One Look: Peter in the Courtyard

Sometimes I forget that the disciples, the Pharisees, the people of the Bible were just that... people. While I was in Israel last year, I had opportunity to sit in the courtyard in which it is said Peter betrayed Jesus. I jotted down some thoughts then and added to them today. The story is found in Luke 22:54-62. I used some creative license.

As I think back, this is how I imagine it.... 

He was just a simple fisherman, accustomed to long nights of throwing nets and pulling them back in. Here he was, far from home, still a young man. His Rabbi, his friend, the man he had given his life to follow, who was supposed to be king and free them from the Romans was underground. He wasn’t waiting to be crowned king, even though the crowds had welcomed him with "Hosanna!" No. He was on trial.

And all Peter could do was stand by the fire.

At times he heard voices raised, mocking, laughing. His face burned pink—not because of the fire. No. It was the weight, the fear, the shame, the questions.

He just wanted to see Jesus. To watch his tanned face crease with his smile, to look into the eyes that looked with compassion on the multitudes, to grasp the hand that held him up as he sunk into the cold waves of Galilee, the hands that blessed the fish and bread.

A girl, her hair dark as coal, poked the embers. She stared at him, and her dark eyes reminded him of a girl from Capernaum that Jesus had cast a demon from. “You know this Jesus, don’t you?” she said.    

His hands trembled—was it the cold?

“No,” he said. “I don’t know the man.”  Smoke stung his eyes. Did he really say that?

He had thought he was a man, a faithful disciple, this boy Peter. If only he had stayed awake last night. If only he had not cut off the high priest’s servant’s ear. If only he had not deserted Jesus. He felt like he was always disappointing him, always messing up.

The fire crackled; a spark flew on his cloak and went out. Three times they asked him. Why was he sweating? Why was he ashamed? 

One, two, then three crows from the ignorant rooster. Agonizing remembrance. He heard voices. Men and women whispering, arguing, questioning. Peter stepped back as the Man appeared in the midst of a crowd. 

Was it really Jesus? Blood dripped down his cheek bones and from the corner of his lip into his beard. His beard was matted; some hair was missing.  Those dark, firm hands that had healed lepers, opened blind eyes, and calmed the sea were tied, the coarse rope held by a broad-shouldered Roman.

No! Could it be Jesus?

But his eyes… they were the same. Compassion. Gentleness. No hatred. No bitterness. No fear. One look from those eyes was sharper, stung more, cut deeper than any sword.

And the Lord turned and looked at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how He had said to him 'Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.' 


So Peter went out and wept bitterly.

Who is this Jesus?
The Savior of the world. The redeemer of Peter. The rescuer of my soul.