Peter’s story continues in the high priest’s courtyard.
I ran, and I ran, dodging branches and stumbling over roots, until I was sure I was in the clear. When at last I stopped to catch my breath, the full weight of what had happened came crashing over me. I’d fought, failed, and been rebuked by Jesus for fighting at all. Then they tied him up to take him away and I… ran?
What’s wrong with me? I said to myself. Even if I can’t fight for him, surely I must not abandon him.
I turned back. We had all run, but I soon saw John through the trees, also making his way back. I joined him. We found the crowd and followed at a distance to the house of the high priest.
John got us into the courtyard. As we entered, a servant girl looked at me. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She asked if I had been with Jesus. My heart quickened. The blood pounded hard in my ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said and moved quickly away.
I wish I could tell you that I realized right away what I had done and felt badly about it. The truth is, I was too scared to think much of it. I just wanted to get in and lay low. Some men had kindled a fire in the center of the courtyard, and I joined them there, seeking warmth and trying to blend in.
As I sat on the stone pavement and watched the pile of glowing coal with its small flames, I thought about the oil lamps of our Passover table just hours before. That was all a world away now. What would become of our dreams? Would Jesus somehow break through and wow us all, or was this the end?
A voice broke in on my thoughts, “You’re one of his disciples, aren’t you?” I looked up. The speaker was a young man, seated two paces away, to the right of the fire. He was leaning forward, watching me intently in the small light of the coals. His own face was half in shadow. Others nearby turned to follow his gaze.
“Who, me?” I said, looking around as though he must mean someone else. “I am not!”
He said nothing more, but continued to stare at me, even after the others had looked away. I could feel his eyes watching me. At last, I could stand it no longer. My fear outweighed the chill, and I got up from the fire and moved away into the shadows.
I walked around a bit, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. There were a lot of people there, so it wasn’t too difficult to do. I thought a lot about what might be happening to Jesus. I couldn’t see or hear much of what was going on inside those fancy stone walls. There was one doorway through which a little could be seen, but standing there too long was conspicuous, so I caught only glimpses.
It looked as though the Sanhedrin had gathered and were holding a trial under cover of night. I couldn’t tell for sure. Whatever they were doing, everything about it seemed wrong. But there was nothing I could do about it but watch and pray. Watch and pray: the two things Jesus had asked of me in the garden, and the two things I had failed to do.
Suddenly, a voice spoke beside me, “You’re one of his disciples aren’t you?”
Startled, I didn’t even turn to see who it was. “I tell you, I don’t know the man. I swear it!” I said, as I moved away into the corner near the doorway.
The words had barely passed my lips when a rooster crowed and pierced my heart. All at once, I remembered Jesus’ words. I looked up through the open door, and there he was across the room. Jesus turned and met my gaze as the high priest shouted “Blasphemy!” and spit in his face.
I couldn’t take it. I ran out of there, collapsed on the ground, and wept harder than I ever have in all my life: tears of sorrow, tears of fear, tears of anger, tears of the knowledge of good and evil. For that night I saw clearly for the first time the full blackness of my own heart laid bare, even as the full goodness of Christ was coming unveiled.
Now I knew: Despite all my love for Jesus, I still loved myself more. Despite all my pride of strength, I was in fact weak. And every good deed I had ever done had been tainted with selfishness and pride. To think that just hours ago we were arguing about which one of us was the greatest! I will tell you who is the greatest. Jesus said it himself: No one is good but God alone.
“Oh, what a wretched man I am!” I cried, pressing my face to the dust. “Who can save me from myself?”
I knew it was just the sort of question that Jesus would have an answer for. Probably a very good one. But Jesus wasn’t there. In fact, it was looking like he might never be there again.
I don’t know how long I wept, but I woke on the ground to the sound of many feet and raised voices. The red glow of dawn was on the horizon. A crowd was coming out from the high priest’s house. They were leading Jesus away for trial. He was bound, and he did not look well. There were welts on his body, and he stumbled as he walked. I followed at a distance.
I watched all that morning, always from afar, half-hidden. It was horrible. I couldn’t believe the things they did to him. The sort of things we would call unforgivable. But you know all of that already.
What struck me most was the way in which he faced all the injustice and cruelty. While I fought and lied and hid, he stood strong and firm, still and silent as a tree. Would even Moses or Elijah have done better? I thought not. Yet how could the Messiah die like that? What would become of us now? And I didn’t just mean us his followers. What would become of Israel if we killed the Messiah?
When the earth shook and the rocks split and the sun went black, I thought surely this was the end. God was about to judge the world, and look what we would have to show for it. I, for one, was none too ready.
But of course the world did not end right then. Instead, the day dragged on and on. I started to think that maybe it would never end, and having killed the Messiah we were now doomed to just live forever in this wasteland of grief.
Then as nightfall approached, there came one final shame: It was not I who buried Jesus, but Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Jewish ruling council. He stood to lose far more in the act than I did. But he stepped forward, while I, one of Jesus’ closest disciples, was too afraid to be associated with him. I didn’t even have the guts to go to the burial, since there would be no crowd to hide me. But Nicodemus went, and the two Marys. Shame on me.