So much has happened in the last week or so. Seems like the entire world has changed. Everything I thought was certain isn’t. Even death. I mean, if what happened Sunday doesn’t shake up a man’s world, nothing will!

There was too much noise. I needed to get away from the Passover crowds, away from the guys, away from the noise in my own mind. So I told Andrew I was going to the sea. He knew better than to go with me. A few of the others tagged along, though. We sat there for a while. I sat in silence a little bit apart from them. I still couldn’t even meet their eyes like a man.

Finally, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I announced to no one in particular that I was going fishing. I figured that would at least keep me busy. Fishing is in my bones. It’s second nature. Even better, fish don’t chatter and I don’t feel like a coward and traitor around them. But the others followed me again. For once in my life I kept my big mouth shut and let them.

We were out all night. It was a great night. Clear skies, light breeze, not like that storm-tossed night when he calmed the waves. Not like the other storm-tossed night when I walked… No. This night was perfect, except we didn’t catch a darned thing.

A little before dawn we were heading back in, and this voice came from the shore.

Catch anything?

Nothing at all, we answered.

Try the other side of the boat.

We looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. What a bozo. As though the fish are all hiding to the right of the boat, knowing the net’s on the left. We tried it, though. I mean, what did we have to lose?

Ok, so we caught fish. Huge catch. Big fish, too. And the crazy thing is, with all that weight, it didn’t damage the net or sink the boat. Turns out he wasn’t such a nutcase after all. In fact, the way things had played out, we all knew without a doubt who it was.

He had a fire going when we landed. He had fish and bread, and we brought a few of the fish we’d caught. It was a good time, really. Just a bunch of us guys watching the sunrise by the sea, eating fish. Almost like it used to be, when we’d try to get a jump on the crowds. Except… there was that tension.

I know they all felt it too. His words to Mary still pierced me. Go tell the disciples and Peter… Yes, I know I deserved it. I know what I did. But to be counted out like that, by him, as though I hadn’t been with him all that time. As though I had never told him You are the Lord. As though… It stung, like salt water in a cut, or worse, like a knife in my flesh. But it was true. It was my words, my denial, that did that. I removed myself from their number that terrible night. He spoke truth, as always.

Again I was silent while the others talked. I listened. I wished I could undo what I’d done. I wished, I was desperate for forgiveness. I dared not ask, nor did I speak at all, and no one spoke to me.

By the end of breakfast, the guilt was too much, the silence too painful. Tears began to stream down my face.

Simon…

I groaned. His first word to me was my old name. Not Peter, the rock. Not Peter, the name he’d called me since we met, but Simon, the name of the common fisherman who didn’t belong there. But it was his voice. Something in his tone told me it wasn’t over yet. I looked up.

Simon, do you love me like you used to say you did? You said you would follow me to the death. Do you really love me like that?

Yes, Lord, I said, cringing. I was reminded again of my failure. We all were. We’ve been through so much. You’re my brother. You know I love you. And I heard in my mind the echo of my denial.

Feed my sheep, he answered. I almost chuckled. You don’t have any sheep, I thought. But then I remembered that day a while back- the one when he called himself the Good Shepherd. I pondered. I am the good shepherd who gives his life for his sheep… Wow. That makes so much more sense now. All his talk about laying down his life. Crazy talk, I had always thought.

Simon, do you love me? Would you follow even if it cost your life?

Why is he asking this again?

Yes, my friend and my brother, you know I love you. My mind burned with the memory of those words I don’t know him, and the tears continued.

Take care of my sheep.

I wondered. Lord, what are you doing? I am so confused. I don’t understand this sheep thing, and I don’t understand why we just had the same conversation twice. In fact, I don’t even know why you’re talking to me, since I am clearly and rightly on the outs. I don’t deserve to be called your disciple, your brother, or your friend. I –

Simon.

His voice was different now. More… I’m not sure what. Maybe more compassionate. The sun was up. He had to have seen my posture, how tear-stained my face was.

Simon, can I count you as one of my friends? Do you love me?

I heard the difference in the question. I felt the difference in the tone. But it was the third time. I sighed. I couldn’t hold it in another second.

Lord, you know everything. You’ve probably been hearing my thoughts these last few minutes. You know I’m drowning in guilt like I was drowning in the waves that one day. Yes, I love you. If you call me your friend, it is more than I deserve.

Feed my sheep. And with that, the echoed crowing of a rooster split my consciousness. Where there had been tears of guilt now came weeping. I was not entirely sure where I stood, and he was talking about me stretching out my hands and, well, I was confused. Then he whispered Follow me and I knew he had taken me back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this series of stories in the days surrounding Easter 2006. My pastor friend for whom I wrote the Isaiah poem had written a monologue from Peter’s point of view, and it inspired me. What was intended to be one story turned into a three-part reflection on that life-changing week.

I still haven’t actually slept. Oh, sure, I dozed in the garden, and I think I dropped off for a little bit when I got to the house after the burial. I may have slept last night too, but it was the sleep of a tortured man.

I was half asleep when the noise came. Pounding. Like hammer on nails… nails through flesh and bone… Oh, will the nightmare never fade? It was Mary. She was jabbering about the tomb and heaven knows what. I was still groggy; I wasn’t quite following her. But when she said “The body’s gone,” well, I understood that well enough.

I took off running. One of the others did too. We got there, and sure enough, that tomb was empty. The huge stone, all those crazy precautions for nothing. None of us knew what to make of it. The stone was there so we wouldn’t move him. The guard was there to protect the tomb from us. Yet we had done nothing and he was still gone.

Back at the house, we argued again. We’re trying to figure out what happened, but nothing we come up with makes sense. I mean, the Romans wouldn’t… and the teachers of the Law wouldn’t… certainly not the Sanhedrin… we’ve been hiding here… Lazarus. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense at all. But could he? I mean, sure, he raised Lazarus, but could he raise himself? Impossible! I want it to be true…

What if it is true? How can I face him after what I’ve done? He knew. He warned me. Of course he would know. He always knows things like this.

I can’t take much more of this tearing at my brain. Something is going to have to give, and soon.

Peace be with you.

I would know that voice anywhere. Am I hearing things? He’s dead. John saw it.

He’s here.

I have this sinking feeling that what happened in the last few days will be imprinted on my mind, my memory, and my spirit for the rest of my life.

It started so well. We ate together right here in this room. It was the thirteen of us, as usual, though the evening was far from usual, even for us. I know he’s said some strange things over the years, but that night… Wow, I was sure he was sick. Maybe just exhausted. Whatever it was, he made no sense- talking about his broken body and his blood poured out. What??? Then he wanted to wash my feet. What was that? He’s the Rabbi. It’s my job to serve him! He wouldn’t hear of it.

sigh

Then there was that comment about me denying him. Oh, how I wish I had been listening. How I wish I had been stronger, less fearful, less… me. I keep doing that. Telling him, “No, Lord, you are IT. Nothing is gonna take you down. Nothing is going to make you less than what you are, and if they try, I will fight.” I thought that was how I was supposed to be. I’m the strong one. I’m the one who wants to bring about this change he’s always talking about. But when I talk like that, he tells me I’m wrong. He says it’s about serving. He says it’s not about kingdoms on earth… I don’t get it.

Here’s what I know. The twelve of us gave the last three years of our lives to follow this man. We were so sure he was the one. And now he’s dead.

So here we are again, in this room where it started two days ago. Thirteen then, eleven now. One is buried in a tomb not far from here. The other? No one has seen him since that horrible moment in the garden. One of my finest moments, I thought. Twelve of us. One traitor. Ten ran off into the night. Only I stood. I fought. I even cut off a guard’s ear! No matter. He told me, again, to cut it out. He put the ear back on. And he went with them.

I’m not sure how I got here. I remember following- at a safe distance. I remember the noises, the smells, the crazy mob wanting to kill him. I remember the rooster, then his words flooded back into my mind. I had told him I’d die for him. I’d never deny him! And I meant it, too. I just wasn’t thinking about dying the very next day. But after that rooster… I bolted, just like the others. I spent the rest of the night wandering the streets, afraid of my own shadow. Somehow I found my way here.

We compared notes a while ago. Turns out John was there when he died. Figures. I guess if any of us was going to be there, it would have been John. He’s the only one of us who isn’t overthrown with guilt right now. All of us are scared and confused. We’ve spent this day huddled in this room. The doors are barred. We’ve lit no lamps. Every noise outside makes us jump. Three years. He’s gone. It’s so… final. Devastating.

No, I haven’t thought past today. I sure as anything have no idea about what I’ll do now. I guess Andrew and I will go back to fishing. It’s what we know. Don’t make me think about that right now, though.

It’s so quiet in here. Every few minutes there’s the sound of a man crying. The others are in their little groups. There was yelling earlier. John was the sane one, of course. “We’re all scared. We’re all confused. Let’s not take it out on each other.” Even John can’t answer our questions, though. I can’t even look at the others. I was the one yelling, I think, though I don’t know why. They shouldn’t have run. Why weren’t they there? Well what was I supposed to do- let the mob in the courtyard kill me too, just because I knew him? I need to get out of here. Away from them. But I have nowhere to go, so I stay inside.

May this day, this pain, end soon.

I knew-
From the pattern of history
And the stories we tell
Of Eden, of Enoch and Elijah.
I could see it in the widow’s tears,
In the desperation of kings,-
In God’s promises.

I knew-
For his promises are true-
That against his mighty hand
Someday, some way,
Death itself would fall
Swallowed up in his mercy
Forever.

I knew-
Though I never saw
As he walked among you-
Even as he died-
In the silence that followed
As though all the universe waited
As though eternity was held in that time
And history hung in the balance
The stars themselves
Dared not breathe in that silence

I knew-
Not how or when
Only that on that day
The LORD would rise up in power
His holy arm outstretched
And with a voice like thunder
Shake the foundations of the earth
Until even the grave could not stand
Against our Sovereign God.

I knew-
Though I did not see
The stone- removed, the empty tomb
No angelic messengers proclaimed the news
Yet I knew the mystery of the ages
Unfolded in that moment
I did not touch the nail scars
Nor follow the spear that pierced him, still
I know
In this moment
The Lord has spoken
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the spring of 2006, a pastor friend was preparing for her church’s Easter service. She had written monologues from the point of view of Simon Peter and Mary Magdalene, and she wanted a third based on Isaiah. This one, she decided, should be poetic rather than conversational, so I offered to give it a try. This was read as part of the trio of monologues at that Easter service.