Desperate for Hope - Sermon Transcript

Desperate for Hope
based on John 21:15-18

Good morning, friends. I’m so grateful to be with you today—and happy Easter season.
What a gift it is that Easter is not just one Sunday, but a season we enter into.
And as Mitchell reminded us last week—love wins.

Love didn’t just win on Easter Sunday. Just as we cannot contain Christ’s love to one day of the week, love continues to win.

It’s not lost on me that in the United Methodist Church, we get the opportunity to experience on the full journey of Lent - from Ash Wednesday to Easter morning.
We begin on Ash Wednesday, where we are reminded that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. It’s a moment that grounds us in our humanity—our finitude—and reminds us that we only have so much time here, and we get to decide how we’re going to spend it.
Then we enter into the forty days of Lent—a season of fasting, reflection, and growth. Whether you fasted or not isn’t really the point. The point is that Lent invites us into a deeper closeness with God—a kind of spiritual maturity.

Then we move into Holy Week.
We gather on Maundy Thursday—that mandate moment—where Christ washes the disciples’ feet and shares a final meal with them. It’s a beautiful reminder of the community he gathered… even though they had no idea what was about to happen.
And then we gather again—one more time before Easter—for Good Friday.
The day Christ dies. Where everything seems lost.
The moment the disciples truly felt… this is the end.

And then—we get Easter Sunday.
A beautiful Sunday.
A day of celebration. Of family. Of Easter egg hunts and baskets and pictures in front of the cross.
And, of course, we know—death did not have the final word.
But here’s the thing.
Just as we were reminded last week, love winning is not just something we celebrate.
It’s something we remember—especially in the hardest seasons of our lives.

Because the truth is, there are still Good Friday moments.
In our lives and in the lives of the people we love.
People we know are:

• navigating addiction
• feeling strained in their Marriage
• experiencing Bodies that are failing
• trying to build a family and walking through infertility, miscarriage, adoption
• losing their jobs—sitting in the uncertainty of what comes next.
• worried about Financial strain
• finding that season of parenting feels overwhelming.
• struggling with Friendships that feel distant or lost.

And I know that I don’t have to look very far to see how real this is:
In just the last few weeks, I’ve received texts from people I love—

• One friend entering rehab.
• Another being laid off unexpectedly.
• Another needing an organ transplant.
• Another walking through miscarriage.

These aren’t distant stories.
These are people we know and we love.
These are folks in our group chats, in our small groups, in our everyday lives.
Folks carry so much. And sometimes they carry it quietly.
Which means we don’t always see how desperate someone is for hope.
But it’s there.

Because if you really think about it, all of those Good Friday feelings are pointing to something deeper.
They’re not just emotions. They’re a kind of longing.
A kind of desperation for something we can’t always name—but we feel it.
Hopelessness is really a longing for hope.
Isolation is a longing for connection.
Despair is a longing for joy again.
Agony is a longing for peace.
Dread is a longing for something steady to hold onto.
Scarcity is a longing to believe that there will be enough.

And underneath all of it… is a deep, human need for hope.
At some point, every one of us becomes desperate for hope.
And that’s why this moment in John 21 matters so much.
Because by the time we get here—Easter has already happened.
Christ is risen.
The tomb is empty.
Love has already won.

And yet… not everything feels resolved.
Peter is still carrying something.
Peter is desperate for hope.
Jesus finds him on the shore.
And if you slow down and sit in that moment, you can feel it.
Peter, as a follower, had been so sure about Jesus.
“I’ll never leave you.” “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
And then fear crept in.
And Peter denied even knowing Jesus.
Three times.

So in our scripture today, he’s face-to-face with the risen Christ, after the denial.
And you have to wonder what he expects.
Disappointment? Distance? A reminder of what he did wrong?
Instead, they’re eating breakfast. They sit together, with their community.
And then Jesus asks him: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Once. Twice. Three times.

You can almost feel the silence and the weight lingering between each question.
The way Peter has to lean into the moment instead of pulling away.
And Jesus doesn’t rush him.
He stays there—long enough for the restoration to take root.
Because this isn’t just forgiveness. It’s formation. It’s shaping Peter into someone who can love the way he has been loved.
And each time Peter says yes, Jesus responds:
“Feed my sheep.” This is where the story turns for us. Because love for Christ is not something we just feel. It’s something that moves.

John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, talked about this as “works of mercy.” And that’s not just church language. It’s actually very practical.
It looks like feeding people who are hungry,
Visiting people who are sick.
Sitting with someone who is grieving.
Caring for people who feel forgotten.
Showing up when someone is in crisis.

It’s the kind of love that shows up in real life.
Not dramatic. Not perfect. But present.

Wesley believed that these were “means of grace”—which means that when we care for others, it’s not just helping them…
God is actually shaping us in the process.

This is what spiritual maturity looks like—not just knowing that God loves you, but becoming someone through whom that love moves. Which means loving Christ and loving others are the same movement.

And we see that movement all throughout the Gospels:
The woman at the well (John 4).
She comes alone, in the middle of the day. Not because it’s convenient—but because it’s safer. She has learned how to live on the edges. How to avoid people. How to carry her story quietly without being seen too closely.

Isolation has become her normal.
And underneath that isolation is something deeper— a longing to belong, to be known, to connect with someone.
She is desperate for hope—even if she can’t name it that way.
And Jesus meets her there.
Not after she fixes her life.
Not after she explains herself.
Right there. He sees her and speaks to her.
And then he offers her something she didn’t even know she could ask for—living water.
Hope in the middle of isolation.
Connection in the place she expected distance.

Then, in the feeding of the five thousand (Matthew 14).
A massive crowd gathers—people who are hungry.
And the disciples do what we so often do. They start calculating.
“We don’t have enough.” “There’s no way this works.”
Scarcity.
The belief that there will not be enough to meet the need in front of them. And underneath that scarcity is something deeper— a desperation for provision. And Jesus looks at them and says: “You give them something to eat.”

Which feels impossible.
Because all they have is a small amount—five loaves and two fish. Not enough. Not even close. But in the hands of Jesus, what is not enough becomes more than enough.
Bread is broken. Food is shared. Everyone eats. And there are leftovers.
Abundance in the middle of scarcity.

The man lowered through the roof (Mark 2:1–12).
He cannot walk which means cannot get to Jesus on his own.
And underneath that reality is something deeper— a desperation for healing, a longing for relief, and a need for someone to help him get there.
And his community refuses to leave him where he is. They carry him. They push through the crowd. They climb onto the roof. They tear it open.

Because sometimes, when someone is desperate for hope, they cannot get there on their own.
They need people who will carry them. People who will believe for them when they cannot believe for themselves. People who will do whatever it takes to get them in front of Jesus.
And Jesus meets him there.
Not just with healing—but with restoration. Relief in the middle of helplessness.

Every one of these stories is about people who are desperate for hope.
And every one of them shows us the same thing: Christ meets people right there—and often, he does it through the presence of others.
So what does it look like to carry that hope?

Because “feed my sheep” sounds beautiful. But what does it look like when someone texts you something hard?
Sometimes it looks like presence.
Just showing up.
Sometimes it looks like naming truth: “You are not alone.”
Sometimes it looks like consistency.
Checking in again and again.
Sometimes it looks like prayer.
And sometimes it’s refusing to look away.
Because love that carries hope doesn’t look away.

This is where theologian M. Shawn Copeland is so helpful.
She writes about how love is not abstract—it’s embodied. It’s about recognizing the dignity of another person and refusing to treat them as invisible. Her work comes out of deep reflection on suffering, injustice, and community—and she reminds us that real Christian love looks like presence. Like staying with people in their pain. Like honoring their full humanity. Like refusing to leave someone alone in their Good Friday moment.

And what a gift it is that we know Easter is coming. We are not people stuck in Good Friday.
We are people who know that Christ is risen.
Which means hope is not gone. And this isn’t just true in general.
It’s true for you.

Whatever you are carrying into this space today— Christ is with you in it. Not waiting for you to fix it. Not waiting for you to figure it out. With you—right now.
And if today you find yourself in a Good Friday season—if you are desperate for hope— you are not alone. Christ is with you. And we are called to be with you too.

And if today you find yourself in a season of stability—that is an invitation. Because there are seasons where you are the one being carried—and seasons where you are strong enough to carry someone else.

And spiritual maturity means we don’t just celebrate Easter. We embody it. We become people who carry hope into the lives of others.
Because at the end of the day—everyone is desperate for hope.
We just carry it differently.

And someone in your life right now is sitting in a moment that feels like Good Friday—and they may not have the words for it. But your presence might be the thing that reminds them— Easter is still coming.

So may we be people who love Christ deeply enough to love others tangibly.
May we carry hope into every place that feels like despair. Because love wins. Christ is risen. And hope is not lost.

In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.