Easter in a Good Friday World

A Reflection for the Third Sunday of Easter (Year C)

Photo by Hasse Lossius on Unsplash

“Simon son of John, do you love me?…Feed my sheep.”
John 21:17

CHRISTIAN FATALISM

For centuries, Christians have debated the extent to which we are free. We have argued about whether we have a choice in our eternal destiny or if it is already fixed in God’s plan. We have fought over the events of our lives, the future of our world, and the relationship between God’s love and sovereignty. But regardless of which side you fall on in these theological wrestling matches, we have all been affected by what I call ‘Christian fatalism.’

Fatalism is a philosophy or belief system in which all actions, events, relationships, and realities in the cosmos are seen as predetermined and the future is believed to be outside of our control or influence.^¹ In some branches of the Christian religion, God is the one who predestines the lives of the world and all people, and free will is rejected (to varying degrees) in favour of God’s sovereignty. This could be nothing more than an interesting theological conversation, were it not that it impacted so many facets of our lives and world.

As we journey through the Easter season, it is tempting to view the resurrection as a sign that everything is guaranteed for people of faith. Jesus rising from the grave and his promise to return are often used as proofs that “everything will be alright in the end,” or to quote a popular verse, “We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28 NRSV). Christian fatalism translates these biblical ideas into the belief that God is always “in control” and working to ensure that Christians are healthy, wealthy, and happy. While this may be the source of great comfort during times of struggle, it often results in flippant assurances of divine care and a lack of compassion toward those who are suffering. It also encourages believers to stay out of politics, avoid social justice issues, and trust that everything is part of God’s plan.

But how do we reconcile the claim that God is going to work everything out in our favour when we’re facing a diagnosis of a terminal illness, or the loss of our livelihood, with little possibility of finding a new job? How is everything working for good when our marriage is broken beyond repair, along with the domino effect on our relationships with our children, extended family, and shared friendships? Or how can we feel that everything will be alright when the weight of living in this world becomes too heavy and we find ourselves descending into depression, self-harm, and despair? Such simple positivity about our human existence requires more than a pinch of denial, especially when we consider how few of us have the resources and power to ensure consistent security and sufficiency for our needs.

Beyond our personal and relational struggles, how do we cling to the conviction that everything will be alright when our civilisation is literally standing on the brink of death? Brian McLaren compares the main systems of our global society to “suicide machines” that end up destroying the people who created them.² When we take note of the multiple crises of our time, we cannot help but acknowledge that we have overtaxed the resources and processes of our planet, and we have not been able to create systems to sustain our economic, energy, food, water, health, and housing needs.

In the face of these realities, Christian fatalism clings to the belief that there is nothing to worry about, that God has it all worked out and that all we need to do is believe. But what if it won’t all be alright, at least not in our lifetimes? What if, before our world and our society are restored, we have to endure our civilisation collapsing under the weight of the polycrisis? As Brian McLaren notes, “These days, more and more of us are experiencing the stages of grief as a shared social experience. Our whole society seems to be ping-ponging back and forth between shock and denial and anger and bargaining and depression.”³ How do we speak of Easter in such a Good Friday world?

OPENING TO POSSIBILITY

On the third Sunday of Easter, the Lectionary takes us to a beach in Galilee where the post-resurrection Jesus shared breakfast with some of his disciples. This story is a mirror by which we can recognise and address our grief and pain. John’s gospel does not whitewash the crises Peter and the other disciples would have to face, and it doesn’t try to placate us with platitudes or a religiously fatalistic belief in “it will all work out in the end.” Rather, by allowing us to eavesdrop on Jesus’ conversation with Peter, it offers us a guide for living the resurrection in a graveyard world.

At the start of John 21, we get a glimpse into Peter’s state of mind through his simple, but revealing statement: “I am going fishing.” He had already seen the empty tomb and encountered the Risen Christ. He had heard Jesus tell his friends that he was sending them out as agents of forgiveness and reconciliation, and he had received the breath of the Spirit that would empower them all in this mission. But somehow, his grief and guilt remained. It was common in ancient writings to end with an epilogue that answered questions about the fate of the primary characters⁴. In John’s Gospel, it was important for the readers to know what had happened to Peter after his denial of Christ, and to assure them that he was well-qualified for his prominent leadership role in the Church.

John’s narrative portrays Peter as grieving, guilt-ridden, confused, impatient, depressed, anxious, angry, and traumatised. In this state, he couldn’t just sit and wait for something to happen—he was not built that way. He had to do something, and so he returned to his old life, hoping to find comfort, simplicity, certainty, calm, and relief. In itself, there was nothing wrong with this, but if he was hoping to find an emotional refuge in which to hide from reality, he was disappointed. He could not go back to his pre-Jesus life because it no longer existed. He could not unsee what he had seen. He could not unlive what he had lived through. He could not unknow what he now knew. But in the midst of the pain, Jesus appeared—and the first thing he did was feed them. He cooked them breakfast, nourished them, and reminded them of the life, joy, and wisdom they’d found around the table so often in the past. In doing this, Jesus ensured that Peter would be in a place to deal with the difficult but unavoidable conversation they needed to have.

When the time came for them to talk, Jesus did not accuse; he did not shout, “How can you say you love me, when you did what you did?” Instead, he gave Peter the space to remember the truth of their relationship through the simple question, “Do you love me?”—asked three times to cancel out Peter’s three denials. Then, taking Peter back to one of his primary metaphors for himself, Jesus called the fisherman back to the work he had signed up for before the trauma of the cross. In John 10, Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd,” but now Peter and his companions were to become shepherds.⁵ Their task was simply to love Jesus enough to feed and care for his sheep. To love Jesus was to love his way—twice in this passage, Jesus tells Peter to “Follow me” (vss.19 and 22). And the sheep to be fed were all the people they could ever encounter or imagine (as John 3:16 says, “For God so loved the world…”).

Jesus did not remove Peter’s grief, trauma, and fear. He didn’t promise that it would all be alright in the end. But he did help his disciples to see that grief, pain, and catastrophe did not have to define them. They could cry, rage, collapse, fail, and lose hope, but still find Christ and his life within and around them. They could still choose to live in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). They could still resist the power of death and evil, and they could still lay down their lives in little acts of care, nourishment, and upliftment for the people around them.