The sword was flying in a flash of steel before he could think better of it. The young man, a personal servant of the High Priest, screamed in agony as his severed ear fell to the dew-covered grass.
Anger and fear burned hot trails through Peter’s veins. Judas—a traitor! And these armed men he brought with him, all bent on arresting Jesus… Sentencing Him to death.
No. No! Never! Jesus’ grim predictions could not come true. They could not.
Jesus threw out a staying hand, barring Peter from the man still moaning in pain. Barring him from Judas, whom he longed to split from navel to nose. “Put your sword back in its place, for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.” His eyes, usually full of warmth and love, pinned Peter in his place. “Do you think I cannot call on my Father, and He will at once put at my disposal more than twelve legions of angels?” Then His eyes softened, the familiar lines of His face falling a fraction. “But how then would the Scriptures be fulfilled that say it must happen in this way?”
The words struck like a boulder against Peter’s chest. He stumbled back a step, his sword dropping not into its sheath at his side, but to the ground at his feet.
Jesus turned away from him and knelt beside the Priest’s servant, who still clutched at the bloody cartilage stub where his ear should have been. One hand came to rest on the man’s shoulder, the other reached into the grass and picked up the discarded ear. Slowly, He lifted it into place beside the man’s head. The man stared at Jesus with wide eyes caught between fear and disbelief.
In the next breath, Jesus removed His hand.
The man’s ear was attached to his head, whole, without a trace of blood. The only evidence of Peter’s violence was the streaks of blood that had run down the man’s jaw and neck.
Jesus smiled into the servant’s eyes and stood. The young man remained frozen to the ground, his eyes bulging and breath heaving from his lungs.
Peter had seen countless miracles since he met Jesus on the shores of Galilee three years ago. But somehow, this one left him trembling.
Jesus faced the crowd of priests, elders, and Temple guards. “Am I leading a rebellion that you have come out with swords and clubs to capture me?” His voice held a note of dismay. “Every day I sat in the Temple courts teaching, and you did not arrest me. But this has all taken place that the writings of the prophets might be fulfilled.”
The crowd responded by growling in anger, surging forward to seize Him by the arms and drag Him away.
“Master!” Peter staggered after them, a step, then two, before falling to his knees. The other disciples, by now in a riot of panic, fled the Garden of Gethsemane in all directions except the one in which Jesus and His captors were headed, vanishing into the dark.
——
From his vantage point among the servants in the courtyard of the High Priest Caiaphas, Peter could watch every moment of this sham of a trial. Two armed guards stood sentinel on either side of Jesus, hemming Him in as if He would bolt at any moment. But Jesus had yet to say a word, let alone make any sort of move to escape. Why? Would the man not defend Himself? How could He stay mute in the face of the ridiculous accusations being hurled at Him?
“Let witnesses come forth to testify of this man’s actions!” Caiphas’ face took on a deeper shade of fury with every moment that ticked past.
No one came forward for several long moments, but at last two men stepped out from the crowd. Peter had never seen either one of them before, at least not according to his memory.
One and then the other, they spoke against Jesus. “This fellow said, ‘I am able to destroy the temple of God and rebuild it in three days’.”
Outrage murmured through the crowd of morbidly curious onlookers. “Blasphemer.” The manservant beside Peter muttered the word like a curse, his thick arms crossed firmly over his chest.
Peter tensed, every muscle clenching in defense. His sword still lay in the Garden of Gethsemane, discarded after Jesus’ rebuke. But his fists would work just as well in shutting up the mouth of stupidity.
Control yourself, Peter. Now is not the time to start a fight. Fear rose to quell his hot-blooded fury. He did not want to see Jesus put to death, nor could he even bear the thought. But could Peter sacrifice his own life to defend His?
“Are you not going to answer?” Caiaphas’ frustrated question rang out across the courtyard. “What is this testimony that these are bringing against you?”
Jesus said nothing.
The man who had spent the past three years boldly proclaiming His message to the people of Israel now stood with his head down, eyes glued to the aged stones at His feet. Despair did not droop His shoulders, but an odd acceptance made His posture look relaxed.
Caiaphas stepped closer, leveling a long finger at Jesus. “I charge you under oath by the living God: tell us if you are the Messiah, the Son of God.”
Now Jesus’ chin lifted the slightest margin, just enough to meet eyes with the priest. “You have said so. But I say to all of you: from now on you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven.”
Caiaphas roared in anger, his fists clenching the ornate hem of his priestly garments. Tearing them down the middle. “He has spoken blasphemy! Why do we need any more witnesses? Look, now you have the blasphemy.” He raised his hands to the crowd, the torn edges of his garment flapping open. “What do you think?”
The crowd roiled with renewed outrage, fists raised, faces twisted with hatred. “He is worthy of death!”
The breath stalled in Peter’s throat, fear coiling tight around his heart. No. This cannot be happening. He will never let them kill Him—will He?
Jesus was the Messiah. He was the One generations had longed for, the One who would overthrow their enemies and restore justice to the People of the Most High. Or so Peter had professed, believed with every ounce of his being since becoming Jesus’ disciple.
But now…
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. How could Jesus be the Messiah and yet stand here like a sheep heading to the slaughter? He was not supposed to meekly submit to their oppressors. He was supposed to overthrow them.
This is not the Messiah for whom you have waited. This man is nothing but an imposter, just as these people say.
Doubt turned circles in Peter’s head, roiling his gut and speeding the pace of his heart. Could he have really had it wrong all these years? Had he been taken in by a desperate delusion, a mirage of hope on the endless desert of his meaningless life? Peter had thought himself privileged, special when Jesus called him to follow His lead. He had assumed that, at Jesus’s side, he would help lead the charge for freedom, become a hero even, like Joshua, Caleb, or Othniel of old.
Now every ounce of courage fled at the shout of angry voices crying for blood. And not the blood of their oppressors, but the blood of the man whom he’d thought would be their savior.
Every solid stone Peter had built his beliefs upon crumbled beneath his feet, leaving nothing but a yawning emptiness and the ominous specter of fear.
The sharp thawk of a palm against skin brought Peter’s vision back into focus.
The guards surrounding Jesus heaved mouthfuls of spittle into His face. One struck Him across the jaw again. He winced as Jesus stumbled back a step.
“Prophesy to us, Messiah,” jeered the guard who had struck Him. “Who hit you?”
Peter spun away from the sight, unable to watch any longer. He retreated into the shadows cast by a nearby bonfire and sat within reach of its warmth. He plowed his fingers through his hair. How long had his hands been trembling? A cold sweat broke out along his skin, making him grateful for the fire’s comforting flames.
Around him, servants sat or stood in clusters of two and three, either blithely indifferent to the activity going on around them or hotly debating Jesus’ alleged guilt. A young servant girl wandered up and stood on the opposite side of the fire. As she reached her palms toward the flames, her gaze snagged on Peter. Her large, dark eyes narrowed and her pointed chin tilted up at an angle. “You. I have seen you somewhere before.”
Peter shook his head. “I doubt that. I know I have never seen you.” He kept his chin tucked, unwilling to meet the girl’s gaze. Suddenly, he was unsure of what to do with his limbs. His left leg tapped an anxious beat, an old habit he’d never been able to break. “You must be mistaken.”
“No. I am quite certain.” Peter glanced up just long enough to see her face spark with clear recognition. “Yes! I know now. You were with Jesus of Galilee!”
Every head within earshot swiveled in his direction.
Peter’s stomach dropped. If Jesus was condemned as a blasphemer, wouldn’t anyone associated with Him be condemned as well?
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The girl opened her mouth to say more, but Peter didn’t give her a chance. He jumped to his feet and left the fireside, hurrying away as if the flames might reach out and catch his heels.
On the other side of an arched gateway leading to the outer portion of the courtyard, Peter let himself take a full, deep breath. The thumping of his heart was like a legion of Roman soldiers marching through his temples.
“This fellow was with Jesus of Nazareth!”
Peter’s chin snapped up to see another servant girl pointing at him from the midst of a cluster of people.
“I don’t know the man!” The claim flew out of his mouth in a rush.
The girl frowned, then turned her nose up at him and whispered to the woman at her side. The other people standing around her arrowed suspicious glances his way. Peter could practically feel their condemning thoughts and whispered words, labeling him as worthy of death as the man being beaten across the courtyard.
The doubts rose up like ghosts, again whispering in his ear. You fool. You really believed that man was the Messiah? You will condemn your entire family to death with your foolishness! You should have stayed on the Sea of Galilee where you belonged.
Peter whirled and stalked away from the gossiping group, resisting the urge to brace his pounding head between his palms. He settled near the gateway he’d just walked through, allowing himself a clear view of the trial—if one could call it that and if Peter could even stand to watch it for more than a few seconds.
Three years of his life he had given to Jesus, leaving behind his wife and all the rest of his family besides his brother, Andrew, who had decided to follow Jesus as well. Three years he had traveled nonstop, relying on the generosity of others for his daily bread, sleeping on the hard ground, enduring censure and rejection… Peter had forsaken everything for the sake of the man he had called Messiah.
And now all of it was wasted.
It had all been a cruel, cruel waste.
“You!”
Peter jumped, turning to find a young man whose strong build and distinctive garb identified him as a Temple guard. His eyes flashed dark with anger. “Did I not see you with Him in the garden?”
“What are you talking about?” Peter looked the man up and down, feeling his fists instinctively curl tight.
The guard stepped forward, bringing his face within inches of Peter’s and clapping a firm hand to his shoulder. “The man, Malchus, whose ear you cut off–he is my cousin. I was there in the crowd of those who came to arrest Jesus, and I saw what you did.”
Something hot and wicked rolled up from Peter’s heart. He jerked out of the man’s hold, anger spreading heat up his neck and into his face. Curses such as he hadn’t let past his lips since before meeting Jesus flew off his tongue. The fear that had been compounding inside him suddenly exploded and left him feeling utterly out of control. “I tell you, I do not know the man!”
Suddenly, above the chaos and confusion all around him, he heard the distinct sound of a rooster’s crow.
Peter froze.
Before the rooster crows, you will disown Me three times.
Jesus’s claim shouted in his memory, sending chills of dread up Peter’s spine. Just that evening he had urgently professed that such a prophecy could never come to pass. He could never deny Jesus, never betray Him. He would follow Him to the end of the world.
Or so Peter had believed.
The world turned on its head for the second time in as many hours, shaking him to the core.
He had been wrong. So wrong.
But not about Jesus.
About himself.
Jesus had not fooled Peter–Peter had fooled himself. He had claimed to place his trust in the Master, had claimed to believe in Him and love Him with all his heart. But in the end, Peter had proven himself false. He was no true disciple or friend. He was no better than a traitor.
No better than Judas who had sold Jesus into the hands of death for a purse of coin.
Peter looked across the crowded courtyard, every sound falling silent except for the pounding of his heart. Somehow, in the midst of all the many faces around him, he found that of Jesus.
And somehow, Jesus found him too.
His eyes, full of sorrow, pierced through Peter’s heart like a sword. And he knew… Peter knew it was all true.
Jesus was the Messiah.
Oh, God! My God, have mercy! Peter turned and fled through the crowd, shoving aside anyone who stood in his way until he was far away from the courtyard, from Caiphas’s palace, from the angry voices calling for death. From Jesus. He ran until the burning in his legs and the tears blurring his vision forced him to stop.
Then Peter fell to his knees and wept bitterly into the dust.
**Background image courtesy of Pixabay from Pexels
[…] At the Cross ~ Part 1: Peter March 15, 2020 […]