Introduction
The readings for this third Sunday of Easter are full of joy and hope. They tell stories—and share a psalm—that remind us just how good and powerful God really is.
The Gospel passage recounts the miraculous catch of 153 fish—so massive that the net was under immense strain. If someone had plucked one of its strands, what would normally sound like a standard open A on a bass guitar might have rung out sharp and off-key, raised by the tension. It was a truly massive catch.
After this extraordinary catch, we see a sombre Peter—perhaps still burdened by the shame of denying the Lord three times—encountering the goodness and grace of Jesus, who gently restores and re-commissions him with the words: “Feed my lambs, tend my sheep, feed my sheep.”
The reading from Acts tells an equally familiar and inspiring story: the zealous persecutor who breathed threats of death against Jesus’ followers meets the risen Lord on the road to Damascus. In a powerful twist of God’s grace, Saul gets turned around and becomes Paul—one of the most fired-up apostles in the early Church.
In the Psalm reading, the psalmist bursts with joy, dancing in celebration of God’s goodness and power—grateful for the healing and help he received when he needed it most.
In Revelation chapter 5, John breaks down in tears because “no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or look into it” (Rev 5:3). But then comes the one who appeared “as a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain” (Rev 5:6). This Lamb, whose power has conquered the forces of evil, is found worthy to open the scroll. At that moment, heaven erupts in praise, as a great choir—“numbering myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands” (Rev 5:11)—bursts into song.
Friends from Jubilee, we are no strangers to the Bible’s portrayals of God’s grace and power—grace and power that can transform lives, that would carry us over life’s hurdles, and help us sail through troubled waters.We sing of them in our praise, and we call upon them in our prayers. Yet, when we read certain passages more closely, we may find it unsettling when God actually reaches out to us with His goodness, grace, and power. And perhaps—strangely enough—it is not only we who find it unsettling; it may even be so for God Himself.
Let’s explore these two aspects of grace through two brief scenes from the Gospel account.
- In the passage, there’s a verse that quietly describes how the disciples responded to Jesus’ invitation, “Jesus said to them, ‘Come and have breakfast.’ Now none of the disciples dared ask Him, ‘Who are you?’ They knew it was the Lord” (John 21:12).
The breakfast meeting was not the first, but the third time Jesus appeared to the disciples after the resurrection. So what explains their hesitation—why didn’t they simply ask if He was truly who they believed Him to be? One commentator suggests that we may not fully grasp the disciples’ struggle. The creeds we have today present the resurrection as something clear and certain—so much so that we may overlook the disciples’ genuine confusion as they tried to come to terms with the strange and wondrous reality of the risen Christ.
Do we agree with this interpretation? Personally, I find it plausible. Yet, I believe something deeper is at work here. The Jesus who appears this time as a BBQ chef is both the same and yet profoundly different. He is no longer just the rabbi they once followed, nor the would-be king they had hoped to elevate. He comes to them as someone more—someone entirely other. In Him, and even in the simple act of preparing breakfast over a charcoal fire, the disciples experienced grace and power. But it’s not the kind they had imagined—not the kind they could claim, predict, or control.
The disciples didn’t dare ask their question because they felt uneasy—unsettled by the way grace and power had just been revealed. I imagine them sitting there quietly, once again filled with a sense of unease, wondering: what unexpected thing might the risen Lord do next?
Grace and power had come to them in a way they neither imagined nor predicted—and the same can be true for us. Will we have the courage to welcome grace when it arrives in unexpected ways? As creatures of habit, we long for stability and security. We prefer to do what we know, and to do it well. There’s nothing wrong with that— grace often does come in familiar forms. For example, we ask for help or strength, and it’s given.
But grace isn’t always so neat. Sometimes, it comes in disruptive, even uncomfortable ways —just like what the disciples were experiencing. And think of Jonah, called to preach repentance to his enemies. Or Peter, asked in the book of Acts to set aside long-held religious traditions to embrace the Gentiles. That, too, is grace—unexpected, uncomfortable, even offensive at first, yet life-giving.
Will we have the courage to welcome grace when it arrives in unexpected ways?
II.
And let’s not assume that we’re the only ones who find it unsettling when grace is shown. Have we ever considered that offering grace might have been just as difficult for Jesus?
In this passage, Jesus asks Peter three times, “Do you love me?” It’s often said that these questions mirror the three times Peter denied Him on the night of His betrayal. We usually read this story as one of restoration—a disciple who failed his Lord being given a second chance.
We read the exchange between Jesus and Peter as a finished story—one with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Because we know how it turns out, it’s easy to make sense of it. But have we ever paused to consider what it was like for Jesus in that moment, especially when He first asked the question? Peter wasn’t a robot or a puppet—he was a real person, and his response wasn’t a given. His earlier denial had been a painful rejection of Jesus. At this point, maybe he wasn’t yet ready to fully recommit. Perhaps he still needed time to work through his guilt and regret. So when Jesus asked, “Do you love me?” He wasn’t just offering grace—He was taking a risk. In reaching out to restore Peter, Jesus opened Himself to the possibility of being rejected once again.
And Peter isn’t the first person with whom the Lord takes such a risk. All the way back in Genesis, God asked Abraham to offer up his only son, Isaac—a moment of profound testing. In doing so, God was taking a risk too. He needed to see whether Abraham’s devotion was truly to Him[i], or tied more to the promise of descendants and a secure future. That moment on the altar was deeply unsettling for Abraham—but perhaps it was for God too. It was a moment charged with vulnerability on both sides, where trust and commitment were laid bare.
So if Peter wasn’t the first person with whom the Lord took a risk to offer grace, is he the last? Our God is a grace-giving, risk-taking God. And He continues to take such risks. Think of Paul—his heart was hardened, and yet God reached out to him. Thank God it turned out well. But you know where I’m going with this: What about us? Will God find success when He takes a risk with us? Will we have the courage to welcome grace when it arrives in unexpected ways? Or will we harden our hearts and simply look past God and His Word?
We know how easily our hearts can grow hard, how quickly we shut our ears when the Lord gently urges us to act differently. We tend to dismiss those who think differently as simply wrong. We fail to treat people of different skin colours or social standing with the same dignity and respect. We cling to our opinions and shut out voices that deserve to be heard. We hold onto anger toward friends or family instead of offering forgiveness. We become so entangled in emotions—guilt, envy, fear, insecurity—that we lose the capability to show love. We speak from a place of power rather than a desire to understand and support others. We prefer to impress others rather than share God’s love with all our limitations and vulnerabilities.
Maybe none of these examples apply to us—but hardened hearts are everywhere. It’s easy to come up with more examples, and I’ve only stopped because of time. And to a world with hardened hearts, our Lord takes risks—constantly, I believe.
When His risks bears fruit—when we turn from what displeases Him—grace flows freely. Forgiveness is both offered and received, and the forgiven are set free to worship and to serve. Just look at Peter and Paul: both lives testify to this same pattern—they are forgiven not just to feel better, but to worship and to serve freely.
If the hardening of our hearts is truly common, then this cycle—of grace, repentance, and renewal—is something we live through again and again in our journey of faith. So the question comes back: will we have the courage to welcome grace when it arrives in unexpected ways —challenging our values, preferences, plans, and pride?
The strange-sounding title for this morning points to what I believe the risen Lord is still doing today. He takes the risk of being rejected in order to shape us into truer, more godly worshippers.
III.
Has the Lord been very successful in shaping us lately? Deep down, we probably know the answer. And it’s not hard to see why His work in us may feel slow or incomplete. When we’re offended, we want to get even. When we’re unwell, we barely have the strength to cope—let alone focus on spiritual growth. When we’re stressed and overwhelmed by life’s demands, we zero in on fixing the problem and often tune out God’s guidance. And when He nudges us to step into unfamiliar territory, we hesitate.
In moments like these, we may not always choose the better path—but Scripture reminds us that God knows the way forward, and we are called to trust Him. In today’s Psalm, the psalmist shares personal testimonies as a call to worship. Four times, he moves from describing serious troubles—including sickness and threats from enemies—to relief. The repeated pattern makes a clear point: if God has been good and faithful before, we can continue in hope and trust. Hence, not knowing what challenges may come next, the psalmist still declares with confidence, “O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!”
Yet the courage to trust —and experiencing God’s faithful help—still doesn’t complete the Christian story. There’s a small detail in the Gospel passage that, if I may say, is truly heartwarming. When the disciples come ashore, they find a charcoal fire with breakfast already being prepared. Likely, there was already enough food. Yet we’re told, “Jesus said to them, ‘Bring some of the fish that you have just caught. (John 21:10)’”
Why ask for more fish when He clearly didn’t need their help? I believe it’s because Jesus wanted their participation—He considered the meal complete only with something they contributed.
In the same way, when we respond to His grace with courage, what we offer might turn out to be something great—or it might just be so-so. And honestly, the fear that what we bring isn’t “good enough,” or will at best be done with a half-hearted attitude, can really hold us back. I know that feeling myself. But if we’re reading this verse correctly, here’s the heart of it: even if what we offer is just so-so—so what? That’s in part what it means to say He is our God and we are His people.
So as we leave today, let’s carry this understanding with us: the risen Lord still comes to us, still takes the risk in offering grace. He does so even when we’re uncertain, hesitant, or slow to respond. And when we do respond—however imperfectly—He welcomes what we bring. He makes room for our offerings and calls it fellowship. We know the Christian faith is first and foremost a relationship— a relationship with Father and children, Savior and saved—but at its heart it’s also the dynamic between a risk‑taker and those who might choose to respond.
[i] https://faithandleadership.com/ellen-f-davis-radical-trust
