153 reasons

It’s the month of thanks, or, if you’re born anew, a continuation of the theme.

Here I’ll raise mine Ebenezer and join the family sing-a-long. You might want to settle in, mine’s got 153 verses.

It starts with a story. Once upon a Galilee morn, seven disciples crowd into a boat with hopes set high for a good catch. Stop me if you’ve heard this before. All night long and not a single bite. Mind you, these are experienced fishermen and they get nada. Zero. Squat.

Their leader is the most confused. Peter grouses, “What in tarnation is happening here?” He’s known how to do this since a paidíon. This was second nature to him. Must he fail at this too?

The early April morning is suddenly cleaved by a voice from the shore.

“‘Mornin’ lads! Any luck?”

There’s a cute moment embedded in the story: Jesus asks them if they’d had any success through the night. He wants to know if they’ve caught any prosphágion. Don’t anyone tell me Jesus didn’t have a sense of humor. The word he used means a side dish, not the main course. He was trolling them!

“Hey fellas, you got anything to nibble on?”

Groan.

Peter squints through the mist and sees the shape of a man. A hundred yards off, it’s difficult to tell who yon figure is. And yet the Voice sounds familiar…

There’s fish, and then there’s fish

“Try your nets on the right side,” the Man on the shore suggests.

“You’ve got to be kid—”

You pretty much know the next bit if you’ve been to Sunday school or raised up in the Word.

The seven knackered disciples throw the nets starboard and look on in amazement as the sea comes alive. The fish practically school themselves right into the nets! The startled men never saw such a haul!

Our narrator, John (aka, “the other disciple”) describes the moment the catch comes in. He chooses the word ichthúos to supplant their fruitless all-nighter. Now, we’re talking game fish, big fish, what you’d serve at a banquet!

Count ‘em. 153. (you best believe fishermen wouldn’t lie about something like that) That’s almost 22 family-sized fish per disciple. And the net didn’t break. Not a single ichthúos was lost!

Tell me, if you were in the boat that morning, what would you do? What other response could there be but to recognize Jesus in the moment and hurdle every obstacle to get to the feet of the Lord? That’s what Peter was thinking too. Casting off restraint, Peter jumps out of the boat.

While Peter doesn’t exactly walk on water, he throws on his tunic over his bare bottom and swims to shore, leaving the great catch behind. Just Jesus, only Jesus, always Jesus.

Charcoal fires

What does he find when he gets to shore? Jesus sitting beside a fire of coals and a ready-made breakfast. Pardon the quick side trail, but do you remember when we last saw a charcoal fire? That’s right. Simon Peter stood by one at night, warming his hands, denying he knew the Man Jesus.

Quite niftily, John adds this bit of trivia into the gospel record. Mind you, it’s there for more than just atmosphere. His deft narrator’s eye catches the detail of fire burned down to the coals, owing to the fact the Savior’s been there a long while.

The seaside breakfast tells us Jesus is waiting for us to simply “Come.” Whether we’ve failed, lied, or trampled on his name, the sizzle tells the story. The aroma doesn’t lie.

Hear this, beloved: that the fire’s been set in the morning reminds Peter — and us — it’s a brand new day. The veil of that awful night of scandal has been lifted and the mercies of Christ are fresh as the dew.

There’s dying, and there’s living

Conversation ensues. There’s a fascinating back-and-forth between Jesus and Peter regarding agapáō and philéō and something about Peter’s not-so-flattering future. But then Jesus looks at the reeling disciple and says, “Walk with me.”

It’s not a metaphorical invitation. Jesus quite literally stands up from the group and motions for Peter to follow. The two start a stroll along the beach, away from the others. We can skip for now the bit about John getting up to follow after and Simon Peter’s protest.

Here’s where I wanted to take you today: I’d wager Jesus wanted to speak life into Peter, privately teaching him about agapáō and feeding sheep and lambs and why charcoal fires and the significance of 153 fish. And a whole lot of other stuff too, perhaps. Cool to think about.

Someone counted all of the encounters Jesus had with individuals in the gospels and came up with the number 153. I haven’t proven that, but I’ll take it on face value. It wouldn’t surprise me if that number were accurate. That’s 153 Jesus stories in the gospels.

Those seven Galileans in that gospel johnboat had 153 gospel stories that day, enough to spend the rest of their lives talking about them and writing about them. Peter, soon-to-be leader of the global spread of the gospel, surely did his share.

How many Jesus stories might you have? I bet you could come up with at least 153. That’s a lot of fish tales!

An infinite God can give all of Himself to each of His children. He does not distribute Himself that each may have a part, but to each one He gives all of Himself as fully as if there were no others.

A.W. Tozer

Dear reader, I pray you have some breakfast conversations with Jesus in the coming days. I’m going to ask him to lovingly explain some deep stuff to you, marvelous things that equip you for your next assignment. I hope you hear the sizzle and smell the aroma of the fish on the fire. He’s waiting for you now.

I finished John’s gospel in my daily reading yesterday and wrapped up my welling emotions over this final text with a thanksgiving prayer from my journal. Here’s what I wrote, in part:

I’m actually sitting with you this morning … You are the Risen Christ and I’m sitting with you. And you’re listening. You’re reading along with me. I love you, Jesus.

Thank you for my disability. May I use it for your glory today.

Thank you for all my close calls with death and for your Resurrection Life in me. Thank you for all my sicknesses and hospitalizations. You have been faithful and kind to me. You are my shepherd and I follow you in my wheelchair, wherever you lead me. I trust you.

Thank you for the “153” great fish you’ve given me, Father. I seem to always pine for only a handful, a bucketful, of “snack-sized” fish and have never been successful. Thank you for the “haul”, the supernatural “catch”…through my weakness, my inadequacy, my need. Thank you for the charcoal fires and for the already-cooked breakfast I didn’t labor for.

Thank you for inviting me to sit with you and serving (!) me. Bless you, in Your endearingly gracious name. Amen.

Selah and amen.