Isn’t it interesting that the very first disciple to confess that Jesus was the Messiah, the Promised One, is the same man who denied knowing him on the night of his death? There it was, the crucial moment in Jesus’ ministry, and his most outspoken disciple – who had just cut off a Roman centurian’s ear in his defense, mind you – won’t speak up. Wait, I take that back. He spoke up…just not in the way you’d expect. Peter denied knowing Jesus. Three times.

Still, Jesus knew what He had planned for Peter. He knew that He would build His church before this rock, before Peter. Much like when Moses and the Israelites gathered before Mount Sinai and entered into the Old Covenant, three thousand people would gather in front of Peter on the day of Pentecost. As Peter proclaimed the gospel, those who believed were ushered into the New Covenant. The Church, the body of Christ, was being built up in front of Peter. Just take a look through the book of Acts and you’ll see that it goes on and on: Peter proclaiming the gospel, hundreds believing, the church being built, grown, expanded.

So I kind of have to ask myself – really? He said he didn’t even know Jesus. Not to mention how hot-headed and impulsive Peter seems to be throughout the Gospels. I mean, out of all of the other disciples, you know – the ones who didn’t deny knowing Jesus three times – He picked this one to be His herald? This one to tell His story? This one to be responsible for the construction of His Church, His Bride?

But that’s exactly what Jesus did. He gave Peter an incredibly clear mandate. “Feed my sheep,” He said. And not just once. He said it three times. Interesting, isn’t it, that Jesus gave Peter three chances to tell Him he loved Him? Three times, Peter had denied knowing Christ, and three times Jesus let Peter affirm his love and commitment to Him.

This grace is amazing. The forgiveness is unfathomable. The Messiah that Peter had pledged to follow, even to death, was going to His death, and Peter was warming himself by a fire and pretending he didn’t have the foggiest idea who Jesus was. I’ve warmed myself by that same fire, uttered the same denials. I’d hazard a guess that maybe you have, too? But because Jesus’ story didn’t end on the cross, neither did Peter’s. Neither will yours. Neither will mine. So let us respond with Peter – let us confidently answer not only that we love Him, but that we will serve Him, that we will feed His sheep.

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you truly love me more than these?”
“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.”
Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.”

Today is less about the reading from John – tomorrow’s post actually spans the last 6 chapters of the book. Today is more about, well, today. Saturday.

The day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Black Saturday. Holy Saturday. To me, it seems it should be called Waiting Saturday. Surely all of creation, after its thunderous reaction to His death, stood in silence, in anticipation, waiting…his disciples, mourning, confused, waiting…the leaders of the day, who had seen enough to have some sense that somehow, this wasn’t finished, waiting…the angel whose job it would be to roll back the stone and, once again, bear glad tidings of great joy about Jesus to those in flesh, waiting…

…and with that, I too wait, unspeakably grateful for the knowledge that our position in time affords us – we know what happens in the morning.

Joy cometh in the morning. Bright and shining like the sun. Radiant, overflowing joy. I can hardly wait to say the words tomorrow morning, to hear them said to me…He is risen! He is risen indeed!

I’m joining several others at Fellowship North in reading through the entire gospel of John before Easter Sunday. Today, I share what I think might have gone through Nicodemus’ head after he met with Jesus as recorded in chapter 3. This is my own commentary, purely, and offered with no authority, only the hope that it resounds somewhere…somehow, as we move through Holy Week.

I waited until nightfall. I knew that going to him under cover of darkness was best. I could’ve sent someone, one of the pages, to ask him my questions, but I needed to see for myself. To hear his answer. I didn’t know exactly who he was – I wasn’t sure what to believe. I knew that he was from God, that much was obvious. And I told him that. But the things he said stunned and confused me.

He said I couldn’t see the kingdom of God unless I was born again. Born again? I thought. I am a grown man. And I am a Jew. I’ve been born, and into the lineage of Abraham, the father of our nation, of God’s chosen people. That he would consider one of God’s own people, particularly me, a teacher of the law, to be in need of a second birth in order to enter the kingdom was shocking. But even more shocking, the thought that such a thing could even occur – to anyone. A second birth?

Then he spoke of a birth of water and Spirit. He said that man produces the birth of a child, but that the Spirit would produce the birth of spirit, thus a person would be “born again”. Still, I couldn’t understand. How would even that birth be possible? God’s Spirit was not bestowed on everyone who believed in Him. Only a select few in my nation’s history have truly known the presence of His Spirit. And yet, Jesus was telling me that being born of this Spirit was a prerequisite for entrance into the kingdom – the kingdom that I already belonged to by rite of my obedience to the law and my birth as a Jew.

When I told him I still didn’t understand, an odd kind of look came over his face. “You are Israel’s teacher,” he said. “And do you not understand these things?” And then, he spoke very directly. He said, “We tell you things we’ve actually seen and you don’t believe us. If you don’t believe what I say about what happens here, on earth, how can you possibly hope to believe what I tell you about heaven?”* It shames me to say he had a point. We had opposed him, and our opposition would only grow stronger in the days to come.

I remember something he said to me near the end of my visit. He spoke of the Father’s love, a love so great that He sent His Son to save the world from perishing…and to offer eternal life. Herein lay his controversial claim of divine sonship. I should have felt skeptical; instead, it comforted me to hear him speak of God. Elohim, our Creator. Yahweh, our God. This name, these terms, they were familiar to me. This God with such great love for the world was also the God of Israel. And as I left Jesus, I wondered: the connection I had felt to him and to his words in that moment, had it been the Spirit, blowing like wind between us?

“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
John 3:8 NIV

*John 3:10-12, paraphrasing mine

Someday you may find yourself too weak to rise, too weary to walk forward and do this in remembrance of Him.

The gaping hole in your chest meant to hold reverence and gratitude for this act of worship instead holds thorns and broken bone bits of pain, and you somehow feel it’s not right to partake in the Sacrament when all you have to offer in return is your own broken body, your own spilling blood.

So instead, the Body and the Blood, they come to you.

A sister’s strong hands wrap around your shoulders, hold you as you weep. She waits for the Spirit and begins to pray, prayers for protection against doubt and confusion, but did she know that those very enemies were keeping you glued to the seat? Prayers for a realization of your worth in Him, and had she heard just how darkly you had begun to question that in the last few days? Prayers for strength for a soul perched feebly on the edge of giving in to the difficulty of it all. Prayers for things so desperately, so specifically needed.

This is the great wonder of Jesus: that He finds the bruised reed clutching her half-smashed mustard seed, and He protects her.

Three strong men, godly men, join to pray for this and so many other needs, lifting each other up, agreeing with one another and the Spirit. One stays behind to pray Psalm 36 over me, prays to remind me of God’s steadfast love. Steadfast. I have somehow always expected His love to change with my circumstances, this set in particular. But it is steadfast and unfailing, and He has sent this sister and these brothers to help me remember, to let me know He is near. And I find myself able to rise up, to walk.

“Praise be to the Lord, for He has heard my cry for mercy.
The Lord is my strength and my shield;
my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped.
My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to Him in song.”
Psalm 28:6-7

In the opening video to her study on James, Beth Moore says that the resurrection means that nothing except for the tomb has to stay empty. Interesting, considering just minutes before I heard her say that, I was sitting at a traffic light, trying to name this crazy pain I am feeling right now. ‘Heartbreak’ didn’t seem to quite do it justice, so I kept searching, and I realized: I feel empty. Even the feeble hopes I’d clung to for the last few months that this person I had spent my everything in loving would wake up and be the man of God I needed him to be – they were gone. Not to mention the big hopes he’d given me in the beginning, when he’d told me he loved me and asked me what kind of honeymoon I wanted. Those were gone, too, although I think it’s safe to say I released most of those some time ago. Everything – gone. My heart – no longer full of anything but pain. I felt empty.

Then she said: these empty places, they make space for grace. That we can allow God to fill our emptiness with grace, with Him, with resurrection power.

I’ve stared at my emptiness before. I’ve poured all manner of things into the chasm. Sometimes I’ve allowed grace to flow in. Sometimes I’ve snapped the lid shut in anger and confusion and numbed myself until I at least couldn’t feel the emptiness quite as much. But now, I have prayed for hope. I need hope to believe that a.) this is only a wound suffered at human hands and my loving Father will never, ever reject me for things He has long since cast into the depths of the sea and b.) my future is still promising, is still carried along by His plans to prosper and not to harm me.

And so, I believe. I take heart. I choose to hope in my Savior’s ability to take this empty place in my chest and fill it with spilling, crazy grace. Already He’s working. Already He’s sending me words of joy, words of comfort, words of affirmation. Already, grace is pouring in.

Already, I feel a bit more whole.