The beach at Walberswick.

So, this Sunday Retold is a little different. The retelling is a poem, which you’ll find below. Some of you may remember that I’m absolutely delighted to be bringing out a book of poems next year, based on the cycle of the seasons – both in nature and in the readings that many churches follow. You can find out a little more about that here. Wild Goose, the publishers, are happy for me to share some pieces in progress with you here as I work on the book.

It seems good to start with Easter, and this week – of the poems I’ve been working on – the one that seems most nearly there is one that happens to tell the story of this week’s gospel reading, John 21:1-19.

It’s such a rich passage, and there is so much that could be and has been said. I think the reason this poem has come most readily is connected to the warmth and tenderness I felt when reading the story. Although we often focus on the extraordinary elements – and they are there, sure enough – I warmed to the ordinary. Once again, Jesus is feeding his friends. He knows they have been working all night, and he anticipates the depth of their hunger, their cold, their disappointment, and their need for this breakfast. It is a feature of these Easter stories, how often eating together is involved, how simple and reassuring the talk.

And here, we see the dance of grace – forgiveness for Peter, yes – but there is also the simple lifegiving grace of sharing food, of receiving, and giving. Of giving, and receiving. It is a revolutionary gift economy in fishing and sharing, in forgiveness and purpose, and its something I’ve missed before…. Perhaps I’ve been too caught up in the strangeness, or the textural intricacies, or the story being about Peter, to see how this new life is also about cooking breakfast for hungry people, and them having enough – strength, fish, new beginnings – to feed others in turn.

I love Wendell Berry’s phrase, “practice resurrection”, and this Easter, I’m wondering what that might mean….

But here is the poem.

Overflowing

Gathered around the fire,
dripping with lake-water
and morning chill,
they warmed themselves
in quiet, not asking who it was
who cooked them breakfast
on charcoal and hot stones.

After such a night, such an empty-
netted night of no-going-back
to the old life, of cold,
of hunger, of ropes
against skin,
they sat on the shore
with the smokesmell
of griddled fish and fresh
bread filling their senses.

In the dawn shadows –
the last stars fading,
the first light gleaming –
you handed them this
feast – loaves and fishes,
bread broken – you fed them
and warmed them.

This is how it flows,
the dance of new life.

We may be fisherfolk with
empty nets, but you
guide our hands. And we are
overflowing. You cook breakfast,
and we share a feast.

And then, and then,
the invitation, the instruction,
the grace to Peter and perhaps to all –
Feed my lambs,
Feed my sheep, my sheep.

We receive, and we give,
we give, and receive, for
there is enough.
There is grace enough to
break the nets and yet
the nets are whole, and look,
still the sea is full of fish

Overflowing
Dancing
In the new light of dawn.

The Little Free Pantry at St Andrew’s Church, Melton – one of many now springing up.

This story, of the miraculous catch of fish, and Peter’s restoration, is included in my retelling pictured above.