Do You Have Any Fish?

Easter has come and gone. Resurrection has been proclaimed. And yet… here we are—back in our ordinary lives.

Eastertide is meant to be a season of joy, but often it feels more like disorientation. What does it mean to live in resurrection when everything around us looks the same? When we return to the same work, the same patterns, the same quiet striving?

Not because resurrection didn’t happen—but because we are still learning how to live from it.

For generations, this light has been remembered as a flame carried from the tomb—passed from one person to another—a reminder that resurrection is not just something that happened, but something still being received.

The disciples were the first to receive this light—the first witnesses, the first to carry what had been awakened in them. And yet, even they did not fully know what to do with it. So they returned to what they knew.

And perhaps this is where it begins—not in clarity or confidence, but in a quiet returning where the light meets us again.

And now, somehow, that same light has reached us—
not by our own effort, but by grace.

Which means this story is not just theirs. It’s ours, too.

Because while we may not be fishing at night, we know what it feels like to keep trying… and still come up empty.

In our own ways, this shows up in everyday life.

For me, it can look like reaching out again and again—sending messages, following up, doing what I can—
and ending the day not with abundance, but with exhaustion.

Maybe for you, it looks different.
But the feeling is the same.

Nets empty. Energy low.

And a question underneath it all:

Can I keep going like this?

It’s into a moment like this that we hear a voice from the shoreline—

in John 21: “Do you have any fish?”

It sounds like a simple question. But it’s not really about fish.

It’s a question about provision.

Do you have what you need to keep going like this? Enough energy, enough clarity, enough hope—for the life you’re living right now?

And the honest answer, sometimes, is no.

What strikes me is this: after the resurrection, the disciples did not step into a completely different life. They returned to the same sea, the same nets, the same long night of trying—and even the same emptiness.

And then… something familiar happens.

A voice.
A question.
A direction about where to cast the net.

It feels like a déjà vu, because this wasn’t the first time.

At the very beginning, when they were first called, they had been here before—another empty night, another unexpected invitation to trust and respond.

And now, after everything that has happened, it comes again—not as repetition without meaning, but as a deepening.

As if to say: the life you were first invited into is the life you are still being invited to live.

Resurrection didn’t replace their calling—it brought them back to it with new eyes, preparing them for what that calling would become.

And then comes the question again:

Do you have any fish?

Not to expose failure or shame the emptiness, but to bring us into honesty—because we cannot receive what we are not willing to name.

And there, on the shore, we discover something unexpected:

a fire already burning.

A quiet, steady fire—not dependent on our effort, not waiting for our success.

The fire that leads us forward is not the one we managed to keep alive, but the one we discover was already there.

And from that place, a simple invitation comes: “Cast your net on the other side.”

Not louder effort. Not more striving.

Just a different way of listening—
learning to attend to His voice…
a different way of responding.

Sometimes we take a small step in trust— and only in time do we recognize
that it was the Lord who was guiding us.

The disciples didn’t know it was Jesus yet—but they responded anyway. And the nets—once empty—began to fill.

This is the quiet beginning of resurrection life—not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary ones that feel unsustainable. Where the risen Christ meets us not at our best, but in our fatigue.

Because of what has already been finished, we no longer have to strive as if everything depends on us.

Now there is a light—not to remove the night, but to guide us through it.

The sea is the same. The work is the same. But the presence is not.

Not after we recover.
Not when we are stronger.

Right here—right in the middle of exhaustion—there is an invitation to receive the light.

Take a quiet moment today. Sit with your hands open, as if holding an empty net.

Name, honestly, where things feel empty or unsustainable right now.

Then gently ask:
“Lord, where might You be inviting me to cast differently?”

Don’t rush to fix anything. Just listen.

Notice any gentle prompting that aligns with His voice.

Choose one simple response. Let it be small. Let it be enough.

Jesus,
You meet us in the ordinary—
in the places where we are tired, where our efforts feel empty,
where life feels unsustainable.

You do not turn away from us there.
You come close.

Teach us to be honest about what we carry and what we lack.
Help us to notice the fire already burning—Your presence,
Your provision, Your steady light.

Give us the courage to listen and to respond,
even when we do not fully understand.

May the light we receive guide us—not out of our lives,
but deeper into them, with You.

Amen.

What if… before we recognize the light—
we are first recognized by it?

What if the turning point doesn’t begin with us seeing clearly,
but with being seen… and called?

Next week, we will step into another resurrection moment—
not by the sea, but in a garden—
where someone is weeping,
not knowing that the light is already near…

until she hears her name.