Restored for the Road Ahead (John 21:1-19)

There are moments in life when you wish you could just start over. Moments marked not by triumph, but by regret. When you said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, or failed to be who you were called to be. And you wonder… Is it too late? Did I mess it up for good?

That’s exactly where we find Peter in John 21.

Not long ago, Peter had boasted, “Even if all fall away, I never will.” And yet, on the night Jesus needed him most, Peter denied Him three times. The rooster crowed, and Peter wept. Now the tomb is empty, Jesus is risen… but what about Peter? What happens when your failure feels louder than your faith?

So Peter goes fishing. Not just for fish, but for something familiar. For a sense of who he used to be, before the shame, before the stumbling. But the Risen Christ has not called him back to the boat, He has called him forward to something far greater.

You can’t go back to who you were before Jesus. Once the risen Christ has laid hold of you, your path is forever changed. And today, in this quiet yet breathtaking scene by the Sea of Galilee, we see a Savior who pursues the wounded, restores the fallen, and recommissions the humbled. It’s not just a story of Peter’s redemption, it’s an invitation for yours.

Let’s step into the waters of grace in John 21:1–19.

The Risen Christ Meets Us Where We Are (vv. 1–8)

Let’s set the scene.

The resurrection has already happened. The tomb is empty. Jesus has appeared to the disciples—twice already in fact. But here, in John 21, we find Peter and a few of the others not proclaiming the good news… but fishing.

Fishing.

Now, this wasn’t a casual afternoon on the lake. Peter wasn’t fishing to relax. This was vocational. He says, “I’m going fishing,” and the others follow. This was a return to what he knew. A return to what was comfortable. A return, perhaps, to who he was before Jesus called him.

And that’s the temptation we all face when we’re discouraged or ashamed, isn’t it? To go back. To revert. To retreat to what’s familiar, even if it’s no longer who we’re meant to be.

Peter had denied Jesus. Not once. Not twice. Three times. And though he had seen the risen Christ, he hadn’t yet been restored by Him. So he goes back to the boat. Maybe that’s all he thinks he’s fit for now.

But here’s the beauty of the gospel: Jesus doesn’t wait for Peter to get it all figured out. He meets him right where he is.

Look at verse 4: “Just as day was breaking, Jesus stood on the shore…”

There’s so much grace packed into that simple line. While Peter is drifting, Jesus is already waiting. While Peter is fishing, Jesus is preparing to feed him. While Peter is stuck in yesterday’s shame, Jesus is preparing to speak tomorrow’s calling.

And how does He show up?

Not with thunder. Not with rebuke. Not with a lecture. But with a simple question: “Children, do you have any fish?”

It’s a gentle way of letting them realize—again—their effort without Him leads to empty nets.

That’s how Jesus so often deals with us, isn’t it? He allows our empty nets to prepare us for fullness in Him. He lets us see that the old way won’t work anymore, not because He’s cruel, but because He’s calling us forward.

They don’t recognize Him at first, perhaps because they weren’t expecting Him. Maybe, just like us, they’ve limited the places where they think Jesus can show up. Surely He appears in the Upper Room. Surely He shows up at the empty tomb. But on a regular old shoreline? In the aftermath of our failure? While we’re trying to hide in old habits?

Yes. Especially there. Because Jesus meets us in the mundane, in the drift, in the in-between. He stands on the shore of your confusion, your shame, your discouragement, and He calls you in.

Maybe today, you’re like Peter.

You know Christ is risen. You believe the gospel. But something in you feels sidelined… maybe by failure, maybe by fatigue, maybe by life simply not turning out like you hoped.

And so you’ve gone back to what’s safe. What’s manageable. You’ve picked the nets back up. Gone fishing. Retreated to your old patterns, your old comforts, your old identity.

But friend, the risen Christ is on the shore. He hasn’t forgotten you. He’s not finished with you. He sees you even when you don’t recognize Him. And He’s calling you back—not to who you used to be, but to who He’s always known you would be.

It’s like the story of the prodigal son, but this time, it’s not the wayward younger son we see, it’s the older brother who stayed nearby but still carried a broken heart. Jesus doesn’t just run to the rebellious; He walks the shore to find the disappointed, the ashamed, the weary.

We often think we have to come back to God. But here in John 21, we see the truth: It’s Jesus who comes to us. He steps into our failure, speaks into our fatigue, and stands on the shore, waiting with grace.

You don’t have to fish for your purpose. You don’t have to hide in your past. The Risen Christ is calling you forward.

The Risen Christ Demonstrates His Power and Grace (vv. 9–14)

The disciples come to shore, dragging in a net bursting with fish, and there on the beach, they find something unexpected: a charcoal fire already burning, fish laid out on it, and bread. Jesus says to them, “Come and have breakfast.” It’s a simple invitation, but it carries profound weight. The same Savior who defeated death now cooks for His friends. The One who conquered the grave prepares a meal and welcomes weary men back into fellowship.

This isn’t just breakfast. It’s restoration by grace. Before Jesus ever addresses Peter’s failure, He feeds him. Before He reissues the call to “Follow me,” He fills what’s empty. Christ is not only the Lord of glory, He is the servant of mercy. He doesn’t berate Peter for going fishing or shame him for falling short. He gives him warmth, food, and presence. And in that moment, He demonstrates that grace does not begin with a lecture, it begins with love.

There’s something sacred here. This act of preparing and sharing a meal. It recalls the countless times Jesus had sat at a table with sinners and disciples alike. Meals were moments of welcome, community, and teaching. But now, on this side of the resurrection, this breakfast signals something even deeper: resurrection doesn’t erase our humanity, it redeems it.

And we shouldn’t miss the physicality of it. Jesus eats. He prepares real fish over real coals and shares real bread. This isn’t metaphor or vision—it is resurrection in flesh and bone. As Luke 24 also shows us, Jesus’ resurrected body is not a ghost or spirit. It is glorified, yes, but still physical. He is the firstfruits of what we shall be (1 Cor. 15:20). This breakfast by the sea is not only proof of His grace, it’s proof of His bodily resurrection. The risen Christ doesn’t merely save souls, He restores creation, including our very bodies. And in this shared meal, He offers the disciples a foretaste of the banquet to come in the kingdom of God.

And yet, the deeper miracle is not in the meal, it’s in the moment. Think about the scene again. The last time Peter stood near a charcoal fire was the night he denied Jesus (John 18:18). That fire burned with shame. But now this fire burns with grace. Jesus is gently re-creating the setting to invite Peter not into condemnation, but into healing. What once was a place of failure becomes the setting for forgiveness.

But the message isn’t just for Peter. It’s for every disciple who feels they’ve fallen too far or failed too deeply. We often expect Jesus to show up with judgment, but here He shows up with breakfast. He doesn’t avoid us in our shame—He seeks us out. He doesn’t send us away for messing up—He prepares a place for us to come and be renewed.

This is the Jesus who fills empty nets. Who restores weary hearts. Who welcomes broken men with breakfast and gently reminds them that their calling isn’t over, it’s just beginning.

And for every one of us who has ever felt like going back to old patterns, old sins, or old identities, John 21 gives us hope. The risen Christ is not waiting to shame you, He’s waiting to serve you. Not with cheap grace, but with costly mercy. He offers Himself—body and blood, fish and bread—because His love is not theoretical. It is embodied. It meets you in the dirt and smoke of the fire. It meets you in your exhaustion. And it is more than enough.

The Risen Christ Restores the Wounded and Wayward (vv. 15–17)

After the meal, Jesus turns to Peter. The fire is still crackling. The sea still gently laps at the shore. And in that intimate, sacred stillness, Jesus speaks. Not to scold, not to humiliate, but to restore.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

It’s a piercing question. Jesus doesn’t call him “Peter,” the name He had given him, the rock. He calls him “Simon”—his old name. It’s as if He’s going back to the beginning, pulling Peter gently but deliberately back to the foundation of their relationship. The question isn’t about performance or usefulness. It’s about love.

Three times Jesus asks, “Do you love me?” Three times Peter affirms, with increasing grief. And three times Jesus responds, not with affirmation alone, but with commission: “Feed my lambs… Tend my sheep… Feed my sheep.”

This isn’t accidental. Each question mirrors one of Peter’s denials by the charcoal fire in the courtyard of the high priest. But this is no cruel reminder, it is grace that goes as deep as the wound. Jesus is not trying to humiliate Peter. He is healing him layer by layer, denial by denial, with a love that is personal, patient, and purifying.

And notice this: Jesus doesn’t ask Peter for an apology. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He doesn’t require Peter to prove himself. He asks for his love. Why? Because love is the fountain from which all true obedience flows. Jesus isn’t after Peter’s guilt, He’s after his heart. The Lord doesn’t want begrudging servants; He wants devoted shepherds. And love for Christ is what will fuel faithfulness to His people.

But even in Peter’s answers, there’s humility. The bold, brash man who once said, “Even if all fall away, I never will,” now replies, “Lord, you know… you know that I love you.” Gone is the boasting. Gone is the self-confidence. What remains is a broken, humbled man who knows his love is imperfect, but who trusts that Jesus sees his heart anyway.

This is such good news for us. Because we, like Peter, have faltered. We have denied Jesus, not always with words, but with silence, with fear, with compromise. And like Peter, we may wonder if we’ve disqualified ourselves. But here, Jesus shows us that failure does not get the final word. The grace of Christ reaches into the lowest valley of denial and lifts us up with a renewed purpose.

“Feed my sheep.” That is, care for my people. Love them. Teach them. Lay down your life for them. Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter. He entrusts him with responsibility. Restoration is not just about being made right with God, it’s about being brought back into His mission. You’re not just pardoned, you’re commissioned.

This is the pattern of the gospel: grace doesn’t sideline us, it sends us. The fallen disciple becomes the faithful shepherd. The one who fled in fear becomes the one who feeds the flock. This is what grace does. It finds the wounded, it binds them up, and then it says, Now go… and strengthen your brothers.

And perhaps that’s exactly what someone here needs to hear. You’ve messed up. You’ve run. You’ve drifted. And you wonder if there’s still a place for you in the mission of God. Friend, Jesus doesn’t just want to forgive you, He wants to restore you. He doesn’t merely want your sorrow, He wants your love. And He’s ready to entrust you again with the care of others, not because you’re strong, but because you’ve been humbled. Because now, like Peter, you will lead not from pride, but from grace.

Let the fire of shame be replaced with the fire of restoration. Let your denials be replaced with declarations of love. And let your failure become the backdrop for the beauty of Christ’s restoring mercy.

The Risen Christ Recommissions Us to Follow Him (vv. 18–19)

After restoring Peter, Jesus doesn’t stop there. Restoration, in Christ’s hands, always leads to recommissioning. Grace doesn’t merely pull us out of the pit; it places our feet back on the path. And here, that path is laid plainly before Peter.

In verses 18 and 19, Jesus gives Peter a sobering glimpse of what following Him will ultimately cost:

“Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were young, you used to dress yourself and walk wherever you wanted, but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands…” —a phrase widely understood as a prophecy of Peter’s crucifixion—“…and another will dress you and carry you where you do not want to go.”

This isn’t the call Peter may have expected. It’s not triumph or ease. It’s a path of surrender. Jesus isn’t simply inviting Peter back into ministry, He’s inviting him into martyrdom. The one who once flinched before a servant girl’s question will one day glorify God by giving his life.

And yet… Christ does not call Peter to fear, He calls him to follow. The command that launched Peter’s journey at the Sea of Galilee is now the same word spoken on the other side of the resurrection: “Follow me.”

There’s a beautiful symmetry in this. It’s as if Jesus is saying: I’m not changing the terms. I’m reaffirming the call. But now you understand more clearly what it means.

The first “follow me” was full of excitement, naivety, and dreams of glory. This one is laced with scars, tempered by failure, and infused with a deeper love.

The first followed a Galilean rabbi. This one follows the risen Lord.

That is what Christian discipleship truly is—not a climb up a ladder of success, but a descent into deeper surrender. The resurrected Christ calls us to die, not just eventually, but daily. To lay down our pride, our plans, our lives, and follow wherever He leads. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it hurts. Even when the path ends at a cross.

But here’s the hope: It is a cross that always leads to glory. Jesus does not ask Peter to go where He hasn’t gone. He stretched out His hands first. He went to the cross before Peter. And now, as the risen One, He invites Peter into the fellowship of His sufferings and the power of His resurrection.

And He invites us too.

You may not be called to die on a cross. But you are called to die to self. To give up the illusion that your life belongs to you. To forsake the safety of the boat and follow Jesus wherever He leads—into hard places, risky conversations, difficult obedience, and costly love. Because that’s where real life is found.

The truth is, once you’ve encountered the risen Christ, there’s no going back to business as usual. He hasn’t saved you just to sit you on a shelf. He hasn’t forgiven you just to leave you idle. He’s calling you, again, to follow.

Not the version of you before your failure. Not the version of you that has it all figured out. But you, as you are now, made whole by grace and ready to walk forward in faith.

Restored and Recommissioned

Peter’s story in John 21 is not just about a fisherman turned apostle. It is the story of every believer who has ever failed, faltered, or forgotten who they are in Christ. It is the story of shame met with mercy, of weakness embraced by grace, of failure rewritten by faithfulness.

When Peter jumped into the sea and swam toward Jesus, he didn’t yet know what would happen on that shore. He only knew one thing: Jesus was there. And that was enough.

Maybe that’s where you are today. You’ve drifted. You’ve returned to old patterns, old fears, old places where it felt safer to stay small, unnoticed, and unfinished. You may even think you’ve disqualified yourself from God’s purpose.

But friend, hear the Word of the Lord: Jesus has not changed His mind about you. The same voice that called you out of the boat the first time is still calling today:

“Follow me.”

You can’t go back to who you were before Christ because He’s made you new. You are not what you’ve done. You are not where you’ve been. You are who He says you are: forgiven, loved, restored… and sent.

So come to the fire. Let His grace meet you. Let His words heal you. Let His love recommission you.

And then rise. Feed His sheep. Carry the gospel. Follow the Lamb who was slain and now reigns.

Don’t stay in the boat. Don’t settle for survival. The risen Christ has work for you to do, people for you to love, a path for you to walk.

And on that path, He will go before you. He will walk beside you. He will uphold you until the day He calls you home.

So church, hear Him again. Not with your ears, but with your heart:

“Follow me.”

And by His grace—GO.