Breakfast is Ready…

Acts 9:1–20                        Ps 30             Revelation 5:.6–14         John 21:.1–19

Today is Domestic Violence Awareness Sunday.

It’s interesting that it falls during the season of Resurrection— when we are leaning into the hope we have in Jesus. So what might these scriptures say to those living with or recovering from domestic abuse? What might they say to those who perpetrate it? And what might the Holy Spirit want us to hear this morning?

A short time has passed since the first Easter, and the disciples are in a real spin.

They’ve walked with Jesus. They’ve witnessed healing. Fed multitudes. Had their feet washed. They fled Gethsemane. And they failed him. They watched him die. And just when grief and guilt had swallowed them whole— Jesus returned. Not once, but again and again. “Peace be with you,” he said. “Breathe in the Spirit.”

But today, we find Peter saying: “I’m going fishing.” And the others go too.

We often miss the despair in those words.

“I’m going fishing” isn’t recreational. It’s resignation.

It’s Peter saying, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I give up. I just want things to go back to how they were.” When grief or trauma knocks us down, we reach for what’s familiar, for survival. Even if it’s not what gives life.

They fish all night. And catch nothing. But—yet again—Jesus appears and everything changes. The net overflows. A fire is already burning. There’s fish, and bread, and grace already waiting. They have breakfast with the Risen One— awkward, intimate.

And then… Jesus turns to Peter and says: “Simon, son of John.”

He takes him back to the beginning— to the name before the bravado. To the one he called.  “Do you love me?” Three times. And three times, Peter—wounded by the memory—answers: “Yes.” And each time, Jesus replies: “Feed my sheep.”

This is not just Peter’s restoration. It’s his recommissioning.

“Follow me,” Jesus says again. Just like at the start. But now Peter knows the cost. And still—he’s invited. Still—he’s sent. This is another resurrection story. Peter’s. And what was possible then, is promised for now.

In this country, one woman dies every week from domestic and family violence.

One in four women, and one in eight men, experience abuse from a partner.

First Nations people are 33 times more likely to be harmed.

And our children are not spared.

It is those who can no longer walk into church because they were told: “Pray more.” “Marriage is for life.” “God hates divorce more than violence.” It is those with deep wounds who haven’t told a soul. And it is people who cause harm.

And it is not just “somewhere out there.” It is people in the pews. People leading worship, because research shows experiences of domestic abuse are statistically as likely in Anglican Churches in Australia, if not more likely than wider society.

To survivors: we see you. We are you. You deserve safety. You deserve healing.

The risen Christ does not abandon you. And nor do we.

Now let me say something clearly, and without apology:

If you are someone who harms your partner or children— this Gospel is for you too.

Jesus says to Peter: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”

That love is protection, not power. It is honour, not control. It is repentance— deep, painful, necessary change. Resurrection starts here. You are not beyond grace. None of us are. But grace is not soft. She is fierce. She calls us to account. She burns away excuses. Reveals truth. And waits to rebuild us into someone new. She still brings resurrection.

Resurrection is not a metaphor. It is God’s unflinching commitment to life when death and despair think they have the last word. The risen Christ does not say to Peter, “Forget it happened.” He says, “Bring your pain. Bring your shame. Let’s start again.”

Not by erasing the past— but by transforming it. Resurrection means the body of Jesus is still wounded… yet fully alive. It means love is stronger than death. Even the slow deaths people suffer behind closed doors.

So what does resurrection look like, in a world where family violence still persists?

It looks like churches becoming places of safety. A refuge that says, clearly and without hesitation: “We believe you. We support you. You are not alone.”

It looks like learning what to do: How to listen. When to act. It means realising Jesus’ call to “tend my sheep” includes those whose homes are warzones. It means checking our liturgies and language— because Scripture is sometimes weaponised. And we are called to speak differently. It means showing up. Staying present. Having compassionate courage. And it means being a space where all are safe, valued, and free.

As those who have chosen to follow Christ, we are resurrection people. That call is real. And it is costly. It is the call to tend bruised sheep, protect the lambs, follow Jesus to the shoreline and into the awkward spaces, and say: “Breakfast is ready. You are loved. There is a place for you here.” This call is confronting. It asks something of us. It means putting down the nets of indifference. Letting go of the safety of silence.

It means walking with survivors. Listening as they speak. And staying when it’s uncomfortable. It means action over feelings. “Feed my sheep” is a commission to justice. To care. To protection. It’s a call to every community that dares to bear Christ’s name.

The resurrection becomes a second calling. A deeper one. The first time, we followed without knowing. The second time, we follow with full knowledge of the risk, the discomfort, the cost— and the hope. Because resurrection hope is not naive.

It says: Even when you’ve given up. Even when you’ve denied Love and gone back to your old life—there is still a place for you. Hope comes to find you. A fire burns on the beach. Bread is being broken. The call is still being spoken: “Follow me.”

Resurrection is not for the clean and pristine. It is for the ones who fled. Who failed. The ones who are dead. And the ones who’ve endured more than anyone should, who’ve hidden bruises, silenced cries, and carry scars.

Christ says: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs. Follow me.”

So hear the invitation again. And follow with eyes wide open— knowing what it costs and knowing what it’s worth. Hope is here. Breakfast is ready. Feed my sheep.

Amen.