Cast Yourself Into the Sea: Faith When the World Is Burning

I've been dreading preaching this Easter sermon.

Normally, it's the coveted slot—the day when the most people show up, when the most eyes are watching online. It's the moment when, as a preacher, you want to be the one holding the microphone.

But this year, I found myself repeatedly resisting the urge to call my co-pastor Tonetta and say, "I've got nothing." Because in a world filled with so much violence and chaos, with authoritarianism creeping (or stomping) into our democracy, with immigrants being disappeared by our government, with our tax dollars funding the slaughter of innocent children in Palestine—what could I possibly say about resurrection that isn't just empty platitudes about hope?

What does a 2,000-year-old story about an empty tomb have to say to us now?

When Righteous Anger Runs Dry

I've noticed something troubling lately. My reservoir of righteous anger is diminishing. My grief is beginning to feel stale, and that scares me. I've always been fueled by righteous anger and grief. I need my grief to transform into fuel. I need the waste and pain of this life to become compost where new things can grow.

So I turned to my theology books and history books for reminders. And I was struck by something profoundly obvious that I'd somehow forgotten: Christianity was never a faith designed for comfortable times.

Our faith wasn't born in peace and prosperity. It emerged in the shadow of history's most brutal empire. Jesus wasn't just executed—he was lynched as a state criminal. His followers were persecuted minorities.

If I think my faith only makes sense when things are good, I don't really understand my faith at all.

The Religion of the Marginalized

The historical reality is that Christianity began as a movement of the marginalized. Jesus himself was born to an unwed teenage mother in occupied territory. His family became refugees fleeing political violence. He grew up in a backwater town so unremarkable that one of his disciples famously asked, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?"

Jesus didn't gather the elite as his followers. He called fishermen, tax collectors, and zealots—working-class laborers and political radicals. The women who financially supported his ministry were those who had been healed of various ailments, women who had been cast out by society.

For the first three centuries of its existence, Christianity flourished primarily among the poor, the enslaved, and those the empire deemed less than human—precisely those with the least power in Roman society.

The Roman philosopher Celsus mocked Christianity as a religion of "wool workers, cobblers, laundry workers, and the most illiterate and bucolic yokels." He wasn't wrong about their demographics, just about their significance.

When Rome burned in 64 CE, Emperor Nero blamed Christians and Jews—not because they were powerful, but because they were powerless. They were the perfect scapegoats: strange, misunderstood, and lacking the social capital to defend themselves.

Under persecution, Christians gathered in catacombs—underground burial chambers—to worship. They developed symbols like the fish to identify themselves secretly to one another. Far from the halls of power, they shared meals, sang hymns, and remembered their executed leader who promised that the last would be first.

Early Christian writings reveal a community obsessed with caring for widows, orphans, and the poor. They pooled resources to buy the freedom of enslaved people. During plagues, they stayed in cities to care for the sick when the wealthy fled.

As historian Alan Kreider notes, the early church had no dedicated buildings, no professional clergy, no political influence—and yet it grew at a rate of 40% per decade. Why? Because their resurrection faith showed up most powerfully in how they lived, especially in how they cared for the most vulnerable.

The Christianity of the Slaveholder vs. The Christianity of the Enslaved

Perhaps nowhere is the contrast between authentic Christianity and its imperial counterpart more stark than the history of American slavery.

Slaveholders had their own version of Christianity—one that conveniently emphasized passages like "slaves obey your earthly masters" while ignoring Jesus' proclamation of freedom for the captives. Slaveholders' Christianity was a religion of hierarchy, authority, and submission to earthly powers—a religion that blessed and sanctified the status quo.

Frederick Douglass observed that the most brutal slaveholders were often the most religious. He wrote, "For of all the slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders are the worst."

But alongside this perversion of faith emerged what historians call "the invisible institution"—the Christianity of the enslaved. Meeting in "hush harbors" deep in the woods at night, enslaved Christians developed their own theology centered on a God who liberates the oppressed.

In the religion of the enslaved, Moses leading his people out of bondage wasn't just ancient history—it was a promise. The crucifixion wasn't just about personal salvation—it was about God identifying with the suffering. And the resurrection wasn't just a miracle—it was the assurance that death, even death by lynching, would not have the final word.

The spirituals they sang told a different story than the sermons they were forced to listen to on the plantation:

• "Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt land, and tell old Pharaoh, let my people go."
• "Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel? Why not every man?"
• "Wade in the water, Wade in the water, children. God's going to trouble the water."

This was resurrection faith forged in the crucible of oppression. Not a faith that required comfort and power to thrive, but one that flourished precisely in their absence.

Christianity as the religion of empire is the aberration, not the norm. When Christianity becomes the religion of the powerful, it has always lost its way. The moment Christians began building grand cathedrals with imperial wealth, they were already forgetting the catacombs where their ancestors worshipped.

I don't want to fall into the trap—and I don't want you to fall into the trap—of thinking our faith only works when we're the ones in charge and on top. That's not Christianity. It's the religion of the slaveholder.

True resurrection faith has always been found among those at the margins.

Breakfast on the Shore

Which brings me to John chapter 21.

The disciples have witnessed their teacher executed by the state. They've heard rumors that he's alive again—they've even seen him twice. But they don't know what to do next.

So what do they do? They go fishing.

It almost sounds absurd. After everything they've been through, after witnessing execution and resurrection, they go back to work. Peter says, "I'm going fishing," and the others say, "We'll go with you."

It's so painfully mundane. After the cosmic drama of resurrection, they return to their boats, their nets, their labor. Maybe because they just needed to eat. Maybe because Judas, who was their treasurer, is dead and they don't know where the money is. Maybe because routine offers comfort when everything else has been shattered.

So they fish all night, and they catch nothing.

At daybreak, a figure calls from the shore, "Cast your net on the right side of the boat." They do, and their nets are suddenly so full they can barely haul them in. That's when they recognize Jesus. It's the abundance, the mundane miracle of a net full of fish, that makes them recognize their Lord.

And there's this one detail in the story that always wrecks me emotionally: "When Simon Peter heard it was the Lord, he wrapped his coat around himself (for he was naked) and jumped into the water."

I like how the King James Version puts it: "He cast himself into the sea." Peter doesn't wait for the boat to row to shore. He plunges into the water to get to Jesus faster.

"The other disciples followed in the boat, dragging the net full of fish." I love the comedy of the scene! When they landed, they found Jesus had prepared a fire with fish and bread. "Come and have breakfast," Jesus says.

Consider what Peter is carrying emotionally at this moment. The last time he was around a fire like this one, he was denying that he ever knew Jesus. The last time he tried to walk on water toward Jesus, he sank.

Peter has every reason to hang back in shame, but instead he leaps—unembellished, unashamed, without hesitation.

And when they all arrive on shore, soaking wet and dragging their impossible catch, what does the resurrected Lord of the universe do? He makes them breakfast. No shaming, no "Where were you when they crucified me?" Just fish and bread over a charcoal fire.

The resurrection—Christianity's greatest miracle, the big bang of the new creation, the cosmic victory over death itself—is celebrated with breakfast. Hallelujah.

Not Every Leap Ends in Failure

Not every leap of faith ends in failure. Sometimes when we cast ourselves into unknown waters, we might just find Jesus waiting for us on the shore.

Five years ago, my family and I took our own leap. We cast ourselves into the sea and moved here to D.C. We went, as we said back then, "scared."

When we said yes to this job, I wrote to the search committee: "I'll be completely honest. When I applied for this job, I never expected an interview, much less a job offer. We didn't think moving our family out of the Midwest was something we wanted. To be even more honest, I'm still not convinced it is."

We had no prior connections here. We did not intend on ending up on the East Coast or in D.C. It was a journey into the complete unknown. And then, within two weeks of moving here, the COVID pandemic hit. It felt like we had just made the biggest mistake of our lives, leaving our community and church behind for a city we didn't know, just in time for lockdown.

But now, five years later, we are so blessed to be here. My kids are thriving. My wife and I have jobs we love and co-workers we love. We found friends we cherish as family. I can pastor in a way that's true to who I am and my beliefs.

What seemed like a stupid belly flop turned out to be a journey toward Jesus. I didn't know he was waiting on the shore, but he was.

Resurrection Under Empire

Remember, Peter and Jesus's breakfast happens under occupation. Rome still rules. The powers that executed Jesus are just around the corner. The disciples are still a marginalized religious minority with no institutional power.

And yet here, in this humble meal on the beach, we see what resurrection looks like under empire:

• Abundant provision when resources seem scarce
• Community when isolation seems safer
• Forgiveness when shame would keep us distant
• Nourishment for the journey ahead

The disciples don't overthrow Rome that day. They don't march on Jerusalem with swords drawn. They eat breakfast. They're restored to community. They are fed.

That's how resurrection worked then. That's how it works now. Not primarily through dramatic displays of power—Peter doesn't walk on the water toward Jesus; he swims like a normal human being—but through the quiet rebellion of communion, mutual care, and shameless love.

So what does this tell us about resurrection faith in turbulent times?

First, even in empire, we still need to eat. We still need community. We still need work that sustains us. Resurrection does not exempt us from the daily needs of being human.

Second, abundance is how we recognize Jesus. When the disciples' nets are suddenly full, John says, "It's the Lord." The impossible provision, the overflowing catch—that is what helps them see who is really present.

Third, and most importantly, when the world is burning, we cast ourselves into the sea. Peter doesn't wait for perfect understanding. He doesn't wait until he's no longer ashamed. He doesn't even wait for the boat to reach the shore. He leaps into the water and makes his way to Jesus.

I'm not here to prove the resurrection to you. But I am suggesting that resurrection faith means casting ourselves toward Jesus, especially when everything seems to be falling apart.

The earliest Christians didn't just believe in the resurrection—they lived as if death had been defeated. They shared everything they had. They cared for the poor and marginalized. They welcomed the stranger. They visited the imprisoned. They made resurrection true by being resurrection people.

When we provide for one another's needs, when we practice mutual aid, when we advocate for those who are disappeared by our government, when we stand against empire and oppression, we too are casting ourselves into the sea. We are swimming toward Jesus, who waits on the shore with breakfast ready.

I can't tell you why God allows empires to persist, and I can't explain why the resurrection hasn't yet fully transformed our world. But I can tell you what I see in this story: a group of traumatized people going back to work; an impossible abundance that helps them recognize Jesus; a disciple who casts himself into the sea without shame; and a risen Lord who makes them breakfast.

If Christianity was born in empire, then perhaps it was made for times like these. Not because suffering is good, but because resurrection has always been God's answer to the systems of death.

So this Easter, in the face of authoritarianism, violence, and despair, I invite you to cast yourself into the sea—to move toward Jesus without shame, to recognize him in moments of unexpected abundance, to join him for breakfast on the shore.

And then, fed and forgiven, we go back into the world to make resurrection true by the way we live.

Christ is risen. He has breakfast ready. Let's swim toward him together.