“But why can’t I come now, Lord?” he asked. “I’m ready to die for you.”
Jesus answered, “Die for me? I tell you the truth, Peter—before the rooster crows tomorrow morning, you will deny three times that you even know me. (John 13:38)
The Scriptures detailing the events and conversations that we now call Holy Week are some of the most rich and beautiful literature in existence. Do you realize how radical this conversation is? Do you realize how detailed, how well-preserved, how human and raw and real this record is! So much of our recorded history is glossy and air-brushed, altered to make our heroes look just a little more divine. What makes the Scriptures such an anomaly is this conversation exactly, the open acknowledgment that humans are weak of heart and riddled with chemical floods of emotion that make us act on instinct over principle. That Peter, who loved his Lord with all his being, who walked on water, who saw Jesus standing on a mountain with Moses and Elijah, who could hardly bear to have his feet washed, who in a peaceful moment meant to die in his place, would instead panic and self-preserve when the actual choice to die smashed through the wall of the theoretical and became reality. Peter. Even Peter.
Whatever boasts we are tempted to make about our own faith or abilities ought to fall to the side at Jesus’ answer to Peter’s boast. If we believe ourselves more capable of love than we are, then we will never understand how much greater he really is. Sometimes we say so often that Jesus died for our sins, that he rose again, that we are trying to live like Jesus, that we diminish in our own minds the enormity of what that means! We start to fool ourselves into thinking we are imitating him well, when in fact like Peter our actions are a far cry from what we imagine them to be. We start to think it’s not so hard to love like Jesus did. And when we overestimate our own goodness, we undervalue his.
Seeing Jesus clearly begins by seeing ourselves clearly. So the Scriptures do not airbrush anyone. Peter does not die for the friend who loves him perfectly; he swears he does not even know him. Judas robs him dry and sells him. John just sits by, frozen, and watches the bullies tear him apart. One unnamed young disciple flees naked in terror, wiggling himself out of his clothes rather than forfeit his life. They act and react like panicking humans. And after it all, Jesus says,
“Let these others go.” (John 18:8)
There is no other hero in ancient literature who trades himself for traitors, thieves, bullies, and cowards. When men write stories, they show heroes trampling such villains under their feet, triumphing over those who have wronged them and emerging, vindicated and victorious, to live in peace. Do you realize how radical this one and only story is? There is nothing else like this in our entire canon. There is no other such hero. Mercy exists in the tales of God alone.
Drop your boasts and look at your real reflection. Now read the events of Maundy Thursday, and let yourself stand in silence; look at him. Just look at him. Be overcome with awe and ache with yearning. This is where worship begins.
The stone the builders rejected
has become the cornerstone;
the Lord has done this,
and it is marvelous in our eyes.
The Lord has done it this very day;
let us rejoice today and be glad. (Psalm 118:22-24)
The Lord has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes.
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