Going Back to What You Know — When the Familiar No Longer Works

Text: John 21:1–19 (NKJV)

“After these things Jesus showed Himself again to the disciples at the Sea of Tiberias…
Simon Peter said to them, ‘I am going fishing.’
They said to him, ‘We are going with you also.’”

There’s a quiet instinct most people recognise.

When something doesn’t work out…
when things don’t land the way you thought they would…

there’s a pull to go back.

Back to what’s familiar.
Back to what you understand.
Back to what feels manageable.

Not usually as a big decision.

More often, it’s a drift.

By this point, the disciples have already seen the risen Jesus.

John tells us this is the third time He has appeared to them.

So this isn’t uncertainty about whether He is alive.

They know that.

But things have changed.

They are not with Him constantly the way they were before.
There are gaps now.
Space.
Moments where they are left to work out what this means.

It’s likely a couple of weeks in.

Enough time for the initial moment to pass.
Enough time for reality to begin to settle.

And what they’re left with is a kind of pause.

They’re not where they were.
But they don’t yet know how to move forward.

So Peter says: “I am going fishing.”

And the others follow.

It isn’t rebellion.

It isn’t rejection.

It’s a quiet return — a way of filling the space when you don’t yet know what comes next.

Most people don’t make sharp turns away.

They drift slowly back toward what feels familiar.

And that’s not just a spiritual observation.

It’s human.

When things feel uncertain, we return to what is known. Patterns that have been repeated become easier to follow, even when they no longer lead anywhere helpful. Psychologists describe this through habit formation — where familiarity often drives behaviour more than what actually works.

We don’t always go back because it works.

We go back because we know it.

And the night produces nothing.

No fish.
No progress.
No result.

They return to what they know —
but the drift doesn’t resolve anything.

Even that no longer gives them what it once did.

Then, in the middle of that ordinary moment, a voice comes from the shore.

Jesus doesn’t start with correction.

He starts with a question:

“Children, have you any food?” (John 21:5)

They answer honestly.

“No.”

And then He speaks:

“Cast the net on the right side…”

It’s not dramatic.
But it is specific — and it requires response.

It’s a simple instruction.

But everything shifts.

This is one of the quieter things Scripture shows us.

Jesus doesn’t call them away from the place they’ve gone back to.

He meets them there.

Not after they’ve sorted themselves out.

Not once they’ve worked it through.

Right there — in the drift.

And something deeper is happening.

Because this moment sits inside a bigger story.

If you were to describe the Christian life in simple terms, it might look like this:

We have been saved.
We are being saved.
We will be saved.

Justification.
Sanctification.
Glorification.

This moment sits right in the middle of that.

They have already encountered the risen Jesus.

Something decisive has happened.

But now they are learning how to live in light of it.

And that is what sanctification actually is.

Not a theory.

And not a pressure to perform.

But the daily outworking of a life with Jesus.

And that life doesn’t unfold in perfect conditions.

Circumstances shift.

Health changes.
Relationships strain.
Work becomes uncertain.

And in those moments, you find yourself in the pause.
Not where you were.

Not yet where you’re going.

And that space can be dangerous.

Because it’s in the pause that drift begins to feel normal.

Peter suggests going back.

And the others follow.

But the turning point is not effort.

It’s listening.

They had fished all night using everything they knew.

Nothing changed.

The moment shifts when they respond to His voice.

Dallas Willard puts it like this:

“Grace is not opposed to effort; it is opposed to earning.”

They are still working.

Still casting nets.

But now they are responding, not just repeating.

They come to shore.

And what they find is unexpected.

A fire.

Fish already laid on it.

Bread.

“Come and eat breakfast.” (John 21:12)

Before any questions are asked…
before anything is addressed…

Jesus feeds them.

No rebuke.

No lecture.

No “why did you go back?”

Just provision.

The first thing Jesus does in the drift is not correct them.
It is care for them.

And here is the deeper insight.

What they were looking for in the familiar —
provision, direction, something that works —

is not found in the familiar itself.

It is found in listening to Jesus within it.

Sometimes we expect God to confront us first.
In this passage, He meets us, provides for us, and only then begins to speak into what needs restored.

The focus then shifts.

From the nets…
to Peter.

A fire is burning.

Breakfast is prepared.

And Jesus asks:

“Do you love Me?” (John 21:15)

Again. And again.

Not to expose.

But to restore.

Peter’s failure had happened around a fire.

Now he finds himself at another one.

Same kind of place.

Different outcome.

Jesus doesn’t avoid that moment.

He steps back into it with him.

And something begins to change.

This is often how restoration works.

Not by skipping over what happened.

Not by pretending it didn’t matter.

But by meeting God in the same place — and discovering it doesn’t end the same way.

And what’s happening here prepares them for what comes next.

Soon, they will be told to wait.

To gather in an upper room.

To wait for what God will do.

But this moment comes first.

Because waiting is not inactivity.
It is learning to be ready.

Many people are waiting for a clear call from God.

Something unmistakable.
Something decisive.

But in the meantime, they are not sure what to do.

This passage suggests something different.

You don’t wait by doing nothing.

You wait by remaining responsive.

By listening.

By serving in what is in front of you.

A towel over your arm, not a plan in your head.

“Follow Me.”

Not for the first time.

But again.

That might be the most important part.

Because it means failure isn’t final.

Drift doesn’t define you.

And going back doesn’t mean the story is over.

The movement of the resurrection isn’t only that Jesus is alive.

It’s that He returns.

To the places that feel unfinished.
To the moments that didn’t go how they should have.

And meets us there.

Jesus doesn’t stand on the shore and call them out — He calls them in.

If this feels familiar, it may simply be a reminder:

You don’t need everything resolved to move forward.

And what you’ve been looking for in what you know
may actually be found
in listening again.

A quiet note

If you find yourself drifting back toward familiar patterns or ways of coping, it can help to speak that through with someone you trust. You don’t have to carry that on your own.

If reading this has helped you

You may want to read:

Why We Go Back
Not Every Trigger Is a Threat
The Weight of Hopelessness
More Than the Wound

Window Seat

Stuart Patterson – Faith, Recovery and Community

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