Peter’s Monologue – So Here I Sit
Sermon Preached by Reverend Tracey Gracey on Sunday, 4 May, 2025.
John 21:1-19
So here I sit. On this shore. And when I look back, it all makes sense now.
At the time, I couldn’t see it.
I was the one who said, “I’m going fishing,” and the others came with me.
There were seven of us that night. Me – Simon Peter. And Thomas, the one who struggled to believe. Nathanael, the honest one. James and John, sons of thunder.
And two more disciples – unnamed in the story, as if to leave space for every disciple still to come.
Seven. A number full of meaning. Completeness. Fullness. Perfection.
This was God’s way of saying: This is no accident. This is the start of something whole.
We thought we were going back to something safe.
Something we understood. Fishing.
The rhythm of casting nets. The familiar creak of the boat.
The sea, vast and steady, offering our old livelihood after the storm of crucifixion. But something had shifted.
We worked all night. Nothing. The nets were as empty as we felt.
We fished in darkness – the kind of darkness that sits heavy, not just on the sea, but on your soul. It was the darkness of grief. Of doubt. Of wondering if everything we had believed in had died with Jesus.
And then, just as day was breaking, a voice called out from the shore:
“Cast your net on the right side of the boat.”
The right side. I didn’t understand it then, but I see it now.
In our scriptures, the right hand of God is a symbol of strength, of power, of blessing.
Casting our nets on the “right side” of the boat was a way of saying: Let God be the source. Let God guide. Let God can sustain you.
So we obeyed the voice.
And the net filled – bursting, straining, alive with abundance.
A multitude of fish. So many that we could hardly haul them in.
We were on the right track.
But we weren’t yet strong enough to manage the work ourselves.
Spiritually, we were still growing – still being shaped into the kind of disciples who would continue Jesus’ work.
It was never just about the fish.
It was about what we were learning:
That following Jesus requires more than willing hands – it requires an open heart.
A soul anchored in trust.
We had followed Jesus, walked with him, eaten with him – but this was a new chapter.
The nets were heavy because the task ahead would be weighty too:
for we were being commissioned to gather a world in need with kindness, patience, and love.
Then John said. “It is the Lord.”
And I knew.
I put on my clothes, as every good Jewish man would before going ashore—and I threw myself into the sea. Not just to reach him faster. But to be washed again.
Jesus had once knelt and washed my feet, calling me clean.
But since then, I had denied him. Publicly. Painfully.
This water was my baptism of sorts. My way of saying:
Cleanse – my thoughts, my failures, my shame, my soul.
And there he was. On the beach. Beside a charcoal fire.
The last time I had stood near one, I had denied even knowing him.
But this time, there was no judgement in his eyes. No condemnation. Just welcome.
He already had fish and bread on the fire—he didn’t need our catch.
But he said, “Bring some of what you’ve caught.”
And I realised – that’s the new call.
We’re not just followers anymore.
We’re co-workers. Partners with Jesus.
Jesus was inviting us to draw in the multitude – the hungry, the hurting, the broken, the searching.
Then he said, “Come and have breakfast.”
It wasn’t a command – it was a gentle invitation.
A reminder that we are always welcome, even when we fail.
Whatever the question, the fear, or the doubt – Jesus will always say: Come.
He took bread. Broke it. Just like he had that night before his death.
And in that moment, I remembered his words.
“Do this in remembrance of me.”
This bread – this breaking – it’s more than a meal.
It’s a sign. A living symbol.
We don’t just remember his death—we remember his life, his welcome, his way.
Then he turned to me.
“Simon, do you love me?”
Three times.
And each time, I answered yes.
It wasn’t a test. It was healing. Each yes released my shame.
Each yes said, You are still mine. Still called. Still loved.
Then came the commission:
“Feed my lambs.
Tend my sheep.
Feed my sheep.”
And suddenly I understood.
This is our dual calling.
We are the lambs – still learning, still growing.
And we are the shepherds now – called to care, to lead, to love, to offer what we’ve learnt.
And then came the words that started it all.
“Follow me.”
Not just believe in me.
Follow me.
That’s now my life.
To walk where he walked.
To speak as he spoke.
To serve, to break bread, to draw in the multitude, and to love – even when it costs. Even when we fall.
So here I sit. On this shore. And when I look back, it all makes sense now.
Jesus didn’t just restore me. He gave me a new beginning.
Not just for me. But for us.
This is where the story of the Church begins.
Seven disciples. One voice from the shore.
And a net that holds the world.
Amen