From Mourning to Dancing: Finding Hope in the Shadow of Tragedy

Scripture Readings: Psalm 30 and John 21:1-14

This week, I watched the documentary "The Encampment," which follows several pro-Palestinian student activists at Columbia University. Among them is Mahmoud Khalil, whose name has been in the news recently after being detained by immigration authorities for his activism while his pregnant wife awaited the birth of their child.

Mahmoud's grandparents were forced from their home in Tiberias during the Nakba. His grandmother walked 40 miles to Syria, giving birth to Mahmoud's father along the way. Years later, they were displaced again during the Syrian civil war. Now Mahmoud himself faces deportation from the United States after being detained for his activism. Most heartbreaking of all, just last week, he missed the birth of his first child. His request to be temporarily released was denied.

His father was born during exile from Tiberias, and now his son was born during his own detention—a cycle of fathers separated from children at moments that should be filled with joy. In the documentary, when asked about the possibility of arrest, Mahmoud had said with remarkable resilience, "We are a people that will not give up. We will get up and start over." Those words now take on even deeper meaning as he faces the reality of separation from his newborn child.

We too find ourselves holding contradictions. One Sunday, we celebrated Easter with flowers and music. Then the next, we gathered for a solemn vigil for the victims of the Lapu Lapu festival tragedy. Now we're here, trying to hold both experiences—joy and grief, celebration and lament—in the same heart.

The Psalmist's Journey

Psalm 30 emerges from deep grief. It was likely written for the rededication of the Temple after its desecration. The psalmist had faced a near-death experience, confronted mortality, and experienced communal trauma. Yet somehow, this person who knew profound loss could still write about dancing.

This scene is on one of the back crowning panels of the Maestà

The Disciples at Tiberias

In our Gospel reading, Jesus appears to his disciples at the Sea of Tiberias—what we commonly call the Sea of Galilee—after his resurrection. It's worth noting that John is the only Gospel writer who uses this name. Matthew, Mark, and Luke call it the Sea of Galilee, while Luke occasionally refers to it as Lake Gennesaret. John's use of "Sea of Tiberias" reflects the later dating of his Gospel, written decades after the others, when the Roman name had become more established following Herod Antipas's founding of the city of Tiberias around 20 CE.

The location matters beyond its name. Tiberias, named after the Roman emperor Tiberius, represented the impact of empire on local life—similar to the present reality in Gaza or the displacement Mahmoud's family experienced from this very region.

After the tumultuous events in Jerusalem—the crucifixion, the empty tomb, the confusion and fear—the disciples had followed instructions to go to Galilee. Perhaps they thought they would find clarity there, in the region where Jesus had done most of his ministry. Instead, they found themselves waiting, uncertain of what would come next. In this liminal space between the resurrection and whatever was to follow, they returned to what they knew.

"I am going fishing," Peter says. And the others reply, "We will go with you."

There's something deeply human about this return to routine after trauma. Less than three years earlier, many of these same disciples had left their nets when Jesus first called them to "fish for people." Now, after witnessing both horror and wonder, they seek the comfort of familiarity.

Like many advocating for Palestine today who say, "We cannot go back to normal because normal no longer exists," the disciples try to return to routine, but discover its emptiness. "That night they caught nothing." The familiar patterns yield nothing. Something has fundamentally changed.

There's a profound wisdom in this moment of emptiness. Throughout scripture, emptiness often precedes divine revelation. The empty tomb preceded the resurrection. The empty jar of the widow was filled with oil. The empty nets precede abundance.

When our familiar patterns and routines no longer yield results, it may signal that God is creating space for something new. The disciples' expertise as fishermen counted for nothing that night—a humbling experience that prepared them to receive a new insight, a new direction, a new abundance. Their emptiness created readiness.

How often do we keep casting our nets in the same waters, using the same methods, clinging to what's familiar even when it no longer serves us? Sometimes we need to acknowledge the barrenness of our efforts before we can receive new instruction. Our empty nets become a canvas on which God can paint a new future.

The Nakedness of Peter

When the disciples recognize Jesus on the shore, we encounter a curious detail: "When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea."

Peter's nakedness reminds us of our human vulnerability. Throughout scripture, nakedness often symbolizes exposure and helplessness. In Genesis, after Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit, they suddenly become aware of their nakedness and hide from God, sewing fig leaves to cover themselves. Their physical nakedness revealed a deeper spiritual vulnerability—their broken relationship with God and their shame before Him.

In Genesis 9, Noah becomes drunk and lies naked in his tent. When his son Ham sees him and tells his brothers, they walk backward with a garment to cover their father's nakedness, refusing to look. Nakedness here represents vulnerability, shame, and the need for dignity to be preserved. Ham's failure to cover his father's nakedness is treated as a serious moral failure.

In the New Testament, the man possessed by demons across the lake in the Gerasene region lived among tombs in a state of nakedness until Jesus healed him. Following the exorcism, the townspeople found him "clothed and in his right mind," his dignity restored.

In Matthew 25, clothing the naked is listed among the works of mercy. In 2 Corinthians, Paul speaks of not being found "naked" but "clothed" with our heavenly dwelling.

Yet there's a wisdom in nakedness too. The vulnerability it creates can prepare us for transformation. Peter, stripped of his garments while fishing, was also stripped of pretense. In his naked vulnerability, he was more ready to meet the risen Christ—just as we often must be stripped of our defenses, our illusions of self-sufficiency, and our pride before we can truly encounter God. Perhaps Peter's first instinct to clothe himself was a retreat into the security of the familiar, even as he moved toward Jesus.

The Abundance Amid Scarcity

After Jesus directs them to cast their nets on the right side of the boat, they catch so many fish they cannot haul them in: "one hundred fifty-three large fish."

This specificity is striking, especially in contrast to the emptiness that preceded it. Here in Vancouver, we see a similar contrast. Metro Vancouver wastes an estimated 10,000 tonnes of food annually, while one in ten households experiences food insecurity. We don't have a scarcity problem; we have a distribution problem. Some have access to abundance while others go hungry, not because there isn't enough, but because our systems are designed to channel resources toward some neighborhoods and communities while creating barriers for others.

The systems of our world operate on a false logic of scarcity while simultaneously producing unprecedented abundance that doesn't reach everyone. This contradiction reveals the lie at the heart of our economic structures—there isn't enough for everyone, we're told, so some must go without. Meanwhile, good food rots in dumpsters behind locked gates. But God's economy operates differently. The gospel reveals a divine abundance that challenges our zero-sum thinking. When the disciples' nets were empty, Jesus directed them to unexpected abundance—not just on the "right" side, but perhaps on what was previously considered the "wrong" side.

"Come and Have Breakfast"

After this miraculous catch, what does Jesus do? He doesn't launch into a theological discourse. He doesn't immediately commission them for world-changing ministry. He says, "Come and have breakfast."

This simple invitation carries profound meaning. The resurrected Christ—the Word made flesh, through whom all things were made—prepares and shares a meal. The divine serves the human.

Breaking bread together becomes an act of resistance against dehumanization in multiple ways here. First, consider the context: these disciples had just failed. They had abandoned Jesus during his trial and crucifixion. Peter had denied him three times. They had returned to fishing but caught nothing—another failure. By all accounts, they were unworthy. Yet Jesus doesn't shame them or remind them of their failures. He feeds them.

Second, remember that meals in ancient Mediterranean culture were intimate affairs that established social bonds and recognized the full humanity of participants. By preparing and sharing food with the disciples, Jesus was saying, "You still belong. You are still worthy of community. Your failures haven't defined you."

Third, think about how empire works—it divides people, isolates them, makes them compete for resources, convinces them there isn't enough. But here is Jesus, creating abundance from emptiness, gathering instead of scattering, feeding instead of exploiting. When food is weaponized in places like Gaza through blockades and restrictions, the simple act of ensuring everyone has enough to eat becomes radically countercultural.

This is the paradox at the heart of John's Gospel. The highest view of Christ's divinity is paired with the most intimate portrayal of his humanity. The eternal Word becomes flesh and prepares breakfast. The cosmic Christ cares about empty nets and hungry disciples.

From Mourning to Dancing

How do we make sense of the psalmist's claim that God turns mourning into dancing when the mourning seems unending?

The wisdom isn't in promising an end to grief, but in revealing that joy and sorrow aren't binary opposites. They exist together, intertwined, much like day and night during twilight, or like the tide's constant ebb and flow where the sea both gives and takes away. Consider how a garden needs both sunshine and rain to flourish, or how music requires both sound and silence to create melody. Think of how breathing itself is a constant rhythm of taking in and letting go.

In Palestinian Christian tradition, mourning is a communal act that typically lasts for 40 days. During this time, family members wear black and remain together, receiving visitors who come to share their condolences and memories. But within this period of mourning, moments of comfort and even joy emerge through storytelling, shared meals, and the simple presence of community.

Those advocating for an end to the genocide in Gaza find solidarity and purpose even amid heartbreak. Mahmoud Khalil, despite missing the birth of his son and facing deportation, still speaks of resilience and hope.

Meeting Christ in the Contradictions

This Gospel story invites us to recognize Christ in the contradictions of our lives—in emptiness that suddenly becomes abundance, in ordinary breakfasts that become sacred encounters, in the tension between our divine calling and our human routines.

Conclusion

As we continue our Easter journey, may we have the courage to live within the contradictions of our world.

The Lapu Lapu festival tragedy still weighs heavily on our hearts. Eleven lives taken in an instant, families forever changed, a community in mourning. As we walk alongside those who grieve, we don't offer simplistic answers or timelines for healing. Instead, we create space where both sorrow and comfort can coexist, where tears and memories can flow together. We recognize that in the midst of this deep valley of shadows, moments of connection and even glimmers of joy are not betrayals of grief but testaments to love's enduring power.

Like Peter, may we be willing to dive into the waters toward Christ, even when it means revealing our vulnerability.

Like the disciples who cast their nets on the right side, may we be willing to try new approaches when our old patterns leave us empty-handed.

Like the psalmist, may we honestly acknowledge our mourning while remaining open to the possibility of dancing.

The risen Christ meets us at the shoreline between these realities, preparing a meal, inviting us to breakfast, calling us by name. "Come," he says. "Come and eat. Come and be filled. Come and discover that I am with you in both your mourning and your dancing."

May it be so. Amen.