“Two Charcoal Fires”
By Rev. Dr. Jason Byassee
Sunday, March 22, 2026
Reading: John 18:15-18, 25-27 & 21:4-12 & 15-17
Things are about to get rough.
We’re nearing the end of Lent. Next week is Palm and Passion Sunday, when we open holy week and enter into Jesus’ death. The week after is Easter, when the resurrection undoes death. Today we have a little of both. A glimpse of the chaos and fear after Jesus’ betrayal, and then a story of the resurrected Christ beginning to renew all things.
That’s the two-part story of the Christian faith, the story of all the history in the world. From chaos and fear and death to life and more life and nothing but glorious life.
First, the fear; Jesus’ followers have been with him for three years since he called them to leave off fishing for fish, to come with him and fish for souls. They’ve spent every moment together. The most impulsive of the bunch is one Peter. He is the patron saint for any of us who speak before we think, who over-promise and then look foolish when we under-deliver, who fail bad and so need the most mercy. Peter has promised Jesus that he’ll never deny him. Jesus has promised him back: before the cock crows tonight, you will deny me three times.
The scene is a courtyard outside where Jesus is being tried. Religion doesn’t like a threat to its authority over souls. Politics doesn’t like a threat to social order. Jesus is both, so his time is up. Peter and John linger to see what happens. The scene is unbearably ordinary, even dull.
Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself.
This is the part of the movie where everyone’s checking their phone. Boring! But that’s most of our lives, most of the time: ordinary, waiting for something to happen. Well, something does. Hey, you were with that guy, weren’t you? Uh, no. For real, quit lying I saw you? No, you didn’t. I love this image from Caravaggio—the accusations, the shadows, Peter insisting on his innocence. Quit playing you know you were. I was not. I am not this man’s disciple. I never knew him.
Truer words have never been spoken. Peter never knew Jesus.[1] The cock crows. I love this image—proud rooster on the top step cock-a-doodle-doo-ing in Peter’s ear, his whole body contorted in shame. Peter represents those who cannot fail any worse, who wish they’d never been born. He reminds me of a Dostoevsky character whose failure is so complete, the only reason he can think of to keep living is to serve as a bad example. We might have remembered Peter the way we do Judas Iscariot or Brutus or Quisling or Marshall Petain or any other notorious turncoat from history. How can there be any way back from this?
Now, one of you pushed back in Bible study that maybe we’re too hard on poor Peter. He’d been ready to fight in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus was arrested. He pulled a sword, flashed that thing, hurt somebody. Peter is ready to go down swinging—he’s no coward. What Peter is not ready to do is to go down not swinging. Jesus doesn’t want defending, he wants his cross. And he heals the man Peter harmed—restoring his enemy, undoing what Peter did.
Second step in the two-step dance of faith, the back half of our story today: the undoing of death. Jesus has been raised from the dead. This isn’t just a miracle. It’s the destruction of death itself, the death of death. Imagine living with no fear of death at all. The disciples can’t quite get their heads around it. Who can? So, they’ve gone back to fishing. Their old profession. Life before and without Jesus.
My favourite fiction writer, Flannery O’Connor, imagines an evangelist in reverse. He starts the Church Without Christ, where the lame don’t walk, the blind don’t see, and what’s dead stays that way. Most of us live our lives in the Church Without Christ, assuming miracles don’t happen and death is still very much in charge.
The disciples prefer fishing where they understand the rules and tombs don’t have life in them. They fish all night and catch nothing.
Jesus is on the shore. They don’t recognize him. This is key to all the resurrection stories: he doesn’t look like himself. This image is also from the great Caravaggio, it’s from another story, the Walk to Emmaus. The painter has imagined how the disciples might not recognize Jesus. He’s beardless. His face looks a little fuller than usual. Seems like some other guy. Until he takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it away. Then they recognize him, and he vanishes. It is always hard to recognize the risen Christ. He looks like the homeless guy, or your enemy. This stranger on shore suggests the disciples throw their net over the other side. And they catch so much the nets groan. John says, “It is the Lord!” They’ve seen these miraculous hauls of fish before—when Jesus called them the first time. Now he’s calling them again.
I want to object there. Hey, Jesus, you tried these fisher guys out. And they failed. Maybe choose some other better people this time? Jesus won’t have it. He’s bound himself to this failed people and won’t shuffle the deck or do over. He’s going to transfigure them, and all of us, from sinners into saints.
Peter had his coat off to fish. Now he puts it on ... before jumping into the sea. I don’t know about you, but I normally take off layers before jumping into water to swim. One of you told me about rescuing your kid from a pool by diving in with your purse. Peter is also not thinking clearly. Poor John has to haul the boat overflowing with fish back to shore by himself. So ordinary. So flawed and human.
When they get to shore, Jesus has already cooked breakfast for them. Fish and bread. Like when he fed the 5000 from a child’s offering of fish and bread. He says, “come and have breakfast.” Eugene Peterson was one of the great spiritual voices of the last century, translated the whole Bible into The Message version. Asked what he hoped to hear from Jesus when he died, Eugene said I think he’ll say, “come and have breakfast.” Lord, invite all the rest of us, too.
Then Jesus begins this strange interrogation of Peter. Now, the Bible almost never lets us in on character’s interior state, how they feel. Our age can’t shut-up about feelings. The ancient world didn’t usually care about feelings. Notice now how many times Jesus asks the same question.
15 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” 16 A second time he said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” 17 He said to him a third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.”
Peter had denied him three times. Now Jesus asks him to profess his love three times. Jesus rolls back up Peter’s denial into a profession of affection. And a charge Peter can act on—go and take care of my sheep. Watch over my church. Tend one another in faith. Forgiveness is free but it’s not cheap. Jesus extends it before we even ask. But then he wants all our life in return—and the life of everyone around us.
There is something to this ritual repetition. There’s a tradition in Judaism that if someone wants to convert to Judaism you send them away three times. If they come back a fourth time, they’re serious. It’s hard being Jewish. You don’t want half-hearted converts. In the church we about-do a backflip if someone wants to join. Yay, save us, give us a future, here’s a pledge card! In Judaism they trust God to give us a future, not our recruiting efforts. Our indigenous leader Dean Copecoge tells me when he was given his role as a pipe carrier, the pipe was offered to him, and he reached for it, four times. It was retracted each time. Only then was it handed over. This is serious, are you sure? Peter was adamant with his three-time denial. Christ is just as adamant with his three-time restoration.
This Lenten series is called “How to repent.” Most of us imagine repentance working this way: we do a bad thing. We feel sorry. We ask for forgiveness. That’s not wrong, it does work that way sometimes, that’s how we teach our kids to behave. If we all did that more often, we’d have a better world. A children’s sermon preacher asked the kids what the hardest thing to say is in the English language. One responded, “I’m sorry and I won’t do it again.” True that.
But notice it doesn’t work with Peter. I’m sorry I denied my Lord in his hour of need, and I won’t do it again. No, you won’t indeed. Because he’s already dead. Superficial forgiveness doesn’t work if the one we need it from, or the one we owe it to, has already died. Or if we’re not going to be in relationship to the offending person. Erika Kirk was inspiring at her husband’s funeral in saying she’d forgiven the shooter. President Trump showed as much by disagreeing with her right after (uh, dude, it’s not your day, but never mind). So, is she going to visit the murderer in prison? Write him letters? Grow in relationship to him? No, of course not, it’d be grotesque. Deeper forgiveness is about restored and ongoing relationship, which is not always possible or desirable.
Unless there’s a resurrection. A whole new world without death, with possibilities beyond our present imagining. A new world that Jesus starts at Easter and invites us into. In that new world, Jesus calls Peter and the other fishermen once more. Shows he is Lord over creation and that he really likes fish. And gives them and us good work to do: Feed my lambs, tend my sheep, feed my sheep.
One commentator on this passage said something that required no scholarly acumen, just a human example. He and his spouse had friends over. One offered to help with the washing up. And while doing so the guest accidentally broke a serving dish that meant something to his hosts, had been in the family for generations, belonged to someone long gone, irreplaceable. Apologies were made, but there was real loss. Of course they forgave. But then they did something more. They invited the dish-smasher back over for another dinner. And they invited him to clean up after. They showed, we trust you, we know it wasn’t your fault, we want our relationship restored. Now be more careful this time.
That’s what Jesus is doing with Peter. He doesn’t ask three times: Are you my disciple? That’s what Peter denied—no, I don’t know the guy. Follow him? I’ve never heard of him; doesn’t ask if he has faith. Jesus asks do you love me? Asks three times so that it hurts Peter’s feelings. Yes, yes, yes, I love you already. Okay, tend these sheep, feed these lambs, show you love me by caring for the church, looking after others’ faith, protecting and shepherding them. Here, wash these precious dishes with me. Tend these little ones’ faith with me. I trust you. But I gave you reason not to trust you. I know. But that was before the resurrection.
Repentance here is not something Peter was trying to do. He doesn’t even seem to realize it’s happening: He’s hurt by this three-fold questioning. Repentance here is something Jesus does for him. Sets out this spiritual obstacle course for Peter to complete: here, love me once for the first denial, love me again for the second, now the third. Peter comes along, led by the hand, not sure what’s happening. Maybe then repentance is something that God does: Takes us by the hand and leads us through it with him?
Think with me of Jesus’ baptism. Baptism in Christian practice is for the forgiveness of sins and our adoption as children of God, members of the church. So, why does Jesus need it? He never sins. What does he need the water for? The church has puzzled over this, sometimes awkwardly. Best we can figure is Jesus goes through baptism to lead us through it. He doesn’t need it. But we sure do so he goes first, and we lead where he follows. If you like he pretends to be a sinner so we can pretend to be saints.
I’m into a terrific book called Liberty Street, by Toronto author Heather Marshall. Our own Rachel McMillan picked it for our book club in June. It’s historical fiction about a young reporter named Emily in the 1960s. She has word that female prisoners in the Mercer women’s prison in Toronto are being mistreated. So, she manages to get herself imprisoned there. There were laws then that if a woman showed herself morally “incorrigible,” i.e. not sufficiently submissive to father or husband, she could be locked up for six months or longer. Rife for abuse obviously. Once inside the prison Emily doesn’t just observe. She’s subject to the same abuse and mistreatment as the others. The sense at the time was these women were all prostitutes or crazy or both, who cares? Emily’s goal is to get out and publish a bombshell exposé that gets the prison shut down. That happened in real life—a Toronto Star piece showed abuse at the prison and got it closed. Liberty Street is not religious in any obvious way, but I kept seeing Jesus in Emily’s action. She doesn’t just decry something wrong, demand apologies. She joins in, suffers it, to bring it to an end. God in Christ doesn’t just feel bad for us. He suffers with us, to bring a whole new world. And while I’m on prisons, I have to say, if the church doesn’t care about the incarcerated, who will? Jesus tells us at the judgment he’ll say I was in prison, and you visited me. Or you didn’t. That frightens me more than a little.
I promised you a story about charcoal fires. Two charcoal fires, to be exact. When Peter is accused of being with Jesus, and swears he’s not, that’s over a charcoal fire, hence all the shadows. And when Jesus says to Peter, come have breakfast, he’s made a charcoal fire, and he’s roasting breakfast. In one way, so ordinary: People warm themselves by fire when they’re cold. We cook over fire when that’s the best we’ve got. But I think John wants us to see something. When we fail by charcoal, Jesus re-creates the charcoal. And says Peter I’m not going to let your failure be the last word. I’m going to undo your failure with, well, breakfast. And give you a chance to say you love me as many times as you said you never heard of me. We’ll eat together. And then you’ll go feed all those multitudes that are breaking the nets. You’re not just forgiven. You’re commissioned. Forgiven people have got work to do.
A church I admire in Vancouver calls itself St. Peter’s Fireside. They named their whole congregation from this passage: where Jesus restores Peter to his pride of place among the apostles. What I love about that is every time they think of any fireside, they’ll think of God’s mercy.
I learned from Christians in Uganda that a fire in the hearth is a favourite image for the Trinity. Three logs—one fire. So much happens at the hearth in traditional cultures. You tell stories there. Cook the food there. Pass on wisdom. For us, outdoor fires are exotic—it’s for when you go camping or grill out. I just sort of stare at the flames, stupefied; fire is death, it’s also life, perfect image for God. For most people in most of history anytime you want cooked food, it comes from an open fire. Maybe then we should think of God not just at a fireside, but every time we eat. Every bite of food we can thank the One without whom there would be no us, no food, no fire.
And it’s all so unbearably ordinary. It’s about getting warm and eating breakfast. About friendship, betrayal, and restoration. About the God who’s always giving extra chances, about us who always need more chances, and the new world Christ is bringing where all there is, is mercy. Bring it soon in full, oh Resurrected One.
I started by saying things are about to get rough. You know what else things are about to get? Resurrected. Amen.
[1] It’s Frederick Buechner’s point.