Good Will Hunting

Letter From the Pastoral Intern

This week the Letter from the Pastor is coming from Rosemary MacLaughlin’s sermon from Sunday May 4, 2025.

John 21:16 Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” 

Good Will Hunting

Summary: Even in our moments of deepest failure and shame, Jesus meets us with grace—not to condemn us, but to restore us, call us beloved, and entrust us again with love and purpose.

Imagine standing on a beach early in the morning.

The sky is just beginning to brighten.

The air smells of salt and smoke because someone has lit a fire nearby.

You hear the crackle of wood burning.

You feel the dampness of the sand under your feet.

You can almost taste the salt in the air.

And as you walk closer, you see a small charcoal fire — and beside it, someone waiting for you. Waiting not to accuse you, but to feed you.

To heal you. To offer you another chance.

This is the scene from John’s Gospel today. But it is also, in a way, the scene that plays out again and again in our own lives.

When shame weighs heavy on our hearts —

When our failures echo louder than our hopes —

When we wonder if we could ever truly be forgiven.

In our brokenness, we often build walls. We protect ourselves with anger, pride, busyness, perfectionism — anything to hide how much we hurt.

But the risen Jesus comes not to shame us further —

He comes to call us back to life.

And that is what happens here with Peter. Let’s not forget where he’s come from. Peter, the bold one — the one who swore he’d never deny Jesus — ran when things got hard. He denied even knowing Jesus, not once, not twice, but three times. And now, after the resurrection, Jesus doesn’t avoid him. He doesn’t wait for Peter to make the first move.

Jesus shows up. He prepares breakfast. And he invites Peter to sit down by that fire. The charcoal fire is no accident. It is the only other time in the entire New Testament that this Greek word for charcoal fire is used — the first was on the night of Peter’s denial. This fire is a callback — a chance for Peter to face what happened. Not to rub it in. But to be healed.

We can see something similar in the movie Good Will Hunting. Will is a brilliant but wounded young man who carries the scars of his childhood so deeply that he can hardly let anyone love him. He hides behind intellect, arrogance, anger — anything to avoid facing what’s really going on inside. But his therapist, played by Robin Williams, slowly earns his trust.

There’s a turning point when the therapist looks him in the eye and says, “It’s not your fault.” At first, Will shrugs it off. He says, “Yeah, I know.”

But the therapist says it again. “It’s not your fault.” Again. And again.

And eventually, Will starts to break.

You can see the emotion hit him like a wave. His body trembles. He starts to cry. You can almost smell the stale office air. You can feel the heaviness in his chest. You can see the walls coming down. In that moment of vulnerability, healing begins. Hope starts to rise.

Peter is in that same moment. He’s standing near a charcoal fire — just like the one where he denied Jesus three times. The smell must have taken him right back to that night. The fire, the shadows, the guilt.

And now Jesus asks him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Three times. One for each denial.

It’s not a trap. It’s not a test. It’s an invitation to healing.

Jesus doesn’t shame Peter. He feeds him. He restores him.

And then — he calls him forward. “Feed my sheep.” Jesus doesn’t give Peter an easy out, but he does give him a path forward.

Each time Peter says “Yes, Lord, you know I love you,” Jesus responds not with “That’s enough” or “I forgive you,” but with purpose: Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. Peter is forgiven, but he is also entrusted.

His role in the story is not over — in fact, it’s just beginning.

The very place of his greatest failure becomes the foundation for his greatest calling.

And that is where this story meets us.

Because we too have fires we’d rather forget. Moments we’d rather not return to. Things we wish we could undo.

And yet, Jesus meets us right there. Not in our polished Sunday selves, but in the places where we hurt. He calls us back to the fire — not to punish us, but to offer us breakfast. To restore us. To remind us that we are still called. Still beloved. Still entrusted with something holy.

And like Will Hunting, like Peter, like all of us —

sometimes healing begins not when we push the past away, but when we finally let it be touched by grace.

Today, Jesus still lights fires on the shore of our hearts.

He still calls us — not by the names of our failures, but by the name of our love. He still breaks through our defenses with patient grace, whispering again and again:

“It’s not your fault.” “Feed my sheep.” “Follow me.”

The smell of the fire still hangs in the air. The call still echoes.

So this week, when shame whispers that you are not enough, remember the smell of the charcoal fire. Remember the voice of Jesus calling you beloved. And take one step forward — toward love, toward forgiveness, toward hope.

Even a small step is enough. Even a cracked voice is enough. Even a trembling hand is enough. Feed someone who is hungry for kindness.

Forgive someone, even if the wound is still tender. Speak hope into a world that is starving for it. Go. Love. Feed. Hope.

Rosemary MacLaughlin 

Priest Intern, St. Augustine of Canterbury Episcopal Church