Skip to content

Category: John

A fowl reminder of grace

rooster-crowing-2A rooster’s crow aroused me from sleep during a campout / speaking engagement last weekend. Normally that sound is pleasant to me, but this time I was annoyed. This rooster’s morning song apparently was on Eastern time or earlier, because here in the Pacific Northwest it wasn’t morning; it was only 1:30 a.m. Not only was the day not about to break, but I was pretty sure the sun was still hovering somewhere over Europe.

So for about half an hour, I lay listening to a time-challenged bird, desperately hoping to get some sleep before I had to speak in the morning. Then I caught the irony: my topic was the apostle Peter—who, after insisting he’d die for Jesus, in truth was so afraid to die that he denied Jesus three times before the rooster crowed, just as Jesus had predicted he would (John 13:38).

Peter denied knowing Jesus to a servant girl.

Then again to someone else.

Then a third time.

Finally, in the night, as rooster crowed.

And Peter, knowing he was guilty, stood reprimanded by a dinner entree.

Whenever I hear a rooster crow, I always wonder how that sound made Peter feel after his three denials of Christ. Did it remind him of that shame? Did it make him feel condemned? Maybe even hopeless?

The stereotypic rooster image is that of a rooster perched atop a fence by an old barn, welcoming in the sun on the horizon, waking the world to the start of a new day. But like the rooster near my campsite last week, Peter’s may have been time-challenged because some texts imply it was still night when the rooster crowed (for example, in Luke 22:56, shortly after Jesus’ arrest, people were gathered around a fire to keep warm). That premature crow proclaimed the darkest hour of Peter’s night: the arrest and trial of his Savior, plus a triple failure in denying that very one.

Yet the rooster also brought clarity. During the previous three years, while Peter kept falling all over himself trying to prove what an awesome disciple he was, the only thing he proved was his ability to get in the way of God’s work. Now, the shrill cry of a rooster confirmed it: Peter was a screwup, a failure.

And for the remainder of that night, Peter could only stand alone in this condemnation. The Messiah was on trial and surely headed for execution. Now there was no one who could save Peter from himself.

But that crow, in the dead of night, also announced something Peter didn’t yet understand: a new day was coming. Like the sun, the Son (an old pun, but still true) would rise again!

And unlike Judas, Peter hung around for that event. The rising sun was not yet visible, but it was coming. And with it came the risen Son, full of forgiveness and grace, who met Peter on the lakeshore and asked him three times, “Do you love me?” And each time, Peter said, “Yes.”

Scripture says Peter was grieved (John 20:17) that Jesus kept asking the same question. But Jesus was giving Peter a do-over—three affirmations, one for each denial.

In fact, within just a few weeks, Peter the cowardly screwup was bravely proclaiming the good news of Jesus’ resurrection to thousands. He even confronted the same religious group who had crucified Jesus by telling them, after a healing: “It is by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified but whom God raised from the dead, that this man stands before you healed” (Acts 4:10).

What changed in Peter? Nothing, really. Peter was still Peter, a sinful screwup badly in need of grace. The only difference between Peter the denier and Peter the proclaimer was Jesus’ resurrection and forgiveness—a new day, announced by the rooster in blackest night.

After that, I believe that whenever Peter heard a rooster crow, he was reminded of his failure, but in a context of grace.

Fast forward two millennia, to a happy camper in a tent near Rainer, Oregon. At first I was annoyed that the crow of a stupid bird had awakened me from a deep, much-needed sleep. Then I thought of Peter, hearing that same sound during the worst failure of his life—and then hearing it again later, after Jesus’ forgiveness. And the crowing sweetened to a tune filled with grace. The same grace which had poured over a screwup like Peter.

I drifted back to sleep with a new song of grace in my ears.

Leave a Comment

Saturday in limbo

rainAs I write this, it’s a gray Saturday morning, with the rain pounding against my window. Today is very different from yesterday, which was a sunny Friday. Specifically, it was Good Friday.

Just hours ago, I attended my church’s Good Friday service. As always, it was an unsettling time. A time to do three things: Remember Jesus’ death. Eat the elements. Go home.

There was no message about the resurrection. No announcement about Easter Sunday activities. No promise of coming hope.

Not that I’m complaining. In fact, I think Good Friday should point to the cross, not the resurrection. Because Jesus’ death is too important to forget. And it’s only bearable because in hindsight, we know it wasn’t the end. When Jesus spoke his last words – “It is finished” – he meant his work on earth in the flesh, not his whole story.

But back then, no one knew that.

Good Friday leaves Jesus’ followers – both then and now – walking away from  a bloody corpse and wondering what just happened, yet knowing deep down that we are somehow responsible. You know: Jesus is dead. Because of me. Have a nice day.

And after yesterday’s Good Friday service, although I walked out into bright spring sunshine, I felt only that raw blackness of death – the emptiness of limbo – with no ray of hope.

BlackImagine Jesus’ followers on this same Saturday back then, locked away in a dark room, listening for footfalls outside that might be coming to take them. The previous three years with Jesus must have seemed so remote, so unreal. By now, Judas is rotting in a lonely field, and Peter is haunted by a rooster’s crow and the now-hollow words of the one he had called “Lord.” Maybe Thomas is picking at a thread in his robe, wondering how even he, the skeptic, could have been taken in. On this Saturday, their great leader, the one they trusted, is dead. Obviously he must have been a fake.

Yes, the disciples had seen his “miracles”. They had seen him heal the lepers, walk on water, and bring the dead back to life. All trickery? Wishful thinking? Dumb luck? How had this now-lifeless body fooled them so badly? Had they just wanted a messiah so much that they settled for the one with the coolest tricks? Were they really that desperate? I’m sure they asked themselves all of these questions and more.

And now it’s Saturday. Life goes on, and they must live with the consequences of their choice to follow him. They must not only watch their backs lest they too be killed, but they must also, I believe, face the torment inside their own heads: “What happened? How could I be so gullible? What now?” They must live with the regret of falling for Jesus’ scam. He’s gone, and with him the hopes and dreams of the last three years of their lives. Until they die, they will be perpetually stuck in limbo.

I understand the limbo of Saturday. I have lived in that limbo for six years. My postgraduate work died a permanent death, and there was no CPR or shock treatment that could jolt it back to life.

In this limbo there is no direction, no vision, no purpose. Like the disciples, I have locked myself away, paralyzed by fear and shame. Like them, I have sat in silence and replayed the past, trying to determine where it all went so wrong, where I missed the signs that should have told me to stop. And there’s no glimmer of resurrection because I can’t yet see Sunday, when the empty tomb is exposed, when the women come running and shrieking that he is alive.

So here’s my question: On that Saturday, why did the disciples hang around? Why didn’t they scatter in all directions? After Jesus’ death on Friday, the Jewish leaders who killed him would have been home celebrating the sabbath. A perfect chance for each disciple to flee the city and escape with his life.

But they didn’t. On Saturday, in the stunned silence after Friday, some crazy, inexplicable thing kept them in Jerusalem, gathered together.

What was it?

I think it was hope. A deep, unspeakable hope. Something inside each one made them stay.

Once, Peter even voiced this subconscious hope. Jesus had just given the hard teaching that his followers must eat his flesh and drink his blood (John 6:53-58), causing many to feel so confused and creeped out that they left him. So Jesus turned to those who remained and asked, “You do not want to leave too, do you?” (v. 67). And Peter’s answer betrays both uncertainty and conviction: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God” (v. 68).

On this Saturday, after the horrors of Friday, I believe those words are still ringing in Peter’s ears, piercing through the pain and bewilderment of Jesus’ death.

I so desperately want to jump ahead to Sunday – knowing, as the disciples didn’t, that Jesus does rise again. But more often I must live in the limbo of Saturday – with Jesus still dead – and echo Peter’s words through the darkness.

Tomorrow, on Sunday, I can shout, “Jesus is risen!”

But today, on this rainy Saturday, I can only say: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Leave a Comment

“Friends” on Facebook: To stone, or not to stone

stone in handI have finally come kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century: I am now on Facebook. I have resisted social media because: 1) I find the interaction to be somewhat superficial, and 2) I’ve never heard of journalists or potential employers checking a person’s social media and finding anything which raised their estimation of him/her. However, due to the upcoming book launch, my publisher asked me to start a Facebook page. So I pulled the trigger.

One important part of setting up a page (other than figuring out how to get the stupid thing to work the way I want it to) is to find “friends.” But that’s a broad term. On Facebook, sometimes getting “friends” feels more like feeding a narcissistic urge to see how many people remember me.

The first set of friends was easy: people in my family and church. The next was trickier: people from old jobs, alma maters, and other past chapters of my life. During this phase, I saw many “friend” names which stirred wonderful feelings and waves of nostalgia.

But a few names evoked memories which are not fully healed – memories of that spring when I lost both my PhD and my teaching job, each time suffering the “walk of shame” as I left. Those names remind me of painful days when I wished the ground would swallow me, of sleepless nights when I was wracked with humiliation and rejection.

Frankly, when I see those names, I’m overwhelmed by memories of feeling kicked when I was down. When I see those names, I don’t want to be their “friend.” No, what I want is to keep judging them for what I deem to be their sins, ranging from passive-aggressive manipulations to backstabbing to betrayal. What I want is to sit high atop my throne and watch them take their own “walk of shame” out the nearest exit. What I want is to blame them, hold them in contempt, make them feel the agony I felt.

But scripture has an annoying habit of holding up a mirror to the ugliness in my own life. I so badly want to judge others; like the Pharisees in the story of the woman caught in adultery (John 8:3-11, NIV), I find myself on the side of those just itching to cast stones.

Then Jesus’ words kick me in the teeth: “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone….” And with that simple statement, Jesus indicts me. My role suddenly changes from that of the Pharisee who cannot see his own guilt, to that of the woman “caught in the act” who knows her guilt all too well. Those names on my Facebook page, which bring to mind the supposed sins of others against me, now reveal my own passive-aggressive maneuvering, my own backstabbing and betrayal toward them.

“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone….” Perhaps others have committed sins against me. But what about my own sins? I’ve sinned against them too. And not only against them, but against everyone from innocent bystanders to my strong supporters. The mirror of scripture broadens to reveal my sins against all of them. Jealousy toward those who, in my view, have never deeply suffered (why should they get off so easily?). Envy toward those who have achieved more than I, especially in academia (why do they get to have what I couldn’t?). And self-centeredness: when someone else mentions a personal tragedy, usually I’ve managed to turn it around to mine. After all, there’s only room for one in the pool of self-pity.

“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone….” One by one the woman’s accusers leave her; I can see them unclenching their fists and dropping their stones to the ground as they walk away. And when they are all gone, he tells her: “[N]either do I condemn you….Go now and leave your life of sin.” With those words he redirects the focus from her past to her future.

Which brings me back to Facebook. On my homepage, the names keep coming at me. Occasionally I see one that gives me pause. At that moment, I have a choice to make: Will I take the part of the Pharisee, who sits in judgment because he sees only the sin of others – or the part of the woman, who bows in brokenness because she sees her own?

Each name brings hesitation, then reflection on which role I will play. And each click on the “friend” button is, hopefully, another stone falling from my hand.

2 Comments