Preached at St. James on Palm Sunday, April 13 by the Rev. David Henson
Peter would think about that night, the night the soldiers came for Jesus, for the rest of his life. He would relive it countless times, replaying that awful night over and over again in quiet, lonely moments for years to come. They had heard the soldiers coming long before they saw them, the murmur of their steady footfalls approaching, the rhythmic shuffle of metal armor, sent a surging feeling of foreboding and terror that seized his chest in a premonition of the trauma that was to come over the next 24 hours.
It was an absurd show of force in the Garden of Gethsemane. Hundreds of soldiers, torchlight flickering off their metal breastplates and weapons, surrounded their small band of disciples who looked not like threats but like they’d just woken up from a really bad dream only to find themselves in an even worse nightmare.
Time seemed to slow down in that moment, and everything Jesus had tried to teach the disciples came flooding back to Peter. No greater love has a man than to lay down his life for those he loves. If you would save your life, you must first lose it. Take up your cross and follow me.
It all suddenly seemed to crystallize in Peter’s mind, as if everything Jesus had ever said to him was leading to this fateful moment.
Just hours before stepping foot in that garden, Peter promised never to abandon Jesus but to follow his Lord to the end, even if it meant going to prison or his own death.
But then in response, Jesus told him he would instead fail and deny him before the next sunrise and the rooster crows. The prediction had hurt, coming so close after the revelation that Judas would betray them, but it’d also felt like a challenge, something he could prove wrong.
Surely, he could avoid denial for a night. And maybe he could do more than that.
Peter looked down at the sword he’d brought, the sword Jesus had actually told them to bring that very night. Why would the Lord tell them to bring swords if not to use them, if not for this very moment?
It was Peter’s chance. Dawn had not yet broken, the cock had yet to crow, Peter had yet to deny. He would keep his promise, even if it meant prison or death.
Peter would lay down his life for the one who he so dearly loved, just like Jesus commanded.
So as they bound Jesus’ wrists, Peter drew his sword to face the soldiers.
He attacked the servant of the high priest. He meant to kill not to maim, but Peter had the hands of a fisherman, not a soldier. So rather than removing his head, he only managed an ear. The servant had just barely ducked out of the way, tilting his head to avoid the worst of the blow.
It was only a few seconds of his life but it would be an image Peter would never forget, of the blood pouring from the man’s ear and running down his Lord’s hands as Jesus healed the wound. And he would be forever haunted with the knowledge that of all the blood spilled that next day during the crucifixion, it was actually Peter who spilled the first of it.
Before the soldiers could retaliate, run him through, and complete the sacrifice of Peter’s life, Jesus stepped between them and rebuked him. “No more of this!”
When the soldiers departed with Jesus and stillness returned to Gethsemane, Peter realized with terrible finality that, despite the Lord’s agonizing prayers to be spared, Jesus would indeed be forced to drink the cup of suffering before him, and, despite his bravado, Peter had done nothing to stop it.
Peter was certain Jesus didn’t really want to die, but neither could he ever seem to convince the Lord to choose another path. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. Every time Jesus talked about his coming suffering and death, Peter was ready with an alternative plan to tempt him with.
After the Transfiguration, when he’d talked about his looming death, Peter had tried to rebuke him and forbid him from traveling that road to Jerusalem and crucifixion. Jesus responded by calling Peter Satan for tempting him, Get behind me, Satan. You’re a stumbling block to me,” he’d said.
And Peter thought, “Yes! Yes, I will happily be your stumbling block because I don’t want you to die!”
You see, it wasn’t out of fear or faithlessness that Peter had tried to talk Jesus out of the cross. It was out of love. Just like in the garden. It wasn’t out of a violent heart he had drawn his sword, but out of love, to prevent the death of his beloved Lord. Even if it meant his own death.
After all, when faced with the death of those we dearly love, we would bargain away almost anything—even our own lives—if it would buy them but one more night on earth. Better we know they live in our absence than we in theirs.
So, what was he to do now, when the one he loved most had resigned himself to certain suffering and terrible death, when Christ had accepted death, even if Peter had not?
What could Peter do when Jesus seemed determined not just to drink the cup of suffering before him, but to drink it down to its last bitter drop?
He could deny it, of course. It is to this day the most human and natural of responses to unbearable grief.
Even though he knew it was happening, even though he knew it was inevitable, Peter would still deny it anyway.
He would deny all of it.
He would deny it, every last drop.
Until the rooster finally crowed and Jesus, bound and headed to prison, caught his eye from across the courtyard.
The look punctured his denial with reality.
And only then would the dam of Peter’s grief break.
Only then would he weep and weep bitterly.
Not for failure. Not because he denied Jesus, but because he’d lost his ability to live in denial.
Because the one he loved was dying and he knew he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
We’ve all read that part of the story. Maybe you’ve shaken your head at Peter, at what seemed to be a lack of faith, for abandoning his Lord, for his unwillingness to stand up for Jesus when he needed him most. Maybe it makes you think of all the times you’ve failed to stand up for the values of Jesus or all the times you’ve denied Jesus with your lips or with your life.
If that’s the case, maybe you’ve missed the root of Peter’s denials.
These were not the actions of a heartless man, but of a brokenhearted one, not of a gutless man but of a grieving one.
Peter didn’t deny Christ because he’d lost faith in his Lord.
He denied him because he’d lost his Lord to death, and he couldn’t face it.
He didn’t deny Christ because he lost his nerve.
He denied it all because he couldn’t comprehend the sorrow in his own soul.
He didn’t deny Christ because he rejected him.
He denied Jesus because he loved him, so very, very much.
And like so many of us when the tide of grief first crashes over our souls, Peter retreats to the protective shell of anger and denial. So overwhelming was the grief and so incomprehensible the loss of his friend for whom he’d left everything, that Peter disconnected from everything—everything—he’d known and been for the past three years.
He wanted to deny everything about Jesus and about himself.
So let’s not judge Peter too harshly today. Because we’ve all been there, unable to face reality when reality seems so irreconcilably broken.
But God understands what it’s like when the world shatters as it did for Peter, when it feels like everything you’ve ever known has been torn in two from top to bottom. And while our God knows it’s not the end of the story, it’s still part of the story. Indeed, Jesus both predicts Peter’s denials and his return, at which point Jesus says, he’ll have a job to do— to pick the pieces of their group up, stitch them back together and strengthen his brothers.
So perhaps the lesson for us, as we enter Holy Week, is not to fast forward to Easter and in the process, inadvertently repeat Peter’s denials all over by being unwilling to bear witness to the cross, to avoid death and the hard parts, and only enjoy the celebration of Easter.
To walk through Holy Week and bear witness to Christ’s cup of suffering and to the cross.
Not out of some macabre fascination with suffering and death.
But because sometimes, when everything falls apart, all that’s left is to sit in the darkness of loss.
All that’s left is to grieve what is dying, in our world, in our families, and in ourselves.
All that’s left is to wrestle with the shadows of death that prowl the world for victims.
All that’s left is to weep and beat our breasts if we need to.
All that’s left is to see if God, despite the seeming hopelessness of the situation, can create something, anything good out of all the chaos.
Sometimes all that’s left is to hold onto this smoldering wick of hope:
The Resurrection doesn’t happen in thriving centers of life, but in the silence of the tomb, and it doesn’t break forth in the bright light of day, but always, always, while it is still dark.