My Uncle Stanley worked in heavy construction all over the world. He would come back to the States every couple of years with stories to tell about his adventures. Kids were just naturally attracted to my Uncle Stan, and we were no exception. One of his adventures took place while he was living in Saudi Arabia and concerned some of the huge road-building machinery he maintained. One day, the son of the local sheik was climbing around on the rig and fell and broke his arm. This was at a time and in a part of the world where justice was meted out in terms of an eye-for-an-eye. Uncle Stan figured he was in big trouble. His concern increased when he was invited to dinner at the sheik’s house. A perfect opportunity, he thought, to even the score. The day came, and he went to dinner. As my uncle and the sheik broke bread together, salting each other’s bread, Uncle Stan realized that this meant he was forgiven. In that culture, to break bread and share salt with someone—you may as well be brothers.

I remember that story about hospitality when you invite me into your homes. My mentor warned me, on pain of becoming the Goodyear blimp, not to eat when I visit. “People will bake for you,” he said, and then admitted he’d gained 20 pounds in his first six months of ministry. I took his point, but there is something hospitable about even sharing a cup of tea. Sort of like a stranger calling you in off the lake to share breakfast. Jesus was no stranger, but his disciples suspected he was when he called to them. Even a stranger knows that one of the quickest ways to put people at ease is to share a meal with them. Peter was finally at ease after the turbulent events of Jerusalem. Maybe it was being back in Galilee, out in a boat again, but he was willing to be put to work when Jesus suggested he help with breakfast. Like any business breakfast meeting, when the meal was over and the dishes were being cleared, Jesus turns to Peter with the question that brought them all back to Galilee, back to home turf, doing familiar things. “Do you love me?”

That was a reasonable question to ask, under the circumstances. Just days before, passing up an opportunity to stand up for Jesus, Peter denied ever knowing the guy. Not once but three times. It is especially pointed that Jesus asks three times if Peter loves him. More puzzling, however, is Jesus’ response to Peter’s protestations of love and devotion. “Feed my sheep.” As if Jesus makes a connection between hospitality and the nurture of Christian discipleship.

Christians continue to make a connection. I just spent a day with the Benedictine sisters in Mount Angel this week. The Rule of St Benedict says that each guest is to be treated as Christ, and whenever I arrive at Shalom Prayer Center, I am greeted with warm hugs and questions eager to catch up on my life. The sisters make sure I’m comfortable and well fed, respectfully giving me room for silence or conversation, depending on what I need. When I was there this week, I had an insight into Benedictine hospitality. Two of the guests at Shalom were unfamiliar with the routine. They came into Shalom confused about how to get dinner, which was in the monastery that night. I could have given verbal directions, and that would have worked, but it didn’t feel very hospitable. Even though I had already eaten, I walked them to the monastery and introduced them to a sister, who could help them feel at home. It was a small gesture, but I found myself modeling my behavior on that of the sisters who welcome me as Christ into their home. What surprised me was the sense of humility I had, of offering hospitality that was not mine. This home was not mine, but I could offer its hospitality, because it had been so freely given to me. What came to mind was the table prayer at Shalom, “We who receive so much from your open hand, may we never forget the poor, the hungry, the homeless.”

But back to our fish story. After all the breakfast dishes are cleared, Jesus turns to Peter and asks, “Do you love me?” This is not an offhand question. I read that this question should be the sub-plot of every worship service, which of course made me wonder, who is asking whom? It’s worship—are we to ask God, “Do you love me?” Forget how presumptuous and uppity that sounds. It’s a moot point, since God has already answered the question with a definite, conclusive affirmative: “I love you. I sent my Son.” Our best response to this is to fall on our faces in gratitude. But does Jesus still ask this of us? “Do you love me? Do you love me more than these?” What “these”? These other people—are we the most loving of all your disciples? That seems competitive, like one-upmanship and, frankly, I don’t think God is in that business. Maybe the question to us is, “Do you love me more than these—other things, stuff, these distractions, your job, your volunteer work, the things you can buy, all your activities and sports. Do you love me?”

If our answer is “yes,” Jesus expects further response. Peter is told to “feed my sheep.” Peter came from a culture that knew all about sheep and shepherds, but except for Lynne, most of us aren’t up to snuff on the details of sheep/shepherd relations, so let’s not get literal. Let’s concentrate on the “feed” part. To “feed my sheep” can be both literal and figurative. We can respond literally—bring food for the red tub, drive for Meals on Wheels, deliver food boxes, serve lunches to hungry kids in the summer, give to One Great Hour of Sharing and Peace Offerings. But we can also respond figuratively, as if it’s about discipleship—teach Sunday School, lead worship, become familiar with what the Bible says to us, attend adult Sunday School, hang out with other Christians, pray together and for each other, support one another’s faith journeys.

This table might be a response to “feed my sheep.” The meal we share here is both literal and figurative. It is the symbolic equivalent of the shore breakfast Jesus fixed for his disciples—a meal in which the Risen Christ is recognized as he breaks bread. When you invite friends to come to church with you, maybe that’s the same as Jesus asking Peter to help fix breakfast. That little chunk of bread and sip of juice that we receive during this service is not enough to be filling. But it would be a lie if I told you nothing happens when we gather around this table, praying that the Holy Spirit will change this bread and juice in our bodies and make us the Body of Christ. Something happens, when we “feed the sheep,” when we recognize our risen Savior in this meal. We are fed to feed others.

The Presbyterian Book of Order, our constitution, tries to explain what happens in this meal. It says that this joyful feast looks forward to the Kingdom of God, that we are in Christ’s presence through the Holy Spirit’s work, and that we anticipate the time when Christ comes again in glory. It says that what nourishes us is hope—not literally those mouthfuls of bread and juice—hope that God’s kingdom will come, and it is that hope that sends us out to do God’s work in the world—as if the kingdom is happening now. Because we eat this bread and drink this juice today, we are strengthened to proclaim the gospel, to show compassion, to work for justice and peace until Christ’s Kingdom comes at last. Amen.