Same mistake, different fate

The heat from the fire failed to warm me. Ice gripped every inch of me. No cold matched the frigid fist wrapped around my heart though. I was caught in an absolute whirl of emotions. Anger at the friend who betrayed us and the enemies unto whom he had delivered our precious Friend. Frustration at the thought of all I could have and should have done, and also at my inability to do anything now. Beyond everything though, was fear. Fear for our safety, and the fate of our Master who was probably being tortured within the house of the high priest, outside which I now found myself.

It was with utter amazement that we watched the legionnaires approach us in the garden where we thought we’d be safe. Well…as safe as we ever were. I grimaced as I thought back over the past couple of years. It had never been dull, that was for sure. The cold expression resumed as I remembered the shower of silver that had rained down on Judas. He had been one of us! One of His most trusted! Thinking back now, it all made sense. Just last night at supper, Judas had been on his way somewhere. What was it that our Lord had said? “Go do what you must…” or something.

Our confusion had abated as the Master got up shortly after and bid us follow him to the Mount of Olives. I thought He was taking us there to teach us, as He had so many times. I furrowed my brow in recollection, but my thoughts were interrupted.

“Hey, weren’t you one o’ them?”

It was a servant girl. And not any servant girl, but one of the high priest’s, by the look of her clothes. Caught off guard, I responded quickly.

“No… Wait… What do you mean?”

“One o’ his… what did you call yourselves? Disciples.”

The fear I’d so far felt only abstractly, suddenly took on a much more personal tinge. I didn’t give my answer a second thought.

“No I’m not! What are you talking about?”

Seeking to punctuate my statement, I shifted away from the inner courtyard. Almost immediately though, I regretted my decision to move away from the fire. Fortunately, some men had made another one at the entryway to Caiaphas’s estate. I joined them surreptitiously — just another soul that wanted to keep the cold at bay and share in the day’s gossip.

“I heard that when they tried to take him, one of his followers cut off a legionnaire’s ear!”

I could hardly suppress a smile at that. After all, I hadn’t known until now that it had been a soldier that I’d cut. One of them must have noticed my reaction.

“And you,” he began, “what do you think of all these things?”

I was wrenched from my reverie. Like a fish out of water, my mouth opened and closed to no effect. Behind me, the servant girl from before piped up, “He’s one of them!”

The net was closing in, I had to speak (at least, this is how I’d justify it to myself later).

“Leave me in peace woman! I’ve already told you: I. DON’T. KNOW. HIM!”

The silence which followed my outburst was filled only with the crackle of the fire. Then, a small fellow stepped forward. His frame was made smaller still by his hunching posture. He peered up at me with snake-like eyes, and proclaimed: “That’s a Galilean accent, by my reckoning.”

The rest of the men exchanged glances, muttering something about the followers of Jesus being from Galilee. All the while, the serpentine glare of the little man remained fixed on me, the corners of his mouth curling up in a wicked smile. I found myself backing up from imagined assailants. The last thing I uttered before turning to run, was: “I don’t know the man!”

I hadn’t managed a single step before the night reverberated with the cry of a lone rooster.

Once more, I was transported to the memory of that last time we were all on the mount of olives. With the cry of the rooster still ringing in my ears, I heard His voice like a wave crashing though me.

“This very night, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.”

The pain in my chest had nothing to do with the strain of running. Nor did my shortage of breath. I must have been going for some time though, for the high priest’s estate, the servant girl and the men, were no longer in sight. Tears obstructed my vision as I fell to the ground panting.

“Lord… Rabbi… What have I done?” was all I manged to choke between sobs.

After I had so proudly claimed that I would follow Him even to the grave, I had done just as He had predicted.

Time passed in a blur. Some of the others came and went, bringing news of what was happening. I refused their insistence that I come with them to see Him. Even when He was being crucified, I lied and said I was scared. The truth was, I couldn’t bear to look at Him. When they’d gone, I also left the house, but in another direction. The shame I’d been harboring had festered. Beyond pain now, only anger remained and I would vent it at the one who had caused this mess.

Judas.

I’d heard that a field had been bought in his name. A field of blood was what it was — or would be, once I was done. The betrayer was surely there, and I’d see justice done. My hand edged towards the familiar weight of the dagger at my side — a remnant of my darker past. Above Jerusalem, clouds were beginning to gather, as if the weather was echoing my mood.

Heavy drops were tossing up mud by the time I got to the field. Forks of lightning intermittently brightened the night which seemed to have arrived early. I strode purposefully towards the middle of the field where I thought I saw a lone figure next to a tree. The dagger had found its way into my hand. My eyes lingered on it as I drew closer to my target. Looking up, I stopped.

There he was. His back turned towards me. Yet… There was nothing for me to do. A gust of wind turned him where he hung by the neck from the tree.

Staring into his sightless eyes, the fire of anger and hate inside flared anew. It boiled and churned within me, culminating in an explosion of emotional pain so intense it drove me to my knees. All at once, I experienced the fullness of my betrayal. Right after the very supper when Judas’s heart had been filled with evil, I had proudly proclaimed that I would never disown our Lord. He had warned me, but my pride hadn’t allowed me to believe it. Now I understood. My crime was no less than that of Judas. Lying in the mud, my grief threatened to overwhelm me. I groped for the dagger which had slipped from my grasp, but couldn’t find it anywhere. More than anything, I wanted to end this pain. If I could no longer kill Judas, I wanted to kill myself. Even that was to be denied me though. Try as I might, the dagger I had carried since I was first drawn to a life of violence as a boy, was gone.

Hollow, I turned away, and went home.

For two days, I neither ate, nor washed, nor spoke to anyone. I dimly registered the others returning in trickles. Through a haze, I remember something about him being buried in a borrowed grave. The sadness was marred by a shared sense of fear. It served only to distance me further from the group. While they locked and barred the doors, I willed the soldiers to find me. I wanted to be caught. It wouldn’t even begin to tip the scales towards fair, but if He had to die, then certainly I did too.

When the frantic knocking at the door finally came, I thought my prayers had been answered. My heart registered a passing sadness for my friends who were obviously not ready to die, judging by their horror-struck faces. The cogs of my mind were beginning to grind out some manner of elaborate rescue whereby I’d sacrifice myself for them, when my thoughts were interrupted by a shrill voice. A woman’s voice. Coming from outside — from the same place as the knocking. Out of the dark recesses of my thoughts, I was still trying to make sense of a woman legionnaire, come to kill us, when Andrew sat up excitedly.

“That’s Mary!” he cried and ran to open the door for her.

With the help of some of the others, he cleared the barricade and let her in. I was extricating myself from the piles of blankets that had been lain over me, when I heard her say.

“He’s alive! I saw Him! With my own eyes.”

A tapestry of expressions and cacophony of exclamations of disbelief followed this statement. My heart seemed to beat for the first time in days.

“He’s alive,” I breathed, pushing through them. I hitched up my cloak and ran once more, ignoring the warnings called after me.

I have no idea how I managed to locate the grave, based only on the snippets of information my depressed mind had allowed in. Nonetheless, I found myself in front of an open tomb. The stone had been rolled away. All fears cast aside, I entered. My eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light and I had to move carefully to avoid bumping my head. Groping with my hands in front of me, I finally reached the far wall. My eyes and fingers found them at the same time: the soft linen that had been used to wrap Him. I wept for joy as I probed them. There was no mistaking it. They were empty.

“He’s alive.” I said, calmly at first, but then I let it echo through the cave. “He’s alive!”

Finally, I burst back out into the sunlight.

“HE’S ALIVE!!!” I shouted triumphantly.

A few days later, we were out on the lake of Gennesaret. Thomas and I had convinced a few of the guys to go fishing. Remembering my own grief, I thought some fresh air would be good for all of us. Out here, it was hard not to think about all the other miracles that happened on or around these waters. I’d walked on water and seen him calm a storm. It was close to this very spot that He had first called me to follow Him. I smiled at the memory of him telling me to cast the net out over a spot I’d already tried and the resulting epic catch.

We hadn’t caught anything today, but sometimes fishing was its own reward. The men’s spirits did indeed seem lifted. Thomas and I smiled at each other. He’d had his own encounter with our risen Lord. After initially not believing us, he’d returned to us one evening claiming that Jesus had let him put his fingers in the holes in His hands and feet. I winked at him as some of the men began groaning about being hungry. A returning appetite was a sign of passing grief — or at least that it was being processed. Having caught nothing, we’d have to get back to shore before the markets were sold out of bread. Drawing close to shore, a voice carried to us over the water.

“D’you have any fish for me?” came the hopeful question.

It seemed to be a beggar, casting his own net of sorts.

“Sorry good man, we haven’t had any luck this side,” I replied politely.

After a moment’s pause, he replied. “Well… What about the other side then?”

The disbelieving silence on the boat was broken only by Nathanael carelessly tossing the net out behind him, throwing a meaningfully annoyed look at the man.

I sighed at his rashness. Casting the net out this close to shore would yield nothing and cost us a good hour disentangling it from rocks and sea plants. I had just made up my mind to tell John to go ahead and secure us some supper whilst the rest of us fixed the net, when the boat lurched. We looked at each other in alarm. Surely not…

Disbelieving, we gazed over the edge of the boat. The water’s surface was alive with the splashing of hundreds of fish! Their silver bodies sparkled brightly in the late afternoon light. With the mechanical movements of decades of training, John, James, and I hauled the catch to shore whilst the others secured the boat.

Heaving and sweating, I backed into Thomas, who had frozen. I glanced over his shoulder to see the man who had begun making a fire. No… Not a man, I now saw. It was Him. Jesus! In stunned silence, we gathered around him as He busied himself with the fish. Surely this must be a dream. Surely it wasn’t Jesus handing me a cooked fish, smiling through His wiry beard. Without a word, we ate our meal.

My shame, which I had so carefully tried to bury, came rushing back. How do I even begin?

“Lord I…” was all I managed before He interrupted me.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” he asked, gesturing to the remaining fish, rotting in the sun.

I knew what He was referring to. I had denied that I knew him, so he was likening Himself to the fish, shaming me. Once He had called me to be a fisher of men, alongside him. Now it seemed I had rejected Him for my old ways. After a moment of me struggling with my words though, He raised an encouraging eyebrow.

“Yes, Lord,” I managed, “you know that I love you.”

“Feed my lambs,” he replied and took another bite of fish.

Unable to look him in the eyes, I stared at my feet.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” he asked again, demanding my attention once more.

This time, I struggled for words, not because of my shame, but out of confusion.

“Y-yes L-lord,” I stammered, “you know that I love you,” now a little hurt that he didn’t believe me. Yet, once more, I couldn’t look at him. Of course he didn’t believe that I loved him. I had denied even knowing him. Not once. Not twice, but…

He got up and moved towards me.

“Peter” he said loudly, “do you love me?”

With tears in my eyes, I fell at his feet and looked into those eyes I never wanted to look away from ever again.

“Yes Lord, Yes. With all my heart, Yes.”

For I did. I truly did and do and always will.

In an instant, all the promises returned to me. Every lie was shattered. Most significantly, at my most stubborn moment, I remember how Jesus had turned the curse of my name, which literally meant I was as stubborn as a rock, into a blessing: “On this rock I will build my church.”

“Follow me,” he said simply.

And so it was. Amen.

Matt 26:33–35, 27; Mark 14:27–72; Luke 22:31-54; John 21:1–25