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The Sacred Work of Beginning Again
John 21:1–19
Beloved,
There are moments in life when we find ourselves adrift. When grief, regret, or exhaustion takes hold, we reach for what we once knew—old habits, familiar shores. That’s where we find the disciples in John 21: back on the water, back in the boat, back to what made sense before their world was turned upside down. And then—just as before—Jesus appears at dawn, in the liminal light between darkness and day.
It is no small detail that Jesus meets them after a night of catching nothing. The nets are empty. Their hands are tired. It is into this failure, this fatigue, that Christ arrives—not to scold, but to feed them. He prepares a fire, offers bread and fish, and restores communion through something so ordinary it becomes holy.
And then, there’s Peter.
Peter, who ran. Peter, who denied. Peter, who wept.
Jesus doesn't ask Peter to explain himself or justify his past. He asks him a single, searching question: Do you love me? Not once, but three times. Not to shame him, but to match every echo of his denial with the music of mercy.
This is not a conversation about guilt—it’s a liturgy of restoration.
With every "yes," Peter is called deeper: Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. Jesus doesn't just forgive Peter; He entrusts him with the most sacred of tasks—loving and tending to God's people. The same man who faltered is now the one being called to lead. Because resurrection isn’t just about rising from the dead. It’s about what we do with our lives once we’ve been met by grace.
I think of this often in our shared life together—how many of us carry burdens unseen, pasts we cannot undo, mistakes we regret, and words we wish we could take back. And yet, Jesus comes still. Not in blazing power, but in quiet invitation. “Come and have breakfast,” He says. Come and begin again.
Beloved, there is healing in this story. There is also calling. Christ doesn’t wait for us to be perfect to send us. He calls us in our becoming. He asks only that we love Him—and that we let that love spill outward into how we care for others.
That is the work of resurrection. Not just rising, but returning. Returning to love, to purpose, to community, to compassion. Returning to the One who never stopped believing in us—even when we gave up on ourselves.
In your failures, He comes. In your grief, He cooks breakfast. In your shame, He asks, “Do you love me?” And in your trembling yes, He gives you the sacred work of tending the world.
This is not the end. This is where love begins again.
With you in the dawn light,
Mother Allison+
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