I woke, shivering and wet, to
morning light and the sound of birdsong. I was at Gethsemane. Why...[1]
This
very night, you will deny me three times. I jerk upright, clutching my knees to my chest. No.
No no no. Surely not-
I
do not know the man!
Yes. I had denied him. And now-
He
deserves death![2] Tears came to my eyes, already
sore from weeping, and I put my head between my knees. My master had been taken
in the night, and I had done nothing. Worse than nothing. It would have been
better if I had stayed away like the others. But I thought I could fix it. I
thought…
I jerked to my feet and,
stumbling to the nearest tree, I beat my fists on it. I screamed. My fists
hurt, but I kept beating them on the tree. I screamed again, louder and longer.
My hands were raw and beginning to bleed—then I screamed again, and my throat
hurt, and I tasted blood. I welcomed the pain. But it was not enough. It was
nothing compared to what they had done to Jesus last night. What I had done to
him.
I was no longer screaming. I was
crying, and instead of beating against the tree I was leaning on it for
support. I sobbed into the rough bark as Christ’s words, and mine, went through
my head over and over again, mixing and jumbling but never stopping. You will deny me three times- I do not know
the man- three times- may God strike me down- three times- deny- deny- deny-
may God-
“Simon!” John’s voice. I could
hear people running down the path. I turned around, away from the tree, and
began to hastily rub my arm across my face, but then I stopped. They would see
me as I was. “Simon!” This time it was Andrew. They were getting closer. No
need to answer. The sound drew closer.
My legs were giving. I slowly
sank down the tree—I was sitting down, my back to the tree, when they finally
ran through the gate. John was in the lead—he had always been a fast
runner—with Andrew and James right behind him. They saw me right away, but as
they all rushed towards me, John slowed and let the others pass him. Our eyes
locked, and in his eyes and on his face I saw the deep grief, for Jesus and all
of us, and something more—pity. For me. He knew what had happened. But I could
tell by the way the others were hastening towards me that they did not have any
idea what I had done. Andrew stooped down next to me and put a hand on my knee,
while James remained standing and put his hand on my shoulder. On their faces I
could see the same sadness and fear that I was feeling, and there was even a
good amount of guilt—but it was nothing compared to what I was feeling.
Andrew was about to say something,
but when he saw my face, he paused, and then he said, “You know, then?” I
nodded. “You know that they have taken him to Pilate?” Pilate? I shook my head,
but then I stopped. Of course they would go to Pilate. Only he could… execute
someone. Andrew, carefully watching my face, nodded when he saw the realization
hit. “They are asking him to authorize the… the…” I raised my hand, put it on
top of his, and nodded. I knew. After a moment, he continued. “We left the
others behind to watch and listen, but right now, he is expected to… give his
approval.” I nodded again. But still…
“What about the people?” I asked.
Or tried to ask. Even I could not understand my croaking, wet, torn voice.
After several tries, John, standing behind Andrew, finally understood and said,
“The people… are fickle. The priests have been out in the city all morning,
stirring up the city against him. There are still a few of us who follow Jesus,
but the rest… At this rate, there will be a riot if Pilate decides not to… to execute Jesus.” He stopped,
unable to speak anymore, and I nodded again. Of course.
The birds still sang in the
trees, their song mingling with the soothing sound of wind in the olive
branches. It was so strange, how something so big could happen and the world
just did not seem to care.
After a while, Andrew said, “We
are going back to Jerusalem, to see what is happening. Will you come with us?”
And, rising, he held his hand out to help me up. But I shook my head and
remained sitting. As James moved to rejoin John, Andrew asked, “Why not? What
will you do?”
The question caught me by
surprise. What would I do? What could I do? I shrugged, and then, looking at my
scraped and bleeding hands, I said, “Wait. Wait for God to strike me down.”
Hopefully I would not wait long.
“What?” Shock and horror were
plastered across his face. “What do you mean, Simon? Why? I do not understand-”
“No, you do not!” John had not
told him. But he still needed to know. “You do not understand, Andrew! I
betrayed him. I abandoned him. I-”
“Simon, we all did! We all ran
away, just like he said we would. But now-”
“I followed him, Andrew.” The
tears were coming again, but the anger at myself, at what I had done, was
holding them back for now. “I followed him to the house of Caiaphas. I was
there, in the courtyard, while they were questioning him. But then someone
recognized me, and asked me if I was his disciple. Do you know what I said,
Andrew?” He slowly shook his head, understanding beginning to dawn. “I said no!
And then I said I did not even know who he was!”
Pity was on his face now. Pity I
did not deserve. He spoke gently. “Simon, you were panicking. Any one of us
would have done the same. It could have happened to-”
“Three times, Andrew!” The tears
were beginning to come, choking me, blurring my vision. “Three times, I denied
him, just as he had said. Only I did not listen. Three times! Three…” I could
not continue. My head dropped between my knees again. I do not know what they
decided. All I know is that when I looked up again, only Andrew was there,
sitting against the tree across from me. When he saw me looking up at him, he
tried to smile, and he looked like he was about to say something, but I dropped
my head back down. I was so tired, and I had no more tears.
I must have fallen asleep, because
the next thing I remember John was shaking me awake. He was very distressed,
and Andrew was crying behind him. “It is happening now,” he said. “He is
carrying his cross to the place of the skull. Will you come with us?” His tone
was gentle and questioning.
Would I go? I should. But I did
not want to. He would see me again, look at me again, and know that I had
betrayed him and denied him and…
“No,” I said, in barely more than
a whisper. And John nodded and, on rising, walked quickly back out of the garden,
with Andrew following behind.
I had been wrong. I did have more
tears.
Rome
More tears. I still remember the
sudden jolt, the spike of insight that said you
miserable coward. You cannot even face the man you followed for three years.
The man you swore to die for. The man you denied three times. Run, coward, run.
And then I had run, drawing in deep, sobbing, gasping breaths as I ran to
Golgotha. He was already on the cross by the time I
got there, but I stopped before I drew close. There, a little ways off, were
the others. I did not go to them. All the shame and anger in the world could
not have forced me to get closer, to see the pain and disappointment in his
eyes. Then had come that horrible cry—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken
me?”—and I wanted to say it too. I was abandoned, lost and alone, without
purpose. After a while, John and the women had drawn closer, but I still stayed
behind. And after, when it was over, John had found me, and I was too broken to
resist when he drew me along, both us crying. But he was merely grieving and
afraid. I was shattered. Ashamed. Angry. Terrified.
Israel
Jerusalem
It was Saturday, and we did not
know what to do. I remembered when he asked us if we, like so many others,
would leave him, and I remembered what I had said. Lord, to whom shall we go?[3] Now, he had left
us, been taken away, and we had to ask ourselves the same question. Where would
we go?
John was staying with a friend in
the city, and he had taken me with him.[4]
It all seemed pointless, now. There was nothing left. We had believed Jesus was
the Son of God. We thought he had a plan. We thought he was going to save us.
And now he was dead. I wanted to be angry at him, angry at God, even angry at
myself… but the grief overwhelmed the anger. There was no room for it amidst
the sadness. Jesus was dead.
It was almost noon, and my
stomach growled. I had not eaten anything since… since Passover. It had been
more than a day since I had eaten. John, sitting against the opposite wall,
raised his red-rimmed eyes. His voice creaked and cracked as he said, “Have you
eaten anything since…” I shook my head, and he nodded. Wordlessly he rose,
shakily and slowly, and made his way to the door. He opened it and immediately
the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air. He turned, and I saw the
basket in his hand, flat loaves peeking out of it. His friend must have left it
there. He brought it over and sat down next to me, setting the basket down in
front of us. But then we left it there. We did not touch it. We did not speak.
We hardly even breathed. We sat there and wondered how long our eyes would
continue to make tears.
After a very long time, John
shook himself. He reached for the basket and dragged it towards himself, then
he pulled a loaf of bread out of it. He broke it in two and tried to give one
half to me, but I did not move. He opened his mouth and, after a hoarse cough,
said, “We have to eat, Simon.”
I did not want to say anything,
but he kept holding the bread there, so I said, “What is the point, John?” He
slowly lowered the bread, and I continued. “Why should we eat? What is left for
us to do? Our hope is gone. Dead.” Crucified.
He was still for a moment, but then he shook his head. Slowly he raised his
piece of bread to his mouth and bit into it. I watched him tear off a chunk of
bread, chew, and swallow.
“It is good,” he said quietly.
Then he held out the other piece to me again. “Eat, Simon. It does not matter
what we will do after. For now, we will eat. Who knows what tomorrow will
bring?” And he took another bite, watching me while he chewed, and almost
involuntarily my hand rose and took the bread. My stomach rumbled, and the
smell grew stronger as I raised it to my mouth. I took a bite. It was good. As
soon as I swallowed, I realized how hungry I was and took another bite. John
was doing the same, and before long he reached into the basket and pulled out
another loaf, again breaking it and giving half to me.
We did not talk anymore, and
tears still came, and after the bread we sat in silence. What would we do? What
could we do? Our hope was dead. Shattered. Broken, like me.
[1]Peter disappears from the Gospel
narrative following Matthew 26:75. He does not reappear until after the
resurrection in John 20:2. The following section is, therefore, entirely
speculative. However, I have attempted to keep Peter’s character intact. He has
no misconceptions about the gravity of his sin. He knows it to be horrible. He
is ashamed of himself. Therefore, he would not go to where he would be likely
to meet the other disciples. However, neither would he simply wander the
streets for anyone to see. The Garden of Gethsemane could serve both as a
comfort and a self-inflicted punishment, reminding Peter of his Lord and his
own betrayal of that Lord. The Garden, then, seems a likely place to retreat
to.
[4]From John
20:2, we learn than that Peter and John were together following the
crucifixion. That it is only Peter and John is nearly certain, because only
they are mentioned throughout the entire narrative section—surely the others
would at least have been mentioned once had they been present when Mary Magdalene
came to them. Lenski (John 1336)
says, “Where were these two? Where were the rest of the eleven? Who can tell?
Only these two were here—that is all.” I do not know why Peter was with John
and not Andrew, his own brother. Perhaps he was still ashamed to be near the
others. Perhaps he had a special friendship with John (Lenski reminds us of John
18:15-16, and we may also remember John
13:24). However, speculation can only take us so far. John and Peter were
together: where and why Scripture does not reveal.
Where is Peter--rather, perhaps we should call him Simon, for now--to go? What is he to do? Would it be even remotely possible to return to his life as a fisherman? On that Saturday, the bottom had well and truly fallen out of the world, and the full sense of the despair of Ecclesiastes crashed in upon the disciples, with the added sting of knowing, however briefly, that there was more to existence than this crushing hopelessness.
Like this post? Check out the full work, Simon, Who Is Called Peter! It combines the readability of First-Person narration with biblical accountability in the form of copious footnotes, allowing you to see the world of the New Testament through the eyes of Jesus' most notorious disciple.
Like this post? Check out the full work, Simon, Who Is Called Peter! It combines the readability of First-Person narration with biblical accountability in the form of copious footnotes, allowing you to see the world of the New Testament through the eyes of Jesus' most notorious disciple.