FRIDAY OF THE SEVENTH WEEK OF EASTER, JUNE 6, 2025

MASS READING:

Gospel John 21:15-19 

After Jesus had revealed himself to his disciples and eaten breakfast with them,

he said to Simon Peter,

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

Simon Peter answered him, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.”

He then said to Simon Peter a second time,

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Simon Peter answered him, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

He said to him, “Tend my sheep.”

He said to him the third time,

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Peter was distressed that he had said to him a third time,

“Do you love me?” and he said to him,

“Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.”

Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.

Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger,

you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted;

but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands,

and someone else will dress you

and lead you where you do not want to go.”

He said this signifying by what kind of death he would glorify God.

And when he had said this, he said to him, “Follow me.”

REFLECTION:

The way Jesus asked Peter whether he loved Him was probably in three different words for love, since the English translation is limited. I wonder if Jesus is asking me every day, in three different ways, if I love Him.

 

The first is patting me on the back so hard that my knees buckle.

The second is hugging me so tight that I pass out.

The third is rustling my hair so much that my posture changes—my head dips.

After those three gestures, I feel like Peter—distressed.

 

Even when He says to Peter, “When you grow old, you will stretch out your arms, and someone else will dress you…”

 

I don’t even need to grow old. When I had two frozen shoulders and a neurological disorder that compounded the pain—someone else dressed me, and took me to places I didn’t want to go.

 

Yet in the end, I find myself as a half-written, tattered book tossed in the mud.

He walks by, noticing me.

He picks me up, uses the end of His cloak to wipe me clean.

He flicks through each page, carefully separating them, brushing off the dirt as He reads.

He carries me home, puts a new cover on me.

Then He writes the rest of the story and places me on His bookshelf.