Moving On
Among the wonders of the Grand Forest on Bainbridge Island is a steep, curvy trail that takes you up and around old-growth Fir and Maple, over two bridges, and past a quiet pond where dragonflies skim the water in summer. In April, the trail is decorated with hundreds, thousands of trilliums, mostly white, but also with a host of pinks and stripes and purples as if they’ve branched out, throwing off white in favor of something more festive, and each one, whether it’s solitary or communal, each one speaks to me of the Trinity, its very nature bearing witness to clusters of three.
I’ve heard today’s Gospel dozens of times, how it resonates with threes: the Emmaus road, the upper room, the seashore, Father, Son, Holy Spirit; Mary, Joseph, Jesus; Peter, James, John; Simon, son of John, do you love me? What’s easy in this story is Peter’s enthusiasm, putting on clothes and jumping into the water. What’s easy is the number of fish. What’s easy is the food – fish and bread – no need for complications. What’s harder is the fishing net. Does that mean, throw the net on the right side of the boat, opposite the left side, or does that mean the right side, like the correct side for catching fish? Or is it an allusion to Jesus, making the correct choice for aligning one’s life?
What’s harder still is the third appearance: resurrected Jesus. The first time Jesus shows up, imagine the shock and disbelief: what’s happening? The second time: are you sure? Third time: confirmation and joy, right there on the seashore. All the disciples flee at the crucifixion in Mark. All the women run in amazement and in fear in John, except Mary Magdalene. And did you hear? All of the disciples are behind locked doors in fear in an upper room. That’s not only eleven apostles, but the many disciples who follow him. And Jesus stands there on the shore, simply appearing, past explanation, beyond reason, leading us again into a place where we grapple with the mystery, where we stand transfixed.
When he appears for the third time, it’s unexpected, and he shows signs so they will believe. This story is about a journey into an unknown land where time is distended and elusive. It’s a journey and a search, for the apostles, for disciples, for Jesus, for us. You may have heard about Jesus on the shore dozens of times, but take another look. The miracle isn’t resurrection per se. The miracle is that the divine keeps showing up, not to overpower, but to relate. This story is about relationship. The marks on the hands and side are not proofs of power but invitations to closeness. That might be the real grace: not just that God lives, but that God lingers. Jesus stays around for a week, after Friday at Golgotha, Saturday in the cave, Sunday with angels-in-white and Mary Magdalene and the dusty Emmaus road, and Sunday evening behind the bolted door.
The Divine wants people to get close, to find intimacy, and it is Divine who initiates three close-up encounters. We are a hands-on people who can discern a greater meaning, with its unbearable poignancy, through touch, sight, and taste. The heart of this story is the physical embodiment of the Godself in the person of Jesus, behind the door, on the road, on the shore—here.
You might ask, “How many borders do I have cross to reach that place? It feels as I have a long way to go.” Time shifts in a mystifying way, but maybe it’s the nature of time when we’re inside the kingdom. One minute you might be blistered and burned out, and the next minute have an encounter on a road or room or shore, and feel heard and enfolded by Jesus, twenty centuries post-crucifixion. If you are alone, if you feel forgotten, abandoned, unloved, when it feels as if you’re on the edge of a gravesite, you are still, absolutely, in the company of the Trinity.
And I invite you to imagine whatever you need to hear this: how many signs will it take to believe the story? What would it take? Shall I tell you again about the fish, or about a certain olive tree in the garden? The presence of God is here, and it’s redemptive. I still believe in it. Yes, I do. And as I watch the unfolding story, steeped in the mystery of Easter, I see that it’s a journey that’s both solitary and communal. You may carry a heart that’s broken, seared and scarred after trial by fire, but here we are, together, embedded in the beauty of a life that’s inflected by Jesus, infused with him, and I use a phrase from a colleague when I say, “We can hold onto one another, we can hold onto one another, as we move through the graveyards and gardens of our lives.”*
*(From The Very Rev. Steve Thomason, Lent 5, 2025, St. Mark’s Cathedral, Seattle)
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