“Jesus said to them, ‘Come on and eat breakfast.’ Every one of the disciples was too chicken to say, ‘Who are you?’ They recognized their Lord.” (John 21:12).
Let’s back up. So anywhere from a half-hour to, maybe, a couple of hours ago (time enough to get the boat to shore and unloaded) the “beloved disciple” stood on the wet and weathered boards and declared that the figure over on the beach was “the Lord.” Everyone, very likely, heard him. Then here, on the shore in the light of the morning, we’re told they knew that it was Jesus.
Then why the heck did they even think about asking Jesus about who he was?
I’m gonna guess you’re like me and you never get the urge to ask someone you know and recognize who they are. If someone did that to me I’d either think they were joking or had just bumped their head. And if I did it to Leanne, I hope she’d check to see if I had a concussion. That’s not normal.
Of course, this isn’t a normal scene. The guy you know was arrested and killed days earlier is squatting by the fire grilling fish (which you’d caught only after he’d told you to switch from port to starboard). So, perhaps it’s the unreality of it. Maybe it’s like coming upon a friend or spouse at the grocery store when you didn’t know they were nearby and, for just a minute, you think I know them and who is that.
Perhaps it’s just that. Maybe they didn’t expect Jesus to be here, hanging out. And for just a minute they knew who he was but were so surprised at the sight of him their minds were just a second or two behind their eyes and they really did wonder, who is he?
Ok, but it doesn’t make sense that they were afraid of asking. It’s not that they started to ask and then realized they knew this person, we’re told that none of them were brave enough to say “Um, who are you?” Sure, maybe it’s awkward, but what was there to be afraid of? Unless it was the question itself.
Who are you is tricky. If you’ve had any contact with counseling or therapy, you know it’s got a lot of weight to it. If you say I’m a writer or a carpenter or a race car driver, do you define yourself by what you do? If you say a husband, brother, son then do you define yourself based on your relationship to other people? Any answer opens the door on your self-image, how you understand yourself. In just a matter of moments, you’re three levels deep and falling, wondering just who you are anyway.
The guys who climbed off that boat had spent a lot of time with Jesus over the past few years. And, I imagine, they’d learned a thing or two about his way of talking, particularly with questions. Someone asks about who their neighbor is, he tells a story that shows how complex and far reaching that term is. Ask him just where he gets off acting like he does and he’ll ask if you thought John the Baptizer was a prophet or not.
It’s a good bet that they’d figured out that if you asked Jesus something like “who are you,” he’d respond by looking them in the eye and saying, “Who are you?” And if you doubt that, there are centuries of philosophers and holy people who do that sort of thing all the time.
Come to think of it, I’m starting to agree with the disciples here. That’s not a question I want to engage in anytime, particularly first thing in the morning. It only leads down the dark and scary road into my own psyche and soul. I don’t mind taking a few steps down that path, but the trees and bushes have grown dense back there. And I’m pretty sure that’s a stickerbush not too far along.
The problem is that once you come upon Jesus and the love that emanates from him, you can’t help coming upon that question. Least, I haven’t been. At arm’s length or, better yet, a fair distance it’s okay. Like the beloved disciple, I can look out and say hey, that’s Jesus. Most days I don’t even have the desire to jump over the side and swim away.
But sometimes, perhaps going about my normal tasks—mowing the yard, watering the plants, answering emails—I turn around to see that Jesus is right here with me, close enough to smell the wood smoke in his clothes. And in that moment, I’m so surprised I recognize but don’t recognize him in the same thought. But since I’m not as seasoned as the disciples, I end up blurting out, “Who are you?”
To which he responds, “Who are you?” And when, gaping like a fish, I don’t answer. He says, come on and eat so we can talk about it.
Risen One, your presence startles and surprises always challenging us and our self-image. Give us eyes, when we turn to look at you, to see ourselves reflected as loved and cherished so others might see that in us.