Breakfast on the Beach

“Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach, but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus…When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread…Jesus said to them, ‘Come and have breakfast.’ 

“When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, 'Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’ A second time he said to him, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Tend my sheep.’ He said to him the third time, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ Peter felt hurt because he said to him the 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’…After this he said to him, ‘Follow me.’”

-John 21:4, 9, 12, 15-17,19b  (I’ve cut this up to shorten it for the devotion. The entire text is verses 4-19, and I encourage you to read it)


I’ve always loved the beach. I grew up there. I spent so much time out there that I probably owe Mrs. Culbert an apology for the frequency with which I skipped her afternoon chemistry class to get out to the beach.

So I loved spending time on the beach with our church family last week. We set up our makeshift beach camp with various tents, umbrellas, and shades, which we then had to move multiple times to escape the incoming tide. We shared picnics in the sun and sand with friends. We watched the twenty-somethings teach the younger kids how to boogie board. It was wonderful.

To me, the beach has always been a place of transition. There is the obvious literal interpretation: the beach is the place where land gives way to sea. It is a boundary, a threshold. But for me, the beach has also always been a place of spiritual transition.

I grew up spending a week each summer at Camp St. Christopher on Seabrook Island, just outside of my hometown of Charleston. It is a summer camp run by the Episcopal Church, so the days were filled with fishing, crabbing, sailing, campfires, and all the other standard camp fare. But they were also filled with sunrise worship, small group discussions on Scripture, and nightly compline services. It was the place where I could most clearly feel God’s presence. In hindsight, it was also instrumental in my sense of call and in my journey toward ministry.

The common term for a place like this, used by some spiritual writers, is a “liminal space.” A liminal space is a place of transition. It can be metaphorical, like moving from one stage of life to another: marriage, childbirth, grief, a new job, etc. Or it can be literal: a physical place that symbolizes transition and opens us to change.

You might have a different place that gives you that sense of liminality, but I think we are all in desperate need of such places. That is one of the reasons I believe retreat ministries are so valuable for our discipleship. They pull us out of our routines. They interrupt the normal patterns of our lives.

Franciscan theologian Richard Rohr describes liminal space as the place where transformation becomes possible. He writes that in liminality, “our old world [is] left behind,” even though “we’re not yet sure of the new existence.” It is the space where our false certainties begin to loosen, where the old world can fall apart, and where a larger world can be revealed.

I think that is part of why the beach has always felt sacred to me. The beach is never quite still. The tide comes in and goes out. The sand moves beneath your feet. Everything about the place reminds you that creation is alive, that change is real, and that the boundaries we assume are fixed may not be as permanent as we think.

That is also what makes John 21 such a beautiful resurrection story.

The disciples are in their own liminal space. Jesus has been crucified. Jesus has been raised. But the disciples do not yet fully understand what that means for them. They are somewhere between their old life and their new calling.

So Jesus meets them on the beach, and when they reach him, he has breakfast waiting.

After breakfast, Jesus turns to Peter and asks the question that will transform him: “Do you love me?” Three times Peter had denied Jesus. Three times, Jesus asks Peter to confess his love. And each time, Jesus responds not with shame, but with calling: “Feed my lambs.” “Tend my sheep.” “Feed my sheep.”

On the beach, Peter is not allowed to remain who he was, but neither is he condemned for his failure. He is met by grace, restored by love, and sent into a new future. That is what holy liminal spaces can do. They create room for us to hear the voice of Christ again. They loosen our grip on the lives we thought we understood. They help us see that God is not finished with us yet.

Maybe that is why places like Epworth, Camp St. Christopher, or whatever holy place has shaped your life matter so much. They are not escapes from the real world. They are places where we are reminded what is most real. They are places where the ordinary world becomes beautiful enough and quiet enough for us to recognize Jesus standing on the shore.

Sometimes transformation begins when we step away from our routines long enough to hear Christ ask us again, “Do you love me?”

Sometimes it begins when we realize that the tide has shifted, the old shoreline has moved, and God is calling us into something new.

Rev. Ryan Young