“Come and have breakfast”– in the heart broken disappointment there’s an invitation.
Things didn’t turn out as they thought. The Roman rulers were still on their thrones, they were still obscure rebels on the run– even more so now– people say their leader is dead and they don’t even have the comforting knowledge that they had been with Him to the end. They had caused heart-break, and now in their grief they were heart-broken themselves.
And they can’t even catch one single fish after a whole night. Hunger gnaws before daybreak.
Yet– what’s that? A man on the beach, calling oh-so-reminiscent of the day it all began.
“Cast your nets to the other side”– is God mocking us in our grief? Only one man ever said that to us.
But with the tiredness after many tears, we just do it. The ropes slide through my hands, splashing along the side of the boat. My arms are suddenly groping under the weight– who is this man who fills our lack? John realises it, Peter is in the water, and I’m squinting in the daybreak– could it be?
“Come and have breakfast”– it’s His hauntingly lovely voice, a cool breeze on a summer’s day.
Come and have breakfast– oh, it’s what Dad always used to sing to us from Asaph’s Psalm–
“Open your mouth wide and I will fill it.”
This is not the end.
It’s only the beginning.
“Now there are also many other things that Jesus did.
Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself
could not contain the books that would be written.”