Lectionary Commentaries for May 4, 2025
Third Sunday of Easter

Scholars often refer to John 21 as the epilogue of the Gospel. It’s possible that it was added by an editor after the Gospel was written; after all, the Gospel seems to end in 20:30–31 with this sign-off: “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may continue to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” 

However, ancient epilogues often functioned as second endings, or wrap-up narratives that told the fates of the main characters. That is exactly what this passage is doing, tying up some loose ends and letting us know a bit about what becomes of Peter and the beloved disciple. So it could very well be original and be structured to follow the conventions of ancient Greek literature. 

There are several different resolutions going on here, so it might be helpful to divide the scene into snapshots, paying attention to how each frame offers closure to themes and characters from John’s Gospel.

First snapshot: Better together (verses 1–3)

The setup for this passage is almost a mundane scenario—fishermen going out to fish. But John foreshadows the supernatural by announcing that Jesus was going to “show” himself in a divine-epiphany sort of way. Not all the disciples are there (only seven, which could fit into John’s theme of sevens), and not all those there are named—only Simon Peter (the star of the scene), Thomas (the star of the previous scene), and Nathanael (the star of one of the early scenes who disappeared from the story until now). 

The sons of Zebedee are mentioned, but their names, which we know from elsewhere are James and John, are not given. The named disciples in attendance seem to be chosen either for their association with the fish industry or as representatives of Jesus-followers who had unique encounters with Jesus. I favor the second possibility. 

The focal point of this snapshot is the fact that Simon Peter announces he is going to fish, but the others do not let him go alone. In the Synoptic Gospels, fishing serves as a metaphor for discipleship and evangelism when Jesus calls his disciples and makes them “fishers of people.” John, however, does not include a fishing tale in his version of Jesus calling the disciples. This scene may be John’s way of wrapping up his theme of discipleship—which he describes as believing and following Jesus in community—while giving a nod to the Synoptic tradition of fishing as discipleship. The fishing (or Jesus-following) in this story is better done together; Peter should not have to fish alone.

Second snapshot: Listen to his voice (verses 4–8)

The parallel to the call of the disciples only deepens in this frame because this miraculous catch of fish echoes the catch in Luke 5, when Jesus steps into Simon’s boat and tells him to put out into deep waters. In the Lukan story, Simon obeys, catches two boatloads of fish, and laments his own sinfulness in the presence of the miracle-working Jesus. 

John’s story is too similar to ignore the connections, but it is the differences that we should pay attention to. Here, Jesus is not in the boat with the disciples, and it takes place not in the opening of his ministry but at the close. John might use the parallels to Luke’s story (or the oral tradition) to introduce the theme of discipleship to the narrative, but then he points to the new kind of discipleship that must occur, now that Jesus’ earthly ministry is over. Jesus will not be in the boat with them, but if they continue to listen to his voice (as Jesus’ sheep listen to his voice in John 10:27–28), they will succeed in their future ministry and follow in Jesus’ footsteps. 

Third snapshot: Fellowship by the fire (verses 9–14)

There are some intriguing details in this part of the story. First, John purposefully points out that the fish are being cooked on a charcoal fire (using a unique word for “fire” in Greek, anthrakian) in order to connect this scene to Peter’s denial in chapter 18, where he warms himself by a charcoal fire (same word). This alerts the audience to the fact that what comes next is closure for Peter’s denial plotline. 

Another fascinating detail involves the 153 fish that the narrator includes in his description of the large catch. Commentators have many theories on the significance of this number, suggesting it refers to the number of fish species or the number of nations in the world known at that time. None of these have sufficient evidence behind them; it could very well just be a fisherman’s habit to count how many fish they caught (which would make sense if fish were sustenance and livelihood as well as a taxable good for the Romans). The point is that the catch is miraculously large and thus completes a Johannine theme of the abundance of the Messiah, a theme that started in John 2 with a vast quantity of water transformed into good wine in Cana. 

A final detail catches the audience’s attention here—the narrator’s comment that “none of the disciples dared to ask him, ‘Who are you?’ because they knew it was the Lord.” Just as the Emmaus disciples do not recognize Jesus until they break bread with him (Luke 24), the disciples here do not recognize that it is Jesus until the beloved disciple interjects, and then they all come to eat breakfast with him. It is a fellowship meal, much like communion, in which Jesus shares food and a piece of himself with his disciples. This meal is not one signaling Jesus’ death but pointing forward to community life after resurrection.

Fourth snapshot: Good Shepherd handoff (verses 15–19)

This frame of the scene ties up several narrative threads. First, we have a reversal of Peter’s denial and shame as Jesus prompts a triple confession of Peter’s love set at a charcoal fire like the first. The words for “love” in this passage alternate between agapao and phileo, but the current consensus in scholarship says that these words are not speaking to different types or qualities of love but are, rather, interchangeable. John seems to favor alternating words for variety in this passage because he does the same with the words for sheep and lambs. 

Which brings us to another theme closure. The Good Shepherd discourse from chapter 10 finds new life in Jesus’ words to Peter. Now, instead of Jesus being the shepherd who loves the sheep, Peter is being asked about loving the shepherd and then is given the task of tending to, or grazing, the sheep. Just as Jesus’ love for his sheep led to him giving up his life, Peter’s path will also lead to death as he follows Jesus and cares for his sheep. 

It is strange how little airtime the conversion of Saul (also called Paul) receives in the Sunday lectionary. For a story that Luke returns to twice more (22:3–21; 26:2–23) and that echoes across the Pauline epistles (1 Corinthians 9:1; 15:8–10; Galatians 1:11–17; Philippians 3:2–11), this text’s Eastertide Year C appearance is the only occasion when lectionary preachers engage the Damascus Road episode on a Sunday morning. It’s enough to make an Acts-loving preacher put the feast day of the Conversion of St. Paul the Apostle on the church calendar. The date is January 25, for those unfamiliar with such traditions—an excellent text for the Epiphany season.

Given the compelling nature of Saul’s transformation (a conversion from “persecutor to proclaimer”¹), preachers may be tempted to center his experience in their sermons. The inversions between physical and spiritual sight and the dramatic hinge the encounter creates in Acts’ plot make for compelling rhetoric. Other preachers may find the transformation of the reluctant Ananias into Saul’s evangelist a more challenging exhortation. Acts 9:1–20 is not only a text about the conversion of an enemy. It also describes the challenge of embracing an enemy converted.² There is so much good material here. May preachers find numerous opportunities to recount Saul and Ananias’s stories in robust detail—lectionary or no!

But perhaps, not this week.

This week, after all, is only three weeks after Easter—and there is a third character in Acts 9:1–6 who deserves attention. Indeed, the lectionary’s prioritization of the chapter’s first six verses suggests that this third character is where an Eastertide preacher’s eyes should focus. As in the story of Stephen (Acts 7:56), the risen Jesus makes an appearance in Acts 9, allowing for no contemporary domestications of resurrection hope. Jesus’ voice, spoken into a world “still” (verse 1) filled with violence and disaster, makes clear the audacity of the church’s claim. The Lord, who died, rose, and ascended into heaven, is not planning to remain quarantined within an archetype or a narrative arc. He has not been collapsed into the church’s ecclesial structure—even as he feels the church’s wounds and incarcerations in his very flesh. This Jesus speaks, breaking into the present. When Acts’ narration flits into present tense as Paul “draws near” Damascus (verse 3), a reader feels that even Luke himself is caught up in the moment.

Willie James Jennings gets at what is at stake. The risen Jesus asks for concrete obedience, growing out of a living, relational encounter. Saul moves from “the Lord he aims to please to the One who will direct him according to divine pleasure.”³ More to the point, this Lord has enfleshed particularity, binding his name and his person in vulnerable solidarity to those harmed by abstract reductions of righteousness. “Why do you persecute me?” Jesus asks (verse 4.).

When Paul recounts his conversion story in Acts 26, he adds a line to Jesus’ question. “It is hard,” Jesus tells Paul, “for you to kick against the goads” (26:14). A goad is a sharp stick used to prod recalcitrant animals, meant to stop one sort of behavior and provoke another. Another translation for the word is “sting”—a word often used to translate Paul’s defiant joy in 1 Corinthians’ discussion of resurrection. “Where, O Death, is your sting?” the apostle asks in triumph (1 Corinthians 15:55).

But in Acts 9, the sting Saul feels is not from death—but from the presence of a risen Jesus who reveals that Saul has been causing harm to the One he professes to serve. It is the sting of Life, held in the pierced hands of the crucified, risen Lord, redirecting Saul into repentant, accountable commitment to God’s world and work. It is the sting of revelation that throws Saul to the ground and bids him rise.

The Jesus of Acts 9 does not speak of “goads.” But Paul clearly feels their provocation—and it changes him. May the sting of the resurrection mark the present tense of our pulpits this week. And may the presence of Jesus speak.

Notes

1. Beverly Gaventa, Acts (Abingdon, 2003), 146.
2. William Willimon, Acts (Westminster John Knox, 1988), 75.
3. Willie James Jennings, Acts (Westminster John Knox, 2021), 92.

Having been rescued from foes, the poet lifts up the Lord in jubilant praise.¹ If the Lord had not been there for the poet, the foes would have prevailed, causing grief and even possibly death. One need not read hatred into the term “foe,” for the word covers all situations of opposition. The poet does not dwell on details of the dangerous situation that transpired. Only in sight is the thanksgiving for God’s intervention that saved the poet. The life-threatening situation is no more. Neither is the fear of death.

The poet’s praise is not just for the reversal of fortune but for the fact that this has taken place through God’s gracious act. The poet needed God’s help and cried to the Lord. The Hebrew expression for crying out involves a raw outburst, conjuring a desperate situation. In reply to the plea, God provided healing. Whether it was a serious disease or another life-threatening situation that left him all but dead, the Lord removed the specter of death from the poet’s path. 

For the poet’s report of deliverance, the Hebrew Masoretic Text preserves two strands of tradition. One is known as the written tradition, which has the poet report the restoration of life “from among those gone down to the pit” (adopted by the New Revised Standard Version). In the other, known as the reading tradition, the psalmist says, “that I should not go down to the pit” (preserved in the marginal note of the NRSV).

According to the former, the poet marvels at the extraordinary measure of grace God provided, for the poet recognizes that not everyone has experienced being snatched from the clutches of death like that. The latter signals a self-reflection of the poet as the recipient of God’s salvation. Either way, the poet underscores that God’s saving action is a special deal. It inspires gratitude.

The poet invites others to join in thanksgiving. In the Hebrew text, the command of praise is clearly marked in the second-person plural verb. The poet calls upon the “faithful ones” to praise the Lord (verse 4). The poet cannot and will not reserve God’s salvation to a private celebration. The community ought to know how gracious God is. The poet shares the story of salvation for communal celebration.

The poet compares God’s favor with God’s anger. The latter is momentary, whereas the former lasts for life. The sense of divine displeasure can provoke an all-night weeping with persistent tears, but no sorrow is eternal. The poet testifies to joy that returns with the rise of the sun. The poetic image may also speak of the passage of time that turns and mends steadily (compare with “the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day” in Proverbs 4:18).

Likewise, joy may take time in coming but is sure to come. The poet is aware of this, calling it God’s “favor” (30:5)—the Hebrew that also signifies that is what God desires. With the joyous morning, the poet bursts into celebration. The Hebrew for joy (rinnah) in this verse conjures happiness—like the sound of delight in the popular Jewish song Hava Nagila, which includes the refrain of nerannanah (“let us rejoice”).

The poet acknowledges that there had been a time of prosperity that provided confidence and fortitude (verse 6). In retrospect, the poet realizes that it was none other than God that sponsored the time of wellness. In those days, thanks to God, the psalmist was as sturdy as “a strong mountain”; by contrast, without God there was nothing but fear and confusion (verse 7). 

In spite of present trouble, however, the poet realizes there is no reason to remain in despair. The poet is confident that God will certainly grant audience for the poet’s petition for deliverance, for the poet’s death will be a great loss for God. God would not want to lose such an important member of God’s choir (verse 9). With a hint of humor, the poet reminds God that the dust has no capacity to praise God. Nor can the inanimate object tell the truth of God’s faithfulness. Singing requires a live voice. Once the living turn to dust, as the Israeli singer Shiri Maimon sings in Shir lashalom (“Song of Peace”), not even the purest prayers can bring back the dead. The poet of Psalm 30 presents a strong case for his deliverance.

Based on the experience of God’s rescue, the poet offers a compelling picture of God as “helper” (verse 10; see also verse 2). In the common usage of the word, a helper customarily takes on the meaning of an auxiliary or assistant. The common cultural presupposition results from the failure to recognize the critical role of the service providers who make life possible for the world. More importantly, God is prominently known as the helper in the biblical tradition (for example, Psalm 115:9, 10, 11; 121:2). With God the helper, despair gives way to dancing, and grief to joy (30:11). God removes the mourner’s sackcloth, signaling the end of the time to grieve. The time to rejoice has come.

The poet concludes with a vow of paise: “I will give thanks to you forever” (verse 12). Every instance of a mortal speaking of eternity may be a hyperbole, but it is the language of worship that enables the poet to speak of the grand things beyond experience but not beyond imagination. The poet’s promise is not something “which alters when it alteration finds” (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116).

In the present form of the text, Psalm 30 comes with an obscure superscription that designates it as “A Song at the dedication of the temple. Of David.” It is commonly recognized that while the superscription belongs with an ancient tradition, most likely it was not part of the original form of the psalm. Since it is before the construction of the Solomonic temple of Jerusalem, the heading seems to refer to an earlier place of worship. Wherever it may take place, the prayer of Psalm 30 finds its home in the sanctuary where a thanksgiving for healing is offered in company with others who have gathered to praise the Lord.

Notes

1. Commentary published previously on this website for May 1, 2022.

Throughout the letters to the seven churches (Revelation 2–3), John, the purported author of Revelation, expresses his concern with misdirected worship. Idolatry, for John, involves participation in any activities focused on honoring imperial rulers or local deities, including the veneration of idols and images. Opportunities for honoring imperial rulers and local deities were frequent in the cities John addressed. Imperial festivals and games, public sacrifices and dedications, and communal and professional meals provided ample opportunity for idolatry, including eating the meat from an animal given in sacrifice to an idol or image. 

In back-to-back letters, John condemns idolatry as “fornication” (2:14, 20), a metaphor aimed at signaling misdirected worship and repeated in later chapters (Revelation 17–18). John’s condemnation of idolatry also denounces “those who worship the beast and its image” (14:9; 16:2; 20:4) and those who participate in idolatry through “the work of their hands” (9:20). Understanding John’s disdain for idolatry is important to understanding Revelation 4–5. 

Following the seven letters, John further condemns idolatry by demonstrating what he considers to be proper worship—worship directed toward God and the Lamb. First, Revelation 4 demonstrates that true worship is directed toward God, the real ruler and creator of the world. The two hymns offered in Revelation 4 describe God as holy, almighty, and eternal and disclose the reason God is the subject of true worship: “for you created all things and by your will they existed and were created” (4:11). It is important to note that Rome perceived itself as a world power, ascribed to itself divine authority, and projected universal endorsement. In other words, Rome saw itself as sovereign and eternal, and John refutes this claim by declaring that God alone is in control. 

In the following chapter (Revelation 5), John reveals the second subject worthy of worship—the Lamb, the predominant image for Jesus in Revelation. By taking the scroll from God, the Lamb becomes God’s agent for establishing God’s sovereignty throughout the world. Every creature in heaven and on earth joins together in worshipping the Lamb, further suggesting that idols have no place in proper worship. In contrast to a world that constructs altars to a pantheon of figures, a rightly ordered world is centered solely on the worship of God and the Lamb. 

John’s condemnation of misdirected worship continues beyond the opening chapters. Hymns, prayers, prostration, and loud voices are repeated themes throughout Revelation. Following one of the final worship scenes, John demonstrates the ease of misguided worship by falling at the feet of an angel himself. The messenger quickly corrects John, “You must not do that! I am a fellow servant with you and your comrades who hold the testimony of Jesus. Worship God!” (19:10). For John, worship demonstrates allegiance, and this quality necessitates his stance against participation in the honoring of imperial images and idols. A true Jesus-follower must express allegiance only to God and the Lamb. Worldly rulers are not worthy of our praise. 

Much like many modern political leaders, Rome’s rulers thrived on puffery. They saw themselves as superior to provincials, sought expansion no matter the cost, valued civic displays of “goodwill” that further enhanced their honor and status, and maintained economic practices that bolstered the pockets of the elite at the expense and well-being of the non-elite. Emperors inscribed their accomplishments on stone monuments, paraded their victories through city streets, and linked religion with their rule through the creation of the imperial cult, a spectacle of spaces, rituals, images, personnel, and theological claims that paid tribute to their rule and sang their praises. 

But despite their claims of ushering in a period of peace and prosperity, the ways of Rome destroyed life. The two hymns in Revelation 5 make a mockery of Rome’s claims. First, the slaughtered Lamb, introduced in Revelation 5, serves as John’s central image of Rome’s brutality. Three times in chapter 5 John describes the Lamb as “slaughtered” (verses 6, 9, and 12). John doesn’t want his audience to forget Jesus’ wounds; he doesn’t want them to forget that Jesus was crucified at the hands of imperial power. Second, the Lamb described in Revelation 5 is the smallest of lambs. In contrast to the power and might of Rome, John depicts Jesus as a tiny and seemingly insignificant creature, the runt of the flock.

Wealth is another point of comparison between Rome and the Lamb. Whereas Rome’s wealth serves to generate more wealth for Rome, Jesus uses the wealth he receives for the benefit of humanity. Rome purchases people for slavery (18:13), but the Lamb purchases (agorazō) people for God as priests to rule the earth (5:9). Moreover, whereas imperial priests are procured from the center, from Rome’s elite, God’s priests come from the margins, “from every tribe and nation and people and language” (5:9).

In sum, this short passage from Revelation emphasizes the incongruity between the world of political puffery and the humility of the Lamb. In the coming years, we would do well to guard ourselves against modern forms of idolatry. Rather than focusing on the size of a crowd or the accolades of corporate billionaires, we would do well to look around and take note: Are all tribes, nations, peoples, and languages represented in the crowd? Does the wealth of the mighty trickle down to the meek? Does their power bring life to those slaughtered by the world’s powers? This is the power of Easter. This is what deserves our collective Alleluias.