face flush, palms sweaty, anxious, afraid. “Here it comes,” I imagine Peter saying to himself, bracing for impact.
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Three times, Jesus asks. Three times Peter answers, “Yes, Lord, you know I love you.” By the third time Peter catches on to what Jesus is doing. Three queries to balance out the three denials. Three scrubs to wash away all the guilt, the shame, the self-loathing. Not words of wrath, fury, indignation, or judgment. No, “Why did you?” or “How could you?” But instead, words of grace and mercy. Words of love and tenderness. These are heavenly words. Because they reveal a level of love so deep and so strong it can weather even our most grievous mistakes.
No matter how many times I read this passage I am always surprised by how much it gets me. Like the story of John Constable and his son, something about the level of mercy and grace and beauty in those words brings me to tears. Maybe that’s because I know how I would have reacted if I were in Jesus’ sandals. When I have been wronged, disappointed, hurt by others, when my hard work has been destroyed or my hopes dashed what rises up is anger. Fury. I want to spit fire at the person and make them feel as bad as they made me feel. I want to explode! And yet here we have the opposite of that. Instead of anger and aggression, words of love and mercy that I would find hard to locate in my heart were I in his position.
But I suspect the biggest reason these stories are so powerful to me is because I know even more keenly how it feels to be Peter, or John Charles. Here are two people who have really messed up. With disastrous results. I’ve been there. I’ve lived with that pit of shame in my stomach. It’s an awful feeling. Done or said things I ought not to have done or said; disappointed people I care about. Been laden with guilt. And haven’t we all? Haven’t we all, at some point, hurt those we love? Failed our neighbor and our God? We have done things that deserved punishment. We have expected anger, retribution, fury—divine or otherwise. In those times, what voice did you expect to hear? A voice of judgment and retribution? A voice of anger and aggression? Probably. For that’s so often how we would find ourselves wanting to respond. But in those times of error or sin, what voice did you long to hear? What voice did you need to hear? “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Simon, Son of John, do you love me?” Over, and over again, as many times as it takes. That is the voice of Jesus. That is the divine voice. A voice that does not shun, or shame, or scold. A voice that seeks healing by offering mercy. That is the voice we long to hear when we know we have sinned. And when we do, it is a powerful thing. Powerful enough to change your life.
It certainly changed Peter’s life. This beautiful scene on sand heals the gaping wound that Peter must have carried. And it is only from that place of healing and wholeness that he is finally able to undertake that which he has been asked to do: “Tend my sheep. Feed my lambs.” And he will, courageously, until the end. The man who denied his friend to save himself, becomes brave enough to follow, even though he knows it will cost him his life. That is a changed man. A healed man.
I can’t say for sure if John Constable’s gracious and beautiful words of mercy changed his son’s life. But we do know that because of the way he responded in this critical moment, what could have been an irreparable tear in their relationship was not. Despite this destructive offense, John Charles and his father grew very close. He was the one there when his father died, rushing to his side to hear his final gasping breaths. And when his mourning was over and he returned to college, this boy become man who famously destroyed one of his father’s masterpieces filled his rooms with his dad’s paintings and sketches.[2] The painting was destroyed that day, but their relationship was not. They found a way to mend it after all.
It is stories like these that remind us of what it really means to live in love as Christ loved us, with a love that is deeper than our hurt, with mercy that is wider than our anger. Words of retribution and aggression, of judgment and punishment–these may feel like a powerful way to respond when we have been wronged, but they mend nothing, heal nothing. They keep people trapped in their shame and their guilt and their fear. And you cannot really follow Jesus from a place of shame or guilt. You cannot do what will be asked of you if your motivation is fear and self-loathing. People need to be free in order to follow Christ, and freedom comes from healing and wholeness. Jesusshows us what is possible when we find it in ourselves to choose love, even when it is the last thing we want to do. If we can follow him with a love that deep, and that strong, it’s possible to change a life, or at the very least, to mend one. Amen.
[1] Bailey, Anthony. John Constable: A Kingdom of his Own (Vintage Books, London, 2007. P. 201
[2] https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/flatford/features/john-constables-sons