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There is the embarrassment of getting publicly caught. Private sins are bad enough but to be exposed red-handed before others, your picture on the front page of the newspaper, is something else entirely. Gotcha.

I once heard a story1 of a gambling casino in Lake Tahoe that has a women's room at the top of a long flight of stairs. This bathroom is in full view of diners sitting at a handful of tables down below. Only one person at a time can use the facilities. Why am I telling you about a bathroom in Lake Tahoe? Well, this particular bathroom supposedly has a tasteful painting of a man who is wearing nothing but a strategically located fig leaf. And this very fig leaf in question is conveniently hinged, lift-able. You can probably guess where this is leading. Restroom users who are curious enough to peek under the hinged fig leaf set off a series of flashing lights, bells, and whistles down below in the restaurant. The restroom user, of course, emerges red-faced to a standing ovation and takes what is probably one of the longest trips of her life down a staircase. Gotcha.

Today's Gospel lesson is largely about a very old pair of questions. First question: How are disciples supposed to behave when they believe no one else is watching? And second question: What is the nature of our God who knows everything we do and sneaks into our lives unannounced? Gotcha.

The story opens with seven disciples sitting around talking, and, to tell you the truth, I sense they're a little bored. We know about Judas' demise, but that leaves four others unaccounted for and there seems to be this feeling afoot that it's tough to hold things together since Jesus has departed. "I don't know about you guys," says Peter, "but I'm going fishing." One of the things we lamentably miss in the Gospels is voice inflection. How do you think Peter announced his fishing intentions? Maybe he announced his plans with an exclamation point, much like an eager young boy ready to dig worms, throw some dirt into an old coffee can, and attach a red and white bobber onto the frayed line of his old attic Zebco. Hey, guys! I'm going fishing! Who's with me? But I somehow doubt Peter said it like that. I'm guessing that the tenor of Peter's voice resembled something approaching resignation. A return to routine. There's nothing else to do, might as well go check those nets.

Jesus has given the disciples clear instructions. But they return to their old jobs as if nothing has changed. "Jesus is gone. Get over it. Get on with your life. Our time with Jesus was interesting, but we've got work to do. I am going fishing." Peter's resignation has long been a problem for the church which suspects that Jesus is really gone. Easter for many is a charming historical event that we re-enact each spring. We have a hard time, therefore, sustaining the excitement of Easter. The crowds return home, back to the routine, largely unchanged.

Of course, the disciples catch nothing. They fish all night with slack nets. It is notable that in the Bible, the disciples, professional fishermen, please remember, who probably could have had their own fishing show, never catch a single fish without Jesus. Not a perch. Not a minnow. Not a guppy.

A hint of light starts to sliver on the horizon. Some guy on the beach has a fire going. We know the guy. They don't. "Children, you have no fish, have you?" I asked this about Peter, but what tone of voice do you think Jesus uses here? Well, it could be a smart-aleck voice, dripping with sarcasm. Sort of struck out, kids, didn't you? Jesus could be back to check up on disciples who had very clear marching orders to spread good news and catch people. That man on the beach could be saying, Gotcha.

There are a lot of people in the world who believe in a "Gotcha" God. A God who virtually exists to catch us doing wrong things in bad places at bad times. There are a lot of people who have been raised in such a religious environment, who were taught to fear this God who would catch us, expose us, shame and then punish us.

I'm convinced that's why Peter acts so erratically in the boat. I'm sure he's excited to see Jesus and all, but I'm also betting he thinks he's been caught. In the commentaries, historians virtually trip over themselves explaining this line about Peter being naked in the boat. "Well, he was hot. It was how fishermen dressed so that their loose clothing wouldn't get caught in the nets. He was actually wearing some underwear. Etc. Etc." But the text plainly says that he was naked. As a jaybird. And because John's Gospel never misses an opportunity to shine truth through symbol or metaphor, I'm suggesting that Peter's posture in the boat that morning says everything about this idea of gotcha. He was exposed before Jesus. The fig leaf had been raised and bells and whistles and sirens were going off in his head. The poor boy had literally been caught by God with his pants down, ashamed to be found doing the same old thing he'd been doing before Jesus walked into his life. From Peter's perspective, he'd been busted by the Jesus police. Flashing lights and wailing sirens on the beach. Peter stands up in the boat, fully exposed, and squints his eyes. "Who? What? It can't be." What Peter wouldn't give for a fig leaf just about now! He pulls on his pants, dives into the water, and flails for shore. Maybe there's some way to explain, to rationalize, to clarify things for Jesus.

Well, maybe you've never heard the story this way and maybe you think I'm stretching the interpretation just a bit, but I truly think Peter is swimming furiously because he thinks he's been nailed, exposed, caught. Squirming like a fish in a net. Peter washes up on the sand, probably ready with a thousand explanations. But the man on the beach is not waiting with accusations and reprimands. He is not waiting, after all, to spring out into the waves and say, "Gotcha." Did you notice that about this man?

Peter may have been caught red-handed but Jesus offers him some red snapper. "Come and have breakfast." It's one of the most tender things Jesus says to disciples in all of the Gospels. "Come and have breakfast." He could have said a lot of things to those guys. Instead they have breakfast around a fire on the beach.

You knew this already: there is the embarrassment of getting publicly caught. Jesus will always discover us doing things we shouldn't be doing -- catch us with our metaphorical pants down, embarrassed because we're doing exactly the opposite of what he taught us. Holding grudges, hoarding money, ignoring the poor, fearing illness and the grave. We simply cannot sustain Easter excitement on our own.

But it is hopeful for me to discover in this story that Jesus does not really return to "check up" on the disciples. He returns to feed them. He returns to let them know that Easter can be sustained even in the mundane, predictable routine that you and I face every week. He feeds us at the table of grace ("for you and for you") and sends us out to start again, resurrected and thankful. Jesus is no cosmic snoop, no gotcha God.

Some fine day in the future, when we all get to heaven, there will be a corner of that expansive place where all the nations of the world are gathered -- people of every race and situation, people who have suffered and laughed, and especially people who have gotten caught, which, in truth, is all of us. A virtual sinner's reunion.

We're at the beach together; staying at this ocean-front mansion that somehow accommodates everybody. Some are gathered on the porch at first light, sipping coffee. And others are squinting towards the water.

There is a man in the distance grilling fish over a fire. He is wearing a chef's cap. And he is waving and calling, "Come. Come and have breakfast."

No one will have to tell us. We'll just know.

We'll know it is the Lord.

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1. Martin E. Marty, "Who's Watching?" The Christian Century (April 1, 1992), p. 351.