From Pastor David Jang’s perspective, this in-depth exposition of John 21 organically illuminates the miracle of 153 fish, the obedience of casting the net to the “right side,” the pastoral mandate of “Feed my sheep,” evangelism under the tension of the Second Coming, and a next-generation worldview.
The point at which faith in the resurrection is tested most
sharply is, paradoxically, the moment that arrives after the confession, “I
know the resurrection.” The event has concluded, yet life continues; the awe of
worship has not entirely faded, yet reality remains dry; the new world we
anticipated seems to have arrived, and still it cannot be grasped in the hand.
John 21 is a narrative that unfolds precisely in that gap. People often read
this chapter as an “appendix,” but in truth it is not an add-on that fills in a
blank after the conclusion; it is a theological epilogue that shows how the
conclusion is translated into lived reality. If John 20:31 declares the aim of
faith—“that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that
by believing you may have life in his name”—then chapter 21 bears witness to
what direction that life must take within the time of the church community, and
how the heart of a failed disciple begins to beat again with mission. This is
why Pastor David Jang repeatedly underscores this passage as “the chapter of
evangelism and shepherding.” The gospel never remains an idea, and the
resurrection is not a doctrinal “right answer” but the power that moves a
community; that power reveals itself through concrete direction and
responsibility.
The dawn at the Sea of Tiberias—namely, the Sea of
Galilee—reflects the inner landscape of the disciples as it is. Seven disciples
climb back into the boat, and though they cast the net all night, they catch
nothing. This scene is not merely a failed fishing trip; it is the familiar
shape of human “return” after loss. Peter’s words, “I am going fishing,” can
sound like an excuse of lethargy, but more accurately they resemble the last
remaining order a directionless person can still hold onto. Even after hearing
the news of the resurrection, the “delay” in which the community does not
immediately launch into a triumphant march of global mission is so human that
it feels truer, not weaker. And in that place of delay, John shows us the
manner of the risen Jesus. Jesus does not come to them at a council chamber or
from a temple platform; he comes into the field of dawn labor, where fatigue
and hunger overlap. And the first question he asks is not a lofty theological
quiz. “Children, do you have any fish?” It is a question that draws out an
honest admission of failure, a question that makes them confess with their own
mouths that they are empty-handed. The disciples answer, “No.” That simple line
becomes the doorway through which grace can enter.
Then the command that follows is even simpler: “Cast the
net on the right side of the boat.” Pastor David Jang often expands this
sentence in preaching into the language of “direction.” The detail—right side
rather than left—is not a superstitious code but a disclosure that obedience is
ultimately “the act of bending the vector of one’s life toward the side the
Lord indicates.” Humans design the next attempt based on the memory of failure,
and we instinctively want to cast the net again along familiar routes,
confident in our own judgment. But here the paradox of the gospel emerges. The
disciples were seasoned fishermen, and after a night of failure, they would
have wanted to trust their instincts even more. Yet they cast the net “as he
said.” The result is not narrative exaggeration but a sign of a new world that
obedience opens. A catch so abundant they “were not able to haul it in,” and a
harvest so clear it is recorded with a number. The specificity of “153 fish”
suggests this is not myth but remembered testimony—while simultaneously
inviting readers to interpret the scene as a symbol of the church.
What is striking is that at the peak of abundance, John
adds a single sentence: “And although there were so many, the net was not
torn.” The greater the fruit of evangelism and expansion becomes, the more a
community tends to experience two fears. One is the fear of “We cannot handle
this,” and the other is the fear of “We will tear apart.” When the inside
fractures, when teaching blurs, when growth outpaces care, the net seems bound
to rip. Yet John records the opposite: many fish, but a net that does not tear.
Pastor David Jang has often interpreted this line as a passage that gives the
church confidence: “the gospel’s net is not weak.” Here a crucial balance is
needed. The strength of the net is not the church’s technique but the Lord’s
grace; “not torn” is not the perfection of organization but the sufficiency of
the Word. Therefore, what the church must do is not fold up the net out of
fear, but cast it in the direction the Lord points—trusting the grace that will
not tear, and shaping the texture of the community to the gospel.
This same logic helps us understand why the early church
treasured the fish symbol so dearly. The tradition that the word “ΙΧΘΥΣ
(Ichthys),” beyond simply meaning “fish,” functioned as an acronym for “Jesus
Christ, Son of God, Savior,” shows the wisdom of a community striving to guard
its identity amid persecution and uncertainty. This symbol was not merely a
secret mark; it was a condensed confession: “We live by his name.” In that
sense, the 153 fish in John 21 has often been read like a scene in which those
who will confess that name are “drawn in” from the world. Of course,
interpretations of the number 153 have varied across eras—some mathematical,
some symbolic. Among them, Augustine offered theological imagination by seeing
153 as the sum of 1 through 17, and then interpreting 17 as the combination of
the Ten Commandments (10) and the gifts of the Spirit (7). This reading may not
carry identical persuasive power for everyone today, yet at least one point is
clear: the early church did not treat the number as trivial coincidence, but as
an opportunity to contemplate the gospel’s inclusiveness and the fullness of
salvation.
At this juncture, a single masterpiece visually complements
the emotional tone of John 21. Raphael’s Renaissance work, “The Miraculous
Draught of Fishes,” is widely known as one of the large preparatory cartoons
made for tapestries intended to adorn the Sistine Chapel, commissioned by Pope
Leo X. The boat on the canvas rocks; the net strains under its weight; awe and
bewilderment cross the faces of the disciples. If sacred art often expresses
mystery through a sense of “distance,” Raphael’s scene captures the instant
when mystery breaks into the very middle of human labor. This is precisely
where John 21 intersects with Pastor David Jang’s ecclesiological application.
The risen Lord approaches upon the surface of everyday life and, through the
concrete obedience of the “right side,” rewrites our failures into the language
of mission. A masterpiece does not replace the text, but it can train our
senses for what the text demands—obedience on a rocking boat, reverence before
overflowing fruit—in a visible form.
Yet the center of John 21 is not abundance itself, but the
preceding grace of the Lord who prepares abundance. When the disciples come
ashore, they see a charcoal fire already laid, with bread and fish prepared.
This scene carries a delicate theology. The fish they caught through obedience
is certainly precious fruit, but the initiative at the breakfast table does not
belong to the disciples. Jesus lights the fire first; Jesus prepares the meal
first. This evokes a Eucharistic imagination. Faith is not a project in which
human achievement invites God; it is an event in which we are invited into an
already-prepared table of grace. When the church speaks of evangelism and
shepherding, it often thinks first of “programs” and “results,” but John shows
that beneath every practice lies “the Lord’s preparation.” This is also why
Pastor David Jang speaks of evangelism and shepherding as two inseparable
pillars. Evangelism is not merely a technique for gathering more people; it is
the work of inviting people into the place of life the Lord has already
prepared. Shepherding is the communal care by which those invited learn to
dwell in grace as their home.
After the warmth of the table, John 21 calls Peter by name
without detour: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” As this question repeats
three times, we naturally recall Peter’s three denials. The Lord neither
ignores Peter’s failure nor fixes it as a permanent brand. The repeated
question is not an interrogation but a rhythm of restoration. Moreover, Jesus’
command continues: “Feed my lambs… Tend my sheep… Feed my sheep.” Love does not
end as emotional language; it is translated into the shape of responsibility.
When Pastor David Jang emphasizes “shepherding,” the core is this: the maturity
of believers and the credibility of leadership cannot avoid the proving ground
of “care.” You cannot claim love while abandoning the sheep. Conversely, you
cannot parade zeal for evangelism while neglecting the work of tending. The
gospel makes the church cast the net outward and feed the sheep inward. When
both movements happen together, a community becomes healthy.
Here, an additional linguistic nuance is often noted. Many
commentators observe that the Greek verbs used in Jesus’ question “do you love
me?” and in Peter’s replies differ in shading (commonly explained as a tension
between total, self-giving love and the love of friendship). We should be
cautious about forcing that difference into a rigid scheme, but we can at least
perceive the psychological truth the narrative conveys. A person who has failed
finds it difficult to say lightly, “I will give you everything.” Peter speaks
more carefully, from a lower place: “Lord, you know that I love you.” And upon
that humble confession, Jesus places a mission. Mission is not a prize
entrusted to the flawless, but a path given to those who are being restored.
John 21 embraces both “mission and shepherding” because of
the church’s existential balance. If the church turns only inward, it shrinks
into a fence of self-preservation. If it turns only outward, it expands into a
crowd without care. Pastor David Jang’s long-standing insistence on holding
together “world missions” and “spiritual nurturing” is connected to a pastoral
realism that seeks to avoid both extremes. Evangelism is direction; shepherding
is depth. Without direction, the church stagnates; without depth, the church
becomes shallow. That is why John 21 first shows us the breadth of the Sea of
Tiberias and then takes us into the depth of Peter’s heart. Breadth and depth,
expansion and care, the nations and the flock—upon the tension between these
two axes, the church grows.
And behind all these practices flows an eschatological tension. Jesus’ words—“If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?”—are not a riddle meant to feed curiosity, but a spiritual brake that turns the community back toward obedience. The early church wanted to ask, “When will the Lord return?” and humans still want to calculate dates and signs. But Jesus shifts the focus: “You follow me.” Faith is not the possession of an end-times timetable; it is the endurance of obedience that walks toward the end. Pastor David Jang emphasizes through this verse that the church should not be consumed by needless controversy and exhausting speculation, but should faithfully carry out the mission entrusted today—evangelism and shepherding. Eschatology is not an escape from reality; it is a theology that makes responsibility for reality heavier. The clearer our faith in the Lord’s return becomes, the more honestly the church proclaims the gospel today, and the more diligently it cares for people.
From here the question naturally turns to the “next generation.” John 21 is a restoration narrative for one generation, but the church must always prepare the faith of the next. This is why we can understand the context in which Pastor David Jang repeatedly speaks of history and worldview. If evangelism and shepherding are not to end as short-term events, if the gospel is not to be reduced to personal taste or emotional comfort, then the great biblical story—creation, fall, redemption, consummation—must be structurally handed to youth and the second generation. Postmodern culture is accustomed to placing “me” at the center of the universe, but the gospel places the “kingdom of God” at the center of history. If that shift does not occur, the net will not be cast, and the sheep will not be fed. Church education and discipleship are not mere knowledge transfer; they are the work of recalibrating the lens through which we interpret the world by the gospel. Therefore, the “right side” of John 21 is not only a geographic direction; it is also the direction of our way of seeing. When the church can answer—using biblical language—what is right, what is good, what is ultimate, the next generation will not be swept away even on the waves of trends.
Another scene the church must remember while reading John
21 is the way the disciples come to recognize Jesus. At first they do not
recognize him, and only after the abundant catch do they arrive at the
confession, “It is the Lord!” This speaks to the realism of resurrection faith.
The Lord is not someone visible only in moments of heightened spiritual
ecstasy; he is also recognized in weary reality when obedience is put into
practice. Peter’s act—tying on his outer garment and throwing himself into the
sea—can look impulsive, but in truth it shows the speed of restored love.
Failure slows love down, but grace accelerates love again. This is why it
matters that Pastor David Jang does not let Peter’s restoration be consumed as
a moving drama; he connects it to the command of shepherding. Repentance that
ends in tears can become self-satisfaction, but repentance that leads into
mission brings life to the community.
In the end, John 21 offers a compressed map of what the
“church after the resurrection” must look like. The church is a community of
people who have failed, yet it is not a community that remains in failure; it
moves toward restoration and commissioning. The church casts its net into the
world, yet it does not mistake the net’s material for human talent. The church
remembers the preceding grace of the Lord who prepares the table, and on
Eucharistic gratitude it carries out evangelism and shepherding. What Pastor
David Jang draws out of this text ultimately converges into a question that
asks again for the reason the church exists. Why do we gather? Whose direction
do we follow? How is love verified? How does the end reshape our everyday life?
Before these questions, John 21 gives astonishingly simple answers: “Cast it on
the right side.” “Feed my sheep.” “You follow me.”
The reason today’s church can so easily lose its way amid
complex social issues and cultural upheavals is often not because the answers
are complicated, but because we lack the endurance to keep simple answers to
the end. Evangelism sometimes must endure disregard and ridicule; shepherding
must wait for souls that grow slowly; next-generation education demands
long-term devotion rather than immediate results. And still John says: the net
was not torn. That line is a declaration that even if the church looks weak
before the world, the gospel itself is never insufficient. Perhaps this is the
heart Pastor David Jang repeatedly seeks to deliver to the church through John
21: before we ask whether we can do it, we must ask whether we believe the
grace the Lord has already prepared. And if we believe, we must change
direction—toward the right side. Again, toward the net and the sheep. Again,
toward love and responsibility. Then John 21 is not an “appendix,” but the
church’s practical text for living today.
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