Gospel of Jesus Christ according to Saint John

John 21:1–14

¹After this, Jesus appeared again to his disciples by the Sea of Tiberias, and he appeared in this way: ²Simon Peter, Thomas called Didymus, Nathanael, who was from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee and two others of his disciples, were together. ³Simon Peter said to them, «I am going fishing.» They said to him, «We will go with you.» So they went out and got into the boat, but they caught nothing that night. ⁴When morning came, Jesus was found on the shore, but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. ⁵And Jesus said to them, «Children, do you have nothing to eat?» “No,” they replied. ⁶He told them, "Cast the net on the right side of the boat and you will find some." They cast it, but they could not pull it in because of the large number of fish. ⁷Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, «It is the Lord.» When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on his outer garment and girdle (for he was naked) and threw himself into the sea. ⁸The other disciples came with the boat, for they were not far from land, only about two hundred cubits, dragging the net full of fish. ⁹When they went ashore, they saw burning coals there, fish placed on top, and bread. ¹⁰Jesus said to them, «Bring some of the fish you have just caught.» ¹¹Simon Peter got into the boat and hauled the net ashore, which was full of one hundred and fifty-three large fish, and although there were so many, the net did not break. ¹²Jesus said to them, «Come and eat.» And none of the disciples dared to ask him, «Who are you?» because they knew it was the Lord. ¹³Jesus approached and took the bread, he gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. ¹⁴This was already the third time that Jesus had appeared to his disciples since he had risen from the dead.

At that time, Jesus appeared again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias, and this is how it happened. Simon Peter, Thomas called Didymus (that is, Twin), Nathanael from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were together. Simon Peter said to them, «I am going fishing.» They answered him, «We will go with you.» They went out and got into the boat. But that night they caught nothing. At daybreak, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus. He said to them, «Children, have you caught anything?» They answered him, «No.» He said to them, «Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some.» So they cast the net, and this time they were not able to haul it in because of the large number of fish. Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, «It is the Lord!» When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on his outer garment (for he had not been clothed) and jumped into the water. The other disciples arrived in the boat, dragging the net full of fish. The shore was only about 100 meters away. When they got out onto land, they saw a charcoal fire with fish lying on it, and some bread. Jesus said to them, «Bring some of the fish you have just caught.» Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, 153 in total. And although there were so many, the net was not torn. Then Jesus said to them, «Come and have breakfast.» None of the disciples dared ask him, «Who are you?» They knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was the third time that Jesus, resurrected from the dead, had appeared to his disciples.

Jesus approaches and nourishes: the Eucharistic encounter by the lake

How the third appearance of the Risen Christ reveals the logic of a presence that precedes, gives, and transforms

There are mornings that seem like any other, yet are not. A lake, weary fishermen, a sleepless, empty night. Then a voice from the shore, a net suddenly heavy, and a fire already burning, prepared by someone who was waiting. John 21:1-14 is not just a story of a miraculous catch of fish: it is the pivotal scene where the Risen One reveals himself as the one who always goes before, who freely feeds, and who transforms failure into abundance. This article is for anyone going through their own lake night—and seeking to understand how God manifests himself in the darkest hours.

We will begin by situating this narrative within its Johannine and liturgical context, demonstrating why this «third manifestation» is a theological scene in its own right. We will then analyze the narrative structure and its layers of meaning. We will explore three main themes: the pedagogy of fruitful failure, the prior presence of the Risen Christ, and the Eucharistic logic of the shared meal. We will draw concrete applications for spiritual and community life before grounding everything in the great patristic and mystical tradition. A meditation, a reflection on contemporary challenges, a prayer, and a heartfelt conclusion will bring this exploration to a close.

The morning of Tiberias in the Johannine economy

To understand what John 21:1-14 is trying to tell us, we first need to know where we are in the book.

The Gospel according to John had already ended—or almost. Chapter 20 closes with an explicit statement of intent from the author: «These signs were written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by this faith you may have life in his name» (John 20:31). Theologically, everything is said. Christologically, the narrative arc is complete: death, burial, resurrection, appearances to Mary Magdalene, to the assembled disciples, to the incredulous Thomas. Chapter 21 is therefore a kind of appendix, an inspired epilogue that the Johannine community deemed essential to preserve—which means that it says something that the preceding chapters did not yet say.

This "something" is precisely the question of the Church on mission after Easter. How will the disciples live, act, work, and feed the world when the Lord is no longer visible to them? The scene at the Sea of Galilee answers this question not through a speech, but through a meal.

The Greek text offers us a first significant clue. The verb used to describe the manifestation of the Risen One is ephanerôsen — «He manifested himself» — which belongs to the epiphanic vocabulary. John does not say that Jesus «appeared» like a fleeting phantom. He says that he revealed himself, that he made himself visible in his glory, by making himself known through concrete actions. This nuance is crucial: the Risen One is not a nocturnal hallucination of the exhausted disciples. He is an active, acting presence, who orchestrates an encounter.

The seven disciples present form a symbolic group. Seven, in biblical Hebrew, is the number of fullness. Simon Peter, at the head, represents church leadership. Thomas Didymus, the twin, embodies the one who doubts and ultimately confesses. Nathanael of Cana recalls the wedding, the transformation, the nascent faith. The sons of Zebedee—John and James—are the pillars of apostolic brotherhood. And the two anonymous figures open the stage to all the disciples who would come after, to all the generations who would recognize themselves in this story.

The Sea of Galilee, at last. It is not a neutral setting. It is the place of the original call (John 6), of the multiplication of the loaves, of the night crossing. John knows this, and he summons all these memories in a few words. When Peter says, «I am going fishing,» he is returning to his former life. This is not a spiritual abdication; it is the natural movement of a man who does not yet know how to live in the post-Easter world. And it is precisely there that the Lord comes to find him.

The liturgy for the Sundays of Eastertide uses this passage as a window into the life of the early Church: a community that works, that fails, that receives a word from outside, and that recognizes its Lord in the sharing of bread. The alleluia antiphon from Psalm 117—"This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!"—envelops the narrative in Easter joy and reminds us that every morning by the lake can become that day.

A five-act drama

John 21:1-14 is not a flat narrative. It is a carefully structured theatrical composition, where each movement prepares the next and where meaning is built up in successive layers.

Act One: The Night Without a Grip (vv. 1-3). The disciples go out, they work, they take nothing. The night here is as much a metaphor as a reality. Without the presence of the Risen One, human action, however competent, however sincere, remains futile. This is not a moral judgment on the disciples: it is a theological law that John formulates elsewhere with clarity—"Without me you can do nothing" (Jn 15:5). The night at the lake prepares the reader to understand the source of fruitfulness.

Act Two: The Voice from the Shore (vv. 4-6). At daybreak—and this detail is rich in Johannine symbolism, since light is always associated with the presence of Christ in this fourth Gospel—a voice speaks from the shore. The disciples do not recognize Jesus. But they obey his word. And it is obedience to the Word, even before recognition, that produces the miracle. Casting the net to the right is trusting a voice that has not yet been identified. Faith begins there: in an act of trust that precedes certainty.

Third act: recognition (v. 7). «It is the Lord!» The recognition comes from the beloved disciple, the one presented throughout the Gospel as the model of contemplative love. He sees, he understands. Peter, for his part, acts immediately—he plunges in. These two complementary reactions outline the two faces of the Church: contemplation and action, faith that sees and love that leaps.

Act Four: The Fire Already Lit (vv. 8-10). When the disciples arrive on land, the meal is already there. Jesus doesn't wait for their catch to feed them. He has already prepared it. This detail is crucial: grace always precedes human effort. And yet, Jesus says, "Bring some of the fish you have just caught." He incorporates the fruit of their labor into the meal he has prepared. Divine initiative and human action are not mutually exclusive—they are combined in a reciprocal hospitality.

Act Five: The Shared Meal (vv. 11-14). The net contains 153 fish—a number that has sparked centuries of commentary. Peter pulls the net in without it tearing. And Jesus takes the bread, gives it to them, and then the fish. The verbs are exactly those of the multiplication of the loaves in John 6, and those of the Last Supper. Passover, the Eucharist, and this morning scene form a triptych. The attentive reader understands that every Sunday Mass is a beach of Tiberias.

The pedagogy of failure: when the empty night precedes the fruitful dawn

There's something profoundly human about that fruitless night of fishing. Pierre and his companions are professionals. They know the lake, the currents, the best times to fish. And yet—nothing. That night, they caught nothing.

Scripture is replete with these empty nights that precede the decisive encounter. Jacob wrestles all night with the angel before being renamed Israel (Genesis 32). Elijah, exhausted under the broom tree, must sleep and eat before hearing the voice in the silence (1 Kings 19). The disciples on the Sea of Galilee, before the storm subsided, had already experienced a night of fear. Emptiness is not the absence of God: it is often the crucible where the encounter becomes possible.

Spiritual theology calls this passage the via negativa —not as an abstract philosophical system, but as a lived experience. Divine abundance can only be received if one has been emptied of one's own resources. John of the Cross would formulate this precisely centuries later: the dark night is not a punishment, it is a pedagogy. It detaches the soul from its habitual supports to make it available to another kind of fruitfulness.

What is remarkable in the Johannine account is that Jesus does not begin by reproaching Peter for going back to fishing. He does not say, «What are you doing here?» He arrives on the morning of their failure and asks them a question: «Children, do you have any food?» The Greek word paidía — «the children» — is tender, almost affectionate. It’s the way you address someone you love and care for. Failure hasn’t broken the relationship.

How many nights in our lives are like this one? A professional project that fails despite our investment. A carefully nurtured relationship that falls apart. A repeated prayer that seems to bounce off a wall of silence. The natural temptation is to conclude that God is absent, or that we have done something wrong. John 21 offers another interpretation: perhaps this night by the lake is precisely the moment when the Lord stands on the shore, waiting for daybreak to speak.

The resulting fruitfulness is not proportional to the effort expended. The disciples cast the net, certainly, but it is the word of the Risen One that produces the catch. This does not mean that human effort is useless—it is real, it is necessary, it will be incorporated into the meal. But the source of abundance lies elsewhere. And that source is the presence of a Lord who stands on the shore each morning.

The previous presence: Jesus preparing before we arrive

Perhaps the most theologically significant detail in this entire passage is the least discussed in ordinary homilies. When the disciples landed, they found a fire already lit, fish already placed on it, and bread. Jesus did not wait for their return to light the fire. He was there first.

This precedence of grace is a central theme of the entire Johannine revelation. «You did not choose me, but I chose you» (Jn 15:16). «We love him because he first loved us» (1 Jn 4:19). In the prologue to the fourth Gospel, the Word was in the beginning, before all things. The resurrection does not change this logic—it confirms and intensifies it. The Risen One precedes his disciples in Galilee (Mk 16:7). He waits for Mary Magdalene in the garden before she recognizes him. He is on the shore of Tiberias before the disciples get out of the boat.

This precedence has concrete implications for the spiritual life. It means that each morning of prayer, we arrive at a fire already lit. Grace is not something we produce through our efforts—it awaits us. Christian meditation is not a technique for reaching God; it is a way of recognizing the one who is already there. The difference is significant. It radically changes the inner tone of the spiritual life—from striving toward a truth to be conquered, to the relaxed acceptance of a presence that precedes us.

The burning embers, in this context, are also a painful echo. It was around another burning ember that Peter denied Jesus three times (John 18:18). John, using the same Greek word anthracite — «embers» — in both passages, creates a symbolic inclusion. The fire of denial is rekindled by the fire of the meal. Shame is enveloped by tenderness. What Peter refused to acknowledge in the high priest’s courtyard, Jesus takes up again here in a silent offer of reconciliation. Forgiveness is not yet explicitly mentioned — this will come in the following verses, outside the scope of our passage. But the stage is set for forgiveness, with a delicacy that deserves to be noted.

What Jesus prepares before the disciples arrive is therefore more than a meal. It is a space for reconciliation. A space where the failure of the night can be acknowledged, examined, and transformed. It is a grace that precedes confession. And it is also an invitation: come as you are, with your empty nets and wet clothes.

The Eucharistic logic: bread, fish, and the presence of the Risen One

Having reached this point, we cannot avoid the Eucharistic question. And we must not avoid it, for it is precisely here that John places the final emphasis of his narrative.

«Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish.» This verse is the climax of the entire scene. And the verbs are laden with a liturgical density that any Johannine reader immediately recognizes. In John 6, after the multiplication of the loaves, Jesus «takes the bread» (elaben ton arton), "gives thanks" and "distributes" (diedôken) to those who were seated. In John 13, during the washing of the feet that precedes the Passion, Jesus "takes" (lambánei) and "gives" in a gesture of total service. In John 21, same verbal structure, same sequence: take, give, service.

John does not have an institutional account of the Eucharist in the Synoptic sense—there is no «this is my body» in the fourth Gospel, at the Last Supper. But he does have John 6 (the discourse on the bread of life) and John 21 (the meal at Tiberias). These two chapters frame the Johannine Eucharistic mystery: on the one hand, the promise and the teaching; on the other, the fulfillment in the context of the resurrection.

What John is saying here is that the Risen One continues to act as he always has: by taking and giving. The resurrection is not a withdrawal of the Risen One into an inaccessible glory. On the contrary, it is the liberation of this capacity for presence, initiative, and giving that Jesus manifested throughout his ministry—a capacity that is now no longer limited by a body in one place.

Every Eucharist is a beach on the shores of Tiberias. The priest who says, "This is my body," does not produce the presence of Christ; he reveals it. The presence precedes. It waits. And when the believers approach the table, they do exactly what the disciples do in this story: they get out of the boat, they arrive empty-handed or nearly so, and they receive what Jesus has already prepared for them.

The 153 fish have given rise to multiple interpretations since Jerome of Aquileia, who saw in this number the sum of all the fish species known in his time—and thus the symbol of the universality of the apostolic mission. The Church is a net that does not tear, capable of containing all nations, all faces, without breaking communion. The integrity of the net despite its quantity is an ecclesiological promise addressed to all generations of Christians who have seen the Church torn apart or threatened to tear apart. Fullness is possible. The net holds.

Living in Tiberias every day

In personal and spiritual life

The scene in John 21 invites us to readjust our perspective on spiritual action. If Jesus prepares the fire before our arrival, then the question is not "how to produce prayer" but "how to recognize the presence that awaits me." In practical terms: begin the day with a minute of true silence, before any screen, before any noise, to see if something is already burning on the shore of one's heart.

The night by the lake is also an invitation not to flee from failure or emptiness. When prayer seems fruitless, when a period of life seems unproductive, the temptation is to change methods, to multiply spiritual activities, to compensate. John 21 suggests something else: to remain in the boat, to cast the net anyway—and wait for dawn.

In community and church life

Peter doesn't dive in alone. The others arrive with the boat and the net. The meal is shared. John 21 is profoundly communal. Easter faith is not lived in solitude. It is lived in a group of imperfect disciples—a Peter who denied, a Thomas who doubted, two anonymous ones about whom nothing is known—and it is together that the Lord nourishes them.

For a parish community, this scene is a program. The mission doesn't begin with a strategic meeting but with a night of shared work, a failure accepted together, and a voice heard from the outside. Community conversion comes through collective recognition: "It is the Lord!"«

In professional and apostolic life

The disciples' work—fishing—is incorporated, not negated. Jesus doesn't tell them, "Cast your nets, you will catch no more fish." He asks them to bring their catch to the meal he has prepared. Ordinary professional life can become an offering. What we do with skill and dedication, even in weariness, can be taken by the Lord and integrated into something greater.

This is a profoundly positive anthropology of work: human action is real, it matters, it is received. But it finds its fullness when it is offered and integrated into the gesture of Christ who takes and gives.

Echoes in tradition: from Jerome to Augustine, from Bernard to Francis

The Church Fathers did not fail to comment on this scene with fervor. Their interpretations form a living tradition that it would be a shame to ignore.

Augustine of Hippo, in its Tractatus in Evangelium Johannis, He sees in the 153 fish the symbol of the fullness of the elect. He breaks down the number according to the symbolic gematria of his time: 153 is the sum of the integers from 1 to 17, and 17 is itself the sum of 10 (the commandments) and 7 (the gifts of the Spirit). The fullness of the net is the fullness of the Law fulfilled by grace. The Paschal Church is the place of this fulfillment.

John Chrysostom, Commenting on the same passage in his homilies on John, he emphasizes the gentleness of Jesus. He notes that the Risen One does not begin with a solemn teaching. He begins with a meal. Divine pedagogy passes through the table, through the care of the body, before passing through theological discourse. Divine condescension (synkatabasis) is here at the height of its tenderness.

Bernard of Clairvaux, in its Sermons on the Song of Songs, He evokes this scene as a figure of the soul seeking its beloved. The night without a catch represents spiritual aridity. The dawn and the voice from the shore represent the unexpected visit of divine love. Bernard sees in the unbroken net the unity of charity: love bears all without breaking.

Francis of Assisi, He, however, did not comment on this text in writing—but he lived it. Every morning on the banks of the Portiuncula or on the roads of Umbria, the Poverello began anew from the poverty of empty hands, open to the voice that would come. His entire life is a living gloss on John 21.

Closer to home, Hans Urs von Balthasar saw in this meal at Tiberias the paradigm of all active contemplation. The mission of the Church does not begin on its own: it begins with a fire kindled by another. Ignatian spirituality, heir to this intuition, speaks of finding God in all things — but John 21 specifies: it is he who finds us first, on the edge of our ordinary shores.

The theological implications of all this are vast. John 21:1-14 reveals an ecclesiology of fruitful dependence: the Church does not generate itself, it receives itself. It does not produce its apostolic fruitfulness by its own strength—it receives it from the one standing on the shore who says, «Throw it to the right.» Its vocation is not to perform but to recognize. And in this recognition, it becomes capable of nourishing the world with what it has received.

Lectio divina

Seven Steps to Living John 21

This track is designed for personal meditation of about thirty minutes, or for a one-hour group retreat.

Step 1 — Entering the night. Sit in silence. Become aware of a current darkness in your life: an area where you are working without visible results. Name it silently, without running away from it.

Step 2 — Stay in the boat. Resist the urge to change everything, to step out of the net, to look for another method. Accept staying there, in the ordinary effort, even without a hold.

Step 3 — Wait for dawn. Imagine the sunrise over the lake. Let the image of a shore, of a nascent light, come to mind. What voice do you hear from that shore?

Step 4 — Obey before understanding. The word says, "Throw to the right." Identify a concrete action in your life that you've been putting off because you're not yet certain. Agree to do it, with confidence.

Step 5 — Recognize. «"It is the Lord!" Reflect on a recent moment in your life when a presence manifested unexpectedly. Acknowledge it in retrospect.

Step 6 — Arrive with hands full and empty at the same time. Come to the table knowing that Jesus has already lit the fire. Bring what you have—your 153 fish, even imperfect ones. And receive what he has prepared.

Step 7 — Leave fed. The scene ends with a meal, not a speech. Remain for a few moments in silent gratitude. Let this inner meal sustain you for the day.

What does John 21 say to our time?

The challenge of spiritual activism

Our era values results, performance, and measurable growth. This logic has deeply permeated church life: we talk about evangelistic methods, pastoral strategies, and mission KPIs. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be effective. But when effectiveness becomes the primary measure, we risk losing the voice from the shore—because we're too busy weighing the net.

John 21 poses a radical question to contemporary Christian communities: are you capable of living through a night by the lake without panicking? Are you capable of working seriously without making your results proof of your worth? Apostolic fruitfulness is not something to be optimized—it is a gift to be received.

The challenge of religious disaffiliation

In Western Europe, religious statistics are well-known and worrying. The number of practicing Christians is lower, they are older, and many young adults have left the fold of organized Christianity. Faced with this reality, two temptations lie in wait for the Churches: nostalgia (a return to the past) and catastrophism (all is lost).

John 21 offers a third way. The disciples who catch nothing in the night do not give up—they continue fishing. But above all, Jesus does not find them in despair: he finds them at work. And he lights the fire before their return. There is something encouraging in this image for Christian communities in times of social drought: the Risen One is already preparing something on a shore we have not yet reached.

The challenge of ecclesial communion

The net that does not tear—despite 153 fish—is a sign addressed to a Church often divided by liturgical traditions, theological sensitivities, and pastoral cultures. John 21 does not say that tensions do not exist. He says that the net holds. Not by the human strength of its knots, but because it is pulled by Peter at the command of the Risen Lord.

The concrete question for each community: what is tearing our net today? And who holds the end of the rope? Johannine's answer is clear: it is Simon Peter who pulls, but it is the Lord who has filled it.

The challenge of the Eucharist as lived, not just celebrated

Finally, John 21 challenges those who participate in Sunday Eucharist without allowing it to transform their daily lives. «Come and eat»—the invitation is real, regular, and unconditional. But it calls for a conversion of perspective: to see in each meal an echo of Tiberias, in each morning a beach where someone has lit a fire, in each sharing a prefiguration of the bread given.

Prayer by the lake every morning

Lord Jesus, risen from Tiberias, You know our lake nights — those hours when we work without seeing, where the net returns empty despite our sincere effort. You know how tired those who haven't slept feel, the silent disappointment of those who had hoped for a capture, and Pierre's hesitation as he returns to what he knows, for lack of knowing how to inhabit the aftermath of your resurrection.

You, you're up before dawn. You lit the fire. You put the bread down. You wait on the shore of our ordinary mornings, in the grey light that precedes full daylight, at the edge of our lives, who don't yet know that you are there.

Let us hear your voice — that voice that calls to the children, Tender yet direct: "Do you have anything to eat?"« Teach us not to be ashamed of our empty net. Teach us to answer: No — with the honesty of lack, without disguising it under activities or excuses.

And when you tell us: "Throw to the right", Give us the faith of the disciple who obeys before understanding., who casts the net in the dark without waiting for prior demonstration.

When we reach land, with wet feet and pounding hearts, Let us see the fire you lit. Let us understand that you were here before us, May your grace precede our action., that your love does not wait for our merit to manifest itself.

You take the bread. You give it to us. You take the fish. You give it to us. In this simple, repeated, faithful gesture, You nourish us with yourself, You, the Living Bread, You, the Word made flesh, and now made Light of resurrection.

Teach us to recognize, like the beloved disciple: «"It is the Lord!"» In Sunday lunch as in Monday morning's meal, in Eucharistic communion as in the bread shared at the family table, in the stranger met by the roadside as in the faithful friend.

May our nets not be torn, that our community may bear the fullness of the called peoples, that we may be, for those you send us, the fire lit before their arrival.

Lord, you know all things. You know we love you — clumsily, imperfectly, but truly. Nourish this love with your presence. And lead us, at the end of the night, to the shore of dawn.

Amen.

Returning every morning to the beach of Tiberias

John 21:1-14 is one of the most human and profound texts in the entire New Testament. It meets people where they are—in their work, in their weariness, in their failure—and leads them, without violence, to a recognition that changes everything: «It is the Lord.»

What happened that morning on the shore of Tiberias didn't end with the last verse of the chapter. It begins again every Sunday in every church in the world, when a priest takes the bread and gives it away. It begins again every morning in the silent prayer of the one who sits down and says: I don't know if you're there, but I'll light my lamp anyway. It begins again in every meal shared with someone who is tired, in every net cast again despite the previous night.

The Risen One is not a memory. He is on the shore. The fire is burning. The bread is laid down. And he waits—with that infinite patience which is his way of loving—for us to recognize his voice and get out of the boat.

Grace is not earned. It is received. And it is received on a beach, in the morning, after a night at the lake, when one's hands are finally empty enough to extend one's palms.

Seven gestures for living John 21

— Every morning, take thirty seconds before the first screen to acknowledge that "someone lit the fire before me".

— Identify a lake night in your current life, name it without running away from it, and choose not to change boats but to cast the net anyway.

— At the next mass, enter into the gesture of the priest who takes the bread and gives it, rereading it as the scene of Tiberias.

— Share a meal this week with someone who is tired or discouraged, preparing the welcome before their arrival — fire lit, table set.

— Read John 21:1-14 slowly aloud, just once, asking yourself: what kind of disciple am I in this scene?

— Use the number 153 as a personal metaphor: what are my 153 realities that Christ can take in his hands without the net tearing?

— Offer a short but heartfelt prayer at each moment of professional or relational failure during the week, repeating inwardly: "He is on the shore."«

References

Primary Sources

— Gospel according to Saint John, ch. 21, 1-14 (AELF liturgical translation). — Augustine of Hippo, Tractatus in Evangelium Johannis, Tractatus CXXII, in Patrologia Latina, vol. 35, ed. J.-P. Migne. — John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of John, Homily LXXXVII, in Christian Sources No. 375, Cerf, 1994. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermons on the Song of Songs, SC 414, Cerf, 1998.

Secondary sources

— Xavier Léon-Dufour, Reading from the Gospel according to John, t. IV, Seuil, 1996, ch. 21. — Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel of St. John, t. III, Herder, 1976; transl. fr. The Gospel according to Saint John, Cerf, 1982. Hans Urs von Balthasar, Glory and the Cross, t. I, Appearance, Aubier, 1965. — Ignatius of Pottery, The Truth in Saint John, Analecta Biblica 73-74, PIB, Rome, 1977.

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