Jesus Was Where They Were

John 21:1-13

1

Last Sunday, we reflected on the story of the two disciples walking to Emmaus – disoriented, discouraged, and unsure of everything they had once believed about Jesus. And we saw how, with great gentleness and patience, the risen Christ walked beside them. He listened to their confusion. He opened the Scriptures. He broke bread. He helped them remember, not just what He had said, but who He had been all along. And through that remembering, their eyes were opened. Their hearts burned with new understanding. But even after Jesus had risen and even after He invited Thomas to touch His wounds and see for himself, the disciples still carried doubt and confusion. They had seen the empty tomb. They had heard His voice. And yet, something in them still hesitated. They believed Jesus was alive, but they were not able to believe the risen Jesus. Peter, the one who had once walked on water, now carries the weight of his denial. The others, once eager to follow, now find themselves without clear direction. The future they imagined with Jesus seemed to vanish on the cross, and even with the resurrection, they haven’t fully recovered their confidence — not just in Jesus, but in themselves as His followers. So, what do they do? They go back home. Back to Galilee. Back to what is familiar. They pick up the nets they left behind three years earlier.

2

The first time these disciples met Jesus, they were fishermen, working with nets, casting and mending, living by the rhythm of the sea. And now, after everything they’ve experienced – the miracles, the teachings, the crucifixion, and even the resurrection, we find them back in the same place, with the same nets in their hands. From a psychoanalytical perspective, we might understand this moment as a form of regression – a psychological response where, under stress or emotional overwhelm, we revert to earlier unhealthy patterns of behavior that once made us feel secure. The trauma of watching their teacher die, the confusion of the resurrection, and the uncertainty of what comes next has left the disciples deeply unsettled. So, like many of us do when life becomes too much, they return to the familiar. The nets – symbols of their former life – now offer a kind of emotional refuge. Not because they hold promise, but because they hold safety and predictability. Holding onto the familiar nets, they were able to know what to do and how to do it. When identity feels shaken and the future unclear, we often reach back to what we know, even if it’s not what we truly want. It’s a way of saying to ourselves, “At least I understand this. At least I can do this.” With the familiar nets in their hands, maybe they’re buying time. Maybe they’re trying to make sense of it all. Maybe they’re quietly wondering, ‘Are we still part of His plan? Or did we miss our chance?’

3

After returning to Galilee, the disciples go fishing – not as a hobby, but as a retreat. They’re overwhelmed. They’ve seen the risen Christ, yes, but they still don’t know what to do with themselves. So, they worked tirelessly through the night, mechanically pushing away thoughts fixated on Jesus. Of course, they caught nothing. The familiar waters offer no comfort. Their empty nets become a mirror of their own emptiness – emotionally, spiritually, and vocationally. The sense of failure is palpable. Then, at daybreak, Jesus appears on the shore – but they don’t recognize Him. “Friends, you have no fish, have you?” He calls out. It’s a question filled with both honesty and compassion. He names the failure without shaming them. Their answer is short: “No.” No excuses. No explanations. Just the truth. Then Jesus says, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat.” A small instruction, almost odd. Yet they obey. And suddenly, abundance. The net is so full they can’t even haul it in. In their moment of helplessness, Jesus offers not only provision but also restoration of purpose. It’s a moment of reawakening. They begin to remember who He is – not just because of the fish, but because of what His voice stirred in them. This is the same Jesus who first called them with a miraculous catch years ago. He meets them in their regression and gives them a way forward, not through scolding, but through gentle reentry into relationship, trust, and action.

4

When the disciples finally recognize Jesus, Peter, moved by recognition and longing, throws himself into the sea to reach Him. The others follow in the boat, dragging the overflowing net behind. But when they arrive, they find something quietly astonishing: a charcoal fire already burning, with bread and fish laid out. Before they can offer anything, Jesus has already prepared everything. He doesn’t begin with questions or corrections. He simply says, “Come and have breakfast.” It is such a human, ordinary act and yet profoundly holy. Jesus meets them not with expectations, but with welcome. Not with a sermon, but with a meal. Around that fire, He restores more than their strength. He restores their place, their belonging, and their identity. This is where we see the heart of the Gospel: Jesus met them where they were. Not where they should have been. Not where they hoped to be. He met them in their confusion, their retreat, and their fatigue. And in that space, He reminded them they were still His. And this is still true. Jesus meets us where we are. Whether we feel burned out, lost, uncertain, or going through the motions, He does not wait for us to “get it together.” He comes to the shore of our ordinary lives – with kindness, nourishment, and grace. Before He sends us out, He sits with us. Before He calls us forward, He calls us to rest. And in that rest, He reminds us: You still belong. You are still loved. You are still part of the story.

Prayer

Gracious and ever-present God, we thank You for meeting us where we are — in our weariness, in our doubts, in our retreat to the familiar. Just as You stood on the shore that morning, calling to Your disciples in their confusion and emptiness, we trust that You still call to us today. You do not wait for us to be perfect. You do not demand we have all the answers. Instead, You offer warmth, welcome, and grace. When our nets come up empty, when our hearts feel heavy, when we’re unsure what comes next — remind us again that we still belong. That we are still loved. That we are still part of Your story. Give us courage to respond to Your voice, to step forward in trust, and to share the grace we’ve received with others. In the name of the risen Christ who meets us in every moment, we pray. Amen.