'When the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore; but the
disciples knew not that it was Jesus.'--JOHN xxi. 4.
The incident recorded in this appendix to John's Gospel is separated
from the other appearances of our risen Lord in respect of place, time,
and purpose. They all occurred in and about Jerusalem; this took place
in Galilee. The bulk of them happened on the day of the Resurrection,
one of them a week after. This, of course, to allow time for the
journey, must have been at a considerably later date. Their object was,
mainly, to establish the reality of the Resurrection, the identity of
Christ's physical body, and to confirm the faith of the disciples
therein. Here, these purposes retreat into the background; the object
of this incident is to reveal the permanent relations between the risen
Lord and His struggling Church.
The narrative is rich in details which might profitably occupy us, but
the whole may be gathered up in two general points of view in
considering the revelation which we have here in the participation of
Christ in His servants' work, and also the revelation which we have in
the preparation by Christ of a meal for His toiling servants. We take
this whole narrative thus regarded as our subject on this Easter
morning.
I. First we have here a revelation of the permanent relation of Jesus
Christ to His Church and to the individuals who compose it, in this,
that the risen Lord on the shore shares in the toil of His servants on
the restless sea.
The little group of whom we read in this narrative reminds us of the
other group of the first disciples in the first chapter of this Gospel.
Four out of the five persons named in our text appear there: Simon
Peter, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, and the sons of Zebedee, James and
John. And a very natural inference is that the 'two others' unnamed
here are the two others of that chapter, viz. Andrew and Philip. If so,
we have at the end, the original little group gathered together again;
with the addition of the doubting Thomas.
Be that as it may, there they are on the shore of the sea, and Peter
characteristically takes the lead and suggests a course that they all
accept: 'I go a fishing.' 'We also go with thee.'
Now we must not read that as if it meant: 'It is all over! Our hopes
are vain! We dreamed that we were going to be princes in the Messiah's
Kingdom, we have woke up to find that we are only fishermen. Let us go
back to our nets and our boats!' No! all these men had seen the risen
Lord, and had received from His breath the gift of the Holy Spirit.
They had all gone from Jerusalem to Galilee, in obedience to His
command, and were now waiting for His promised appearance. Very noble
and beautiful is the calm patience with which they fill the time of
expectation with doing common and long-abandoned tasks. They go back to
the nets and the boats long since forsaken at the Master's bidding.
That is not like fanatics. That is not like people who would be liable
to the excesses of excitement that would lead to the 'hallucination,'
which is the modern explanation of the resurrection faith, on the part
of the disciples.
And it is a precious lesson for us, dear brethren! that whatever may be
our memories, and whatever may be our hopes, the very wisest thing we
can do is to stick to the common drudgery, and even to go back to
abandoned tasks. It stills the pulses. 'Study to be quiet; and to do
our own business' is the best remedy for all excitement, whether it be
of sorrow or of hope. And not seldom to us, if we will learn and
practise that lesson, as to these poor men in the tossing fisherman's
boat, the accustomed and daily duties will be the channel through which
the presence of the Master will be manifested to us.
So they go, and there follow the incidents which I need not repeat,
because we all know them well enough. Only I wish to mark the distinct
allusion throughout the whole narrative to the earlier story of the
first miraculous draught of fishes which was connected with their call
to the Apostleship, and was there by Christ declared to have a
symbolical meaning. The correspondences and the contrasts are obvious.
The scene is the same; the same green mountains look down upon the same
blue waters. It was the same people that were concerned. They were,
probably enough, in the same fishing-boat. In both there had been a
night of fruitless toil; in both there was the command to let down the
net once more; in both obedience was followed by instantaneous and
large success.
So much for the likenesses; the contrasts are these. In the one case
the Master is in the boat with them, in the other He is on the shore;
in the one the net is breaking; in the other, 'though there were so
many, yet did it not break.' In the one Peter, smitten by a sense of
his own sinfulness, says, 'Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O
Lord!' In the other, Peter, with a deeper knowledge of his own
sinfulness, but also with the sweet knowledge of forgiveness, casts
himself into the sea, and flounders through the shallows to reach the
Lord. The one is followed by the call to higher duty and to the
abandonment of possessions; the other is followed by rest and the
mysterious meal on the shore.
That is to say, whilst both of the stories point the lesson of service
to the Master, the one of them exhibits the principles of service to
Him whilst He was still with them, and the other exhibits the
principles of service to Him when He is removed from struggling and
toiling on the billows to the calm of the peaceful shore in the morning
light.
So we may take that night of toil as full of meaning. Think of them as
the darkness fell, and the solemn bulk of the girdling hills lay
blacker upon the waters, and the Syrian sky was mirrored with all its
stars sparkling in the still lake. All the night long cast after cast
was made, and time after time the net was drawn in and nothing in it
but tangle and mud. And when the first streak of the morning breaks
pale over the Eastern hills they are still so absorbed in their tasks
that they do not recognise the voice that hails them from the nearer
shore: 'Lads, have ye any meat?' And they answer it with a half surly
and wholly disappointed monosyllabic 'No!' It is an emblem for us all;
weary and wet, tugging at the oar in the dark, and often seeming to
fail. What then? If the last cast has brought nothing, try another. Out
with the nets once more! Never mind the darkness, and the cold, and the
wetting spray, and the weariness. You cannot expect to be as
comfortable in a fishing-boat as in your drawing-room. You cannot
expect that your nets will be always full. Failure and disappointment
mingle in the most successful lives. Christian work has often to be
done with no results at all apparent to the doer, but be sure of this,
that they who learn and practise the homely, wholesome virtue of
persistent adherence to the task that God sets them, will catch some
gleams of a Presence most real and most blessed, and before they die
will know that 'their labour has not been in vain in the Lord.' 'They
that sow in tears shall reap in joy.'
And so, finally, about this first part of my subject, there stands out
before us here the blessed picture of the Lord Himself, the Risen Lord,
with the halo of death and resurrection round about Him; there, on the
firm beach, in the increasing light of the morning, interested in,
caring about, directing and crowning with His own blessing, the
obedient work of His servants.
The simple prose fact of the story, in its plain meaning, is more
precious than any 'spiritualising' of it. Take the fact. Jesus Christ,
fresh from the grave, who had been down into those dark regions of
mystery where the dead sleep and wait, and had come back into this
world, and was on the eve of ascending to the Father--this Christ, the
possessor of such experience, takes an interest in seven poor men's
fishing, and cares to know whether their ragged old net is full or is
empty. There never was a more sublime and wonderful binding together of
the loftiest and the lowliest than in that question in the mouth of the
Risen Lord. If men had been going to dream about what would be fitting
language for a risen Saviour, if we had to do here with a legend, and
not with a piece of plain, prosaic fact, do you think that the
imagination would ever have entered the mind of the legend-maker to put
such a question as that into such lips at such a time? 'Lads, have ye
any meat?'
It teaches us that anything that interests us is not without interest
to Christ. Anything that is big enough to occupy our thoughts and our
efforts is large enough to be taken into His. All our ignoble toils,
and all our petty anxieties, touch a chord that vibrates in that deep
and tender heart. Though other sympathy may be unable to come down to
the minutenesses of our little lives, and to wind itself into the
narrow room in which our histories are prisoned, Christ's sympathy can
steal into the narrowest cranny. The risen Lord is interested in our
poor fishing and our disappointments.
And not only that, here is a promise for us, a prophecy for us, of
certain guidance and direction, if only we will come to Him and
acknowledge our dependence upon Him. The question that was put to them,
'Lads, have ye any meat?' was meant to evoke the answer, 'No!' The
consciousness of my failure is the pre-requisite to my appeal to Him to
prosper my work. And just as before He would, on the other margin of
that same shore, multiply the loaves and the fishes, He put to them the
question, 'How many have ye?' that they might know clearly the
inadequacy of their own resources for the hungry crowd, so here, in
order to prepare their hearts for the reception of His guidance and His
blessing, He provides that they be brought to catalogue and confess
their failures. So He does with us all, beats the self-confidence out
of us, blessed be His name! and makes us know ourselves to be empty in
order that He may pour Himself into us, and flood us with the joy of
His presence.
Then comes the guidance given. We may be sure that it is given to us
all to-day, if we wait upon Him and ask Him. 'Cast the net on the right
side of the ship, and ye shall find.' His command is followed by swift,
unanswering, unquestioning obedience, which in its turn is immediately
succeeded by the large blessing which the Master then gave on the
instant, which He gives still, though often, in equal love and
unquestioned wisdom, it comes long after faith has discerned His
presence and obedience has bowed to His command.
It may be that we shall not see the results of our toil till the
morning dawns and the great net is drawn to land by angel hands. But we
may be sure that while we are toiling on the tossing sea, He watches
from the shore, is interested in all our weary efforts, will guide us
if we own to Him our weakness, and will give us to see at last issues
greater than we had dared to hope from our poor service. The dying
martyr looked up and saw Him 'standing at the right hand of God,' in
the attitude of interested watchfulness and ready help. This Easter
morning bids us lift our eyes to a risen Lord who 'has not left us to
serve alone,' nor gone up on high, like some careless general to a safe
height, while his forsaken soldiers have to stand the shock of onset
without him. From this height He bends down and 'covers our heads in
the day of battle.' 'He was received up,' says the Evangelist, 'and sat
on the right hand of God, and they went forth and preached everywhere.'
Strange contrast between His throned rest and their wandering toils for
Him! But the contrast gives place to a deeper identity of work and
condition, as the Gospel goes on to say, 'The Lord also _working with
them_ and confirming the word with signs following.'
Though we be on the tossing sea and He on the quiet shore, between us
there is a true union and communion, His heart is with us, if our
hearts be with Him, and from Him will pass over all strength, grace,
and blessing to us, if only we know His presence, and owning our
weakness, obey His command and expect His blessing.
II. Look at the other half of this incident before us. I pass over the
episode of the recognition of Jesus by John, and of Peter struggling to
His feet, interesting as it is, in order to fix upon the central
thought of the second part of the narrative, viz. the risen Lord on the
shore, in the increasing light of the morning, 'preparing a table' for
His toiling servants. That 'fire of coals' and the simple refreshment
that was being dressed upon it had been prepared there by Christ's own
hand. We are not told that there was anything miraculous about it. He
had gathered the charcoal; He had procured the fish; He had dressed it
and prepared it. They are bidden to 'bring of the fish they had
caught'; He accepts their service, and adds the result of their toil,
as it would seem, to the provision which His own hand has prepared. He
summons them to a meal, not the midday repast, for it was still early
morning. They seat themselves, smitten by a great awe. The meal goes on
in silence. No word is spoken on either side. Their hearts know Him. He
waits on them, making Himself their Servant as well as their Host. He
'taketh bread and giveth them and fish likewise,' as He had done in the
miracles by the same shore and on that sad night in the upper room that
seemed so far away now, and in the roadside inn at Emmaus, when
something in His manner or action disclosed Him to the wondering two at
the table.
Now what does all that teach us? Two things; and first--neglecting for
a moment the difference between shore and sea--here we have the fact of
Christ's providing, even by doing menial offices, for His servants.
These seven men were wet and weary, cold and hungry. The first thing
they wanted when they came out of the fishing-boat was their breakfast.
If they had been at home, their wives and children would have got it
ready for them. Jesus had a great deal to say to them that day, a great
deal to teach them, much to do for them, and for the whole world, by
the words that followed; but the first thing that He thinks about is to
feed them. And so, cherishing no overstrained contempt for material
necessities and temporal mercies, let us remember that it is His hand
that feeds us still, and let us be glad to think that this Christ,
risen from the dead and with His heart full of the large blessings that
He was going to bestow, yet paused to consider: 'They are coming on
shore after a night's hard toil, they will be faint and weary; let Me
feed their bodies before I begin to deal with their hearts and spirits.'
And He will take care of you, brother! and of us all. The 'bread will
be given' us, at any rate, and 'the water made sure.' It was a modest
meal that He with His infinite resources thought enough for toiling
fishermen. 'One fish,' as the original shows us, 'one loaf of bread.'
No more! He could as easily have spread a sumptuous table for them.
There is no covenant for superfluities, necessaries will be given. Let
us bring down our wishes to His gifts and promises, and recognise the
fact that 'he who needs least is the nearest the gods,' and he that
needs least is surest of getting from Christ what he needs.
But then, besides that, the supply of all other deeper and loftier
necessities is here guaranteed. The symbolism of our text divides,
necessarily, the two things which in fact are not divided. It is not
all toiling on the restless sea here, any more than it is all rest and
fruition yonder; but all that your spirit needs, for wisdom, patience,
heroism, righteousness, growth, Christ will give you _in_ your work;
and that is better than giving it to you after your work, and the very
work which is blessed by Him, and furthered and prospered by Him, the
very work itself will come to be moat and nourishment. 'Out of the
eater will come forth meat,' and the slain 'lions' of past struggles
and sorrows, the next time we come to them, will be 'full of honey.'
Finally, there is a great symbolical prophecy here if we emphasise the
distinction between the night and the morning, between the shore and
the sea. We can scarcely fail to catch this meaning in the incident
which sets forth the old blessed assurance that the risen Lord is
preparing a feast on the shore while His servants are toiling on the
darkling sea.
All the details, such as the solid shore in contrast with the changeful
sea, the increasing morning in contrast with the toilsome night, the
feast prepared, have been from of old consecrated to shadow forth the
differences between earth and heaven. It would be blindness not to see
here a prophecy of the glad hour when Christ shall welcome to their
stable home, amid the brightness of unsetting day, the souls that have
served Him amidst the fluctuations and storms of life, and seen Him in
its darkness, and shall satisfy all their desires with the 'bread of
heaven.'
Our poor work which He deigns to accept forms part of the feast which
is spread at the end of our toil, when 'there shall be no more sea.' He
adds the results of our toil to the feast which He has prepared. The
consequences of what we have done here on earth make no small part of
the blessedness of heaven.
'Their works and alms and all their good endeavour
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod.'
The souls which a Paul or a John has won for the Master, in their
vocation as 'fishers of men,' are their 'hope and joy and crown of
rejoicing, in the presence of our Lord Jesus.' The great benediction
which the Spirit bade the Apocalyptic seer write over 'the dead which
die in the Lord,' is anticipated in both its parts by this mysterious
meal on the beach. 'They rest from their labours' inasmuch as they find
the food prepared for them, and sit down to partake; 'Their works do
follow them' inasmuch as they 'bring of the fish which they have
caught.'
Finally, Christ Himself waits on them, therein fulfilling in symbol
what He has told us in great words that dimly shadow wonders
unintelligible until experienced: 'Verily I say unto you, He shall gird
Himself, and make them to sit down to meat, and will come forth, and
serve them.'
So here is a vision to cheer us all. Life must be full of toil and of
failure. We are on the midnight sea, and have to tug, weary and wet, at
a heavy oar, and to haul an often empty net. But we do not labour
alone. He comes to us across the storm, and is with us in the night, a
most real, because unseen Presence. If we accept the guidance of His
directing word, His indwelling Spirit, and His all-sufficient example,
and seek to ascertain His will in outward Providences, we shall not be
left to waste our strength in blunders, nor shall our labour be in
vain. In the morning light we shall see Him standing serene on the
steadfast shore. The 'Pilot of the Galilean lake' will guide our frail
boat through the wild surf that marks the breaking of the sea of life
on the shore of eternity; and when the sun rises over the Eastern hills
we shall land on the solid beach, bringing our 'few small fishes' with
us, which He will accept. And there we shall rest, nor need to ask who
He is that serves us, for we shall know that 'It is the Lord!'
'IT IS THE LORD!'
'Therefore that disciple whom Jesus loved saith unto Peter, It is the
Lord.--JOHN xxi. 7.
It seems a very strange thing that these disciples had not, at an
earlier period of this incident, discovered the presence of Christ,
inasmuch as the whole was so manifestly a repetition of that former
event by which the commencement of their ministry had been signalised,
when He called them to become 'fishers of men.' We are apt to suppose
that when once again they embarked on the lake, and went back to their
old trade, it must have been with many a thought of Him busy at their
hearts. Yonder--perhaps we fancy them thinking--is the very point where
we saw Him coming out of the shadows of the mountains, that night when
He walked on the water; yonder is the little patch of grass where He
made them all sit down whilst we bore the bread to them: there is the
very spot where we were mending our nets when He came up to us and
called us to Himself; and now it is all over. We have loved and lost
Him; He has been with us, and has left us. 'We trusted that it had been
He who should have redeemed Israel,' and the Cross has ended it all!
So, we are apt to think, they must have spoken; but there does not seem
to have been about them any such sentimental remembrance. John takes
pains in this narrative, I think, to show them to us as plain, rough
men, busy about their night's work, and thinking a great deal more of
their want of success in fishing, than about the old associations which
we are apt to put into their minds. Then through the darkness He comes,
as they had seen Him come once before, when they know Him not; and He
speaks to them as He had spoken before, and they do not detect His
voice yet; and He repeats the old miracle, and their eyes are all
holden, excepting the eyes of him who loved, and _he_ first says, 'It
is the Lord!' Now, besides all the other features of this incident by
which it becomes the revelation of the Lord's presence with His Church,
and the exhibition of the work of the Church during all the course of
the world's history, it contains valuable lessons on other points, such
as these which I shall try to bring before you.
Now and always, as in that morning twilight on the Galilean lake,
Christ comes to men. Everywhere He is present, everywhere revealing
Himself. Now, as then, our eyes are 'holden' by our own fault, so that
we recognise not the merciful Presence which is all around us. Now, as
then, it is they who are nearest to Christ by love who see Him first.
Now, as then, they who are nearest to Him by love, are so because He
loves them, and because they know and believe the love which He has to
them. I find, then, in this part of the story three thoughts,--First,
they only see aright who see Christ in everything. Secondly, they only
see Christ who love Him. Lastly, they only love Him who know that He
loves them,