A homily for the Third Sunday of Easter, May 4, 2025
Acts 5:27-32, 40b-41, Revelation 5:11-14, John 21:1-19
Remember, back when we were in grammar school, especially back in the first, second or third grade, how weird it was to see a teacher away from the classroom? Remember how incredibly weird it was to see a Franciscan sister, or the whole convent, in the Acme Market?
Remember how we didn’t always recognize them right away because they were out of the classroom? That’s where they live all the time, right?
Who knew Mrs. Bailey had kids of her own? Who knew she needed groceries? What — she cashed her checks at the same bank Mom did? She and her family eat No. 4s at Joyce’s Subs like we do?
And — OMG! — Sister St. Angela drinks store-brand cola! And washes with Ivory soap!
The same strangeness applied to encounters with our doctors and dentists and barbers and crossing guards and anybody in our lives whom we associated with a particular place or situation. We kind of put them in little boxes, like eggs in a carton, each with a separate place in our overall lives.
Even weirder were the times we didn’t recognize them (except the sisters wearing their habits), and they greeted us.
Wow. They know we have a life outside the classroom, and not just for doing homework. Too. Much. Homework.
It’s human nature for us to view everyone in the context of our own lives, because we live our lives and see only portions of other people’s lives, whenever and however they intersect with us. So whenever we don’t expect to encounter somebody, we’re a little bit startled or puzzled.
As were the Apostles and other disciples of Jesus as he visited them after his glorious Resurrection. Fortunately for them — and for us — Jesus made the encounters as familiar as he could, as John’s Gospel and other passages from Scripture relate.
Breakfast on the seashore. Nets miraculously overloaded with fish. Revelations in the locked upper rooms. Broken bread in Emmaus.
Invitations to Thomas, and probably anyone else interested, to see and touch his glorified but still quite physical body.
After rising from the dead but before ascending home to Heaven, Jesus did wandering rabbi stuff, just as he did before Good Friday at Golgotha. Totally familiar.
The longer version of this weekend’s passage from John’s Gospel clarifies that Jesus has forgiven Peter for his three denials, restoring The Rock to his place as shepherd of Christ’s flock after the Lord’s departure home to his Father. A divine thing to do.
The last line of today’s passage, though, calls to us as much as it does to Peter and the others:
[Jesus] said to him, “Follow me.”
And they did, for the rest of their lives, spreading the Good News to the four corners of the Earth. (BTW, how does it have corners if it’s round? Just digressing for a moment.) The Acts of the Apostles is a stirring chronicle.
Jesus is still saying to us, “Follow me.”
Jesus is still saying to us, “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.”
Jesus is still challenging us to see him, in and out of context.
In context, we encounter The Christ in the Eucharist, in community worship, in communal breaking open of The Word, in private prayer and meditation and reflection on Scripture. What we’d consider “churchy stuff.” Part of the totality of our lives, to be sure, but just a proverbial egg or two in that imaginary carton.
A very specific context.
And God is always pleased whenever we do that.
But Jesus is leading us out of our comfort zones, far out of them. And he insists we follow.
He wants us to see him out of context, out of the expected places and situations. He wants us to see him in encampments where unhoused people struggle to survive. He wants us to see him in the eyes of our sisters and brothers who are mourning a loss or coping with an illness. He wants us to see him where people are celebrating, because joy cries out to be shared.
He wants us to follow him and see him anywhere and everywhere, in anyone and everyone. Because he is anywhere and everywhere, in anyone and everyone. Including us.
When we realize that Jesus reveals himself to us continually, in and out of where and how we expect to encounter him, perhaps we can shrink or eliminate — smash! — the silos in our lives.
