Peter & Paul Sunday

It is one of the most interesting scenes in all the gospels. Jesus has just made breakfast for Peter and several of the other disciples, grilling fresh fish on an open fire by the Sea of Tiberias. But this Jesus is different. This is not the Jesus they traveled with, this is crucified Jesus, Jesus with holes in his hands, feet and side. This is resurrected Jesus who rose from the dead after three days in the tomb. He appears out of nowhere, feeds his friends and then disappears as quickly as he came.

But before he goes, he gives Peter a chance for reconciliation and healing. If you remember, when Jesus was arrested and handed over to the Roman authorities to be crucified, three different times Peter denied knowing Jesus. Peter who claimed to be Jesus’ most loyal disciple, talked a big game about standing by his friend even to the point of death, but when the moment came, Peter turned his back on Jesus to save his own skin. Now, sitting by the sea with a belly full of fish, Peter is confronted by Jesus who asks him the same question three times – once for each of the times Peter denied knowing him. “Simon Son of John, do you love me?” Each time Peter responds in the affirmative – “Yes Lod, you know I love you.” Then “feed my lambs,” Jesus tells him, “tend my sheep,” “feed my sheep.”

Here is the Son of God who has defeated death and risen to new life and notice his amazing response to Peter’s reply, a response that says something fundamental about the nature of our faith. Jesus doesn’t say – Peter do you love me – then kneel at my feet. Peter, do you love me – then worship me. Peter, do you love me – then build a shrine in my honor and to my glory. No, Jesus doesn’t ask for veneration – he asks for imitation. Each time Jesus points away from himself and towards others, towards those who followed him, towards the hungry, needy crowds who came out to see him, towards the poor and the sick that he healed, the tax collectors, prostitutes and sinners that he dined with, the outcasts, the little children, the forgotten ones that he surrounded himself with. If you love me, Jesus says to Peter, then love them. If you love me, then love them. This is the mark of discipleship – not only believing in Jesus but loving like Jesus.

Notice here the grace of this moment as well. Peter, the one who denied Jesus is not only forgiven but he is commissioned. Jesus doesn’t say to Peter that he can’t trust him anymore. No, the grace that Jesus offers Peter, the forgiveness he offers, it restores, it renews, and it sends Peter out to carry on Jesus’ work. And it’s a grace offered not just to Peter, but to each of us. Because all of us have had our moments of fear and failure. All of us have denied Jesus in one way or another. But still he comes to us. Still he asks: “Do you love me?” And if we say yes, he says, “Then feed my sheep. Tend my people. Carry my love into the world.”

I am reminded of the nurse in the hospital in Gaza tending to those wounded by war. The building shakes with explosions. Supplies are short. Sleep is scarce. And yet she keeps showing up, day after day, to bind wounds, calm fears, and cradle children who are not her own. This is what ‘feeding my sheep’ looks like in the rubble. Not sentimental or soft, but a fierce, stubborn refusal to stop caring—even when the world burns.

Or the young man in El Paso who volunteers his weekends to meet buses of migrants dropped off by border patrol. He brings water, makes calls to family, helps people find shelter. He does it quietly. No fuss. Just offering what he can. He could spend his Saturday doing anything. Instead, he chooses to see the people others pass by. To feed the sheep no one else wants to see. He doesn’t do it to earn Jesus’ love. He does it because Jesus already loved him—and so he seeks to love others.

Today we celebrate the feast day of our patron saints—Peter and Paul. While we are known as the Washington National Cathedral, we are in fact the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Two very different men—one a fisherman, impulsive and passionate; the other a scholar, intense and driven. Both deeply flawed. Both profoundly faithful. And both transformed by the grace of God.

In our reading this morning, Paul is writing from prison to his friend and colleague Timothy. It was probably the last letter Paul ever sent. He was beheaded in Rome by the Emperor Nero shortly thereafter. Peter too was executed in Rome by Nero sometime during those years; he was crucified like Jesus, but upside down.

In these final words Paul gives his last charge, as relevant today as it was 2000 years ago: “I solemnly urge you,” Paul writes to Timothy, “proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable. For the time is coming,” he says, “when people will not put up with sound doctrine, but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires.” They will turn away from the truth and wander into myths. Sound familiar? We live in an age of distraction and distortion, when the truth often gets buried beneath the noise. We are bombarded with misinformation and spin, with ideologies that offer easy answers and ask little in return. It is tempting, in such a world, to go silent. But Paul’s instructions are clear: Don’t retreat. Don’t give up. Be persistent—in love, in truth, in patience, and in hope.

Peter knew what it was to fail. But when Jesus restored him, Peter didn’t just go back to fishing. He became the rock upon which the Church was built. Paul, too, knew what it meant to get it wrong. He persecuted the Church, arresting or stoning the followers of Jesus. But Christ met him on the road to Damascus, turned him around, and gave him a new purpose—to proclaim the Gospel for the very people he once opposed. These two men, deeply human, deeply flawed became the great apostles of the faith, not because they were righteous, but because they were willing. Willing to love, to serve, to speak the truth, and to follow Jesus wherever he led.

And now it’s our turn, our turn to love like Jesus and to persist in the proclamation of the Good News. Sometimes that looks like kindness in a culture of contempt. Sometimes it looks like telling the truth when it would be easier to stay quiet. Sometimes it’s forgiveness instead of resentment, courage instead of fear. Sometimes it’s just showing up—being present, being faithful, being willing to serve. And always, it means keeping Christ at the center. Not our agendas. Not our egos. Not our politics. But Jesus—the one who feeds the hungry, welcomes the stranger, heals the broken, and calls us to do the same.

So today, as we remember Peter and Paul, we ask ourselves: Do we love Jesus? If we strive to answer yes to that question, then we know what he asks of us. Feed his sheep. Care for his people. Live the Gospel with quiet persistence—not for recognition, but for love.

In a world of shouting, may our voices be steady. In a world of spin, may we speak truth in love. In a world hungry for hope, may we persist—not for applause, but for Christ. That like Peter and Paul, our lives may say clearly: Jesus is Lord. And that is enough. Amen.