After arresting Jesus, they led him away and took him into the house of the high priest; Peter was following at a distance. They lit a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat around it, and Peter sat down with them. When a maid saw him seated in the light, she looked intently at him and said, “This man too was with him.” But he denied it saying, “Woman, I do not know him.” And a short while later someone else saw him and said, “You too are one of them;” but Peter answered, “My friend, I am not.” About an hour later, still another insisted, “Assuredly, this man too was with him, for he also is a Galilean.” But Peter said, “My friend, I do not know what you are talking about.” Just as he was saying this, the cock crowed, and the Lord turned and looked at Peter; and Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said to him, ‘Before the cock crows today, you will deny me three times.’ He went out and began to weep bitterly. (Luke 22.54-62)
There is much to ponder on this Palm Sunday, sometimes called Passion Sunday, both designations correct and interchangeable. For most of us, it more typically is known as Palm Sunday because of the distribution of the palms at the start of the ceremony. However, this Sunday is the only Sunday during the year that provides for the reading of the entire passion narrative as found in one of the synoptic gospels, providing its other title Passion Sunday. (The passion story as written by John is always read on Good Friday). Whatever the name we choose to give it, the day begins Holy Week, leading into the Triduum and then onto Easter Sunday.
Because we find two big events brought together on this day, the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem where he was met by the crowds who throw palm branches before him as a sign of celebration, and the seder supper where Jesus and the disciples sat at table, followed later in the night by his arrest and trial, culminating in his crucifixion the next day, there is an abundance of things for us to consider, almost every part of the story urging us to look more closely into it.
Also, it is the only annual event in which the liturgy becomes a staged reenactment that has us as participants in the play, unlike the other Sundays when our role is much more passive. Its closest comparison may be the living stations of the cross that are put on in some places. On this Sunday, we form a real crowd like the one in Jerusalem, carrying palms in our hands as we process into church, and have a role in the passion narrative, again playing the part of the people in the crowd. As a result, there is also a sensory overload as we’re enveloped in the awful drama of Jesus’ last days on earth.
Knowing it is impossible for me to talk about all of it, I have chosen a small scene in the story that often seems like an interlude or of secondary importance in the quick-paced events that otherwise have Jesus at the front and center. This scene, unlike the others, has Peter as the central character, our attention temporarily shifting from Jesus to his first apostle.
All things considered, it may rank as one of the most uncomfortable parts for us personally because by its very nature it expects us to take the place of Peter, whereas the other sections generally allow us to be spectators, although being an observer to the godawful events as a whole is far from easy. But there is something very ugly about Peter’s denial of Jesus that may hit closer to home than we want to admit.
As we have heard, it takes place after Jesus has been apprehended by the chief priests, elders and the officials of the Temple, and has been brought to the house of the high priest who will interrogate Jesus before turning him over to Pilate who then turns him over to Herod before Jesus is returned to Pilate for execution. The scene begins with a simple statement of the cold, hard facts. “They seized Jesus, and led him away, and brought him into the high priest’s house. But Peter followed from a distance.”
Surely, we already sense something is very wrong here. Peter was the first one called by Jesus to join him in his work. He has spent months, perhaps even years, standing at Jesus’ side as he preached to the crowds, healed the sick among them, and called for a new way of living in the world. None of the gospel accounts leaves any doubt as to Peter’s pivotal and premier position among the twelve.
For one thing, he is clearly the spokesperson for the disciples, speaking more often than any of the others, in fact speaking more than all the others combined. He asks questions. He gives answers. He voices concerns. He is, all things considered, Jesus’ right hand man, the one he often turns to and the one he asks to accompany him when he prays in private.
And now, we find him “following at a distance” when he should have been standing alongside Jesus, offering moral support by his presence, showing Jesus that he is not alone in this terrible moment. He should have been the one friendly face in the group, but he chose to keep himself at a safe distance from Jesus, his sense of self-preservation more important than his concern for his friend and leader.
Putting himself at a physical distance from Jesus was the first of his crimes, but not the last or the least. As he sits in the courtyard near to the henchmen such as the captains of the temple who were awaiting their next orders, everyone warming themselves from the heat of a fire, others begin to take notice of him, the first being a servant girl who was able to see his face because of the light from the fire. We’re told that she “looked at him intently and said, ‘This man was with him.’”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Peter distanced himself even further from Jesus, answering her, “Woman, I don’t know him.” With those few words, Peter disowns Jesus, lying about his friendship with Jesus, denying that he even knows the man, a betrayal as brutal as that of Judas who sold Jesus down the river.
And to what end? Again, self-preservation. Peter does not want to be found guilty by association, pretending to have no knowledge, not even an acquaintance, with Jesus. Some time passes and someone else sees Peter and says much the same. “You also are one of them.” Peter is quick to rebut, announcing, “Man, I am not!”
We’re told that another hour passes before a third person puts two and two together, saying, “Truly this man was with him, for he is a Galilean!” By this point, Peter is becoming edgy, his ruse unraveling with each passing moment, and he snaps back, “Man, I don’t know what you are talking about!” Scarcely has he spoken and the sound of a rooster crowing can be heard.
And in that same moment Jesus turns to Peter, looking intently at him, apparently having heard the loud shout from Peter’s mouth. For some reason, our translation here is weak. What Luke says is Jesus “looked straight at Peter.” In the same way that the servant girl had “stared at Peter closely,” now Jesus does the same, looking at Peter straight in the face, having heard his ugly denial of any relationship whatsoever with him, the hurt written all over Jesus’ face as he is left to stand alone before his accusers.
Their eyes meeting in that moment, once the closest of friends, nothing more needed to be said. Jesus had predicted that Peter would turn his back on him, telling him as they sat at table a few hours earlier, “Simon, Simon, behold Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed that your own faith may not fail; and once you have turned back, you must strengthen your brothers.”
Always quick to rebut and rebuke, Peter had answered back, “Lord, I am prepared to go to prison and to die with you,” big talk that Jesus knew would not be followed through with actions, telling him, “I tell you, Peter, before the cock crows this day, you will deny three times that you know me.” Now, in the time of testing, when the rubber hits the road, Peter’s boast is proven to be empty, all bluster.
The synoptic writers all agree on what follows next. Luke, for his part, tells us that “Peter remembered the Lord’s word, how he said to him, ‘Before the rooster crows you will deny me three times,’ and “he went out, and wept bitterly.” The words “wept bitterly” imply he understands his failure as a friend, his loss of integrity, and his personal ruin that he would have to live with long after the fact. His mind replays his empty boast at the table, glaring him in the face as the tears fall.
In that moment, he sees clearly the distance that he has put between himself and Jesus, a distance measured not only in physical proximity but also in his turning his back completely on Jesus, his words “I don’t know him” putting about as much space between him and the teacher as is humanly possible. It is the same as what he would have said about a total stranger.
As I said earlier, it is easy to overlook this brief scene in the overall story of the passion of Jesus, but there is something particularly ugly about it, as ugly as just about anything else that transpired in those few hours. Not once, but three times Peter says he doesn’t know Jesus, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Peter, for all his bluster, is not ready to follow Jesus, not when it means putting his own head on the chopping block.
His stepping away from Jesus in that critical moment is a morality tale to which we may want to pay special attention, especially on this day of soul-searching, asking ourselves the hard question of how many times have we stood in Peter’s shoes, doing much the same thing, saying by our actions, if not by our words, that we don’t know Jesus.
How many times has Jesus stared us in the face as we stepped away from the cries of the poor, provided no refuge for the foreigner who is persecuted, and disclaimed any association with people beaten up and beaten down by prejudices inflicted upon them every day? Each time, we have failed him as much as we have failed the person in front of us, claiming with our words that we are his followers, but proving with our actions that it is discipleship at a safe distance.
Have we, like Peter, failed the test put before us as followers of Jesus in the times when he stands alone in the dark night, our safe distance allowing the darkness to put a stranglehold on the least, the last, and the lost among us in the world? How often have we tried to blend into the crowd of persecutors, enjoying the warmth of their campfires, hoping not to draw any attention to ourselves?
Those are just a few of the questions that deserve an answer from us as we consider again that ugly scene in the courtyard of the high priest’s house. A few years ago, the respected writer and social commentator David French penned an essay that he entitled “Being There.” It was a confession of sorts, a cleansing of his soul, writing about “one of the worst things he had ever done” as he said. It happened decades earlier when he was eighteen-years old, but looking back on the event, he refused to allow himself the excuse of his youth.
It began one night when he got a phone call from a close friend who, his voice shaking, said to him, “My dad’s on the way to the hospital. It’s really bad.” French admitted he didn’t know what to say. Nor, for that matter, did he know what to do. He offered the usual platitudes, expressing how sorry he was to hear the news and saying that he would pray for his friend’s dad. Then he went back to sleep.
He tried to call over the next two days, but there wasn’t an answer. When he asked others about the situation, they told him that the friend was staying at the hospital with his dad. But French didn’t go. He explained it away, telling himself that the man surely would be okay. Then he got the call that informed him that his friend’s father had died.
So he went to the visitation because, as he told himself, that’s what friends are for. When he walked into the door, his friend came up to him, “looked at him with immense hurt,” and asked, “Where were you?” Caught unprepared in the moment, he had no answer. Even today, he has no good answer. He confessed, “I failed, and the older I get the better I understand the magnitude of my failure. I had violated the first commandment of friendship: presence. Simply being there was all that had been required. I couldn’t pass even that one simple test.”
It is painful to hear French tell of the incident. It is also painful to hear Peter commit the same sin. He failed Jesus in his hour of need. Instead of providing his friend with his presence, he did the opposite, putting distance between himself and Jesus, going so far as to claim he didn’t even know him. To his credit, French, for his part, is man enough to confess his failure. And Peter also made a turn around, a slow restoration that began after his fall. His tears were the start of his repentance.
As we hear again the story of the passion of Jesus, I suggest we give serious consideration to that courtyard scene, short as it is in the overall story, asking ourselves if we also have violated the first commandment of friendship, the one that says we are supposed to be there for a friend. If we claim to follow Jesus, even to the gates of hell as Peter swore he would, then Jesus should not have to stand alone in those tough times.
Peter failed the test. He wasn’t there for Jesus, choosing instead to hide in the shadows, putting distance between himself and Jesus. Today, Jesus looks straight into our faces, not at Peter. And as we look back at him, we are left to wonder if we find immense hurt on his face, our failure to be there for him as clear as day, leaving him to stand alone one more time.
–Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 