Beloved in Christ,
Today’s Gospel is full of quiet wonder. It begins with fishermen returning to the sea, to the ordinary work they knew before Jesus called them. These disciples have seen the Risen Lord, and yet they return to what is familiar, perhaps unsure of what comes next. This is not a failure of faith—it is a very human response to resurrection.
And then, in the hush of dawn, Christ appears on the shore.
He doesn’t call out in thunder. He simply says, “Have you caught anything, friends?” This gentle question is not to embarrass them but to open their hearts. And then He directs them: “Throw the net out to starboard and you will find something.” The net fills, overflowing with fish, and the beloved disciple recognises Him—not by His appearance, but by the abundance, the grace.
Here in our Abbey, where silence guides our days, this passage speaks to the soul. Christ comes to us in the ordinary, in the grey hours before sunrise, in the familiar work that feels fruitless—until He speaks.
And then comes the heart of it all: the charcoal fire, the shared meal, and Peter—so bold once, so broken now—receives his commission. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Three times. A wound reopened so it may be healed. Peter denied Christ beside a charcoal fire. Now, beside another, Christ restores him—not with shame, but with love.
This is how the Lord deals with our failings. Not with condemnation, but with invitation: “Feed my sheep.”
Brothers and sisters, this Gospel is not just about Peter. It is about every soul who has failed, doubted, or returned to old habits. It is about the quiet mercy of the Risen Christ who meets us in our daily lives, who feeds us, who calls us back to love.
Here, in Our Lady of Silence, we are taught daily to wait on the shore of our hearts, watching for the dawn, listening for His voice.
May we all learn to recognise Him there.
Amen.