Published With Thanksgiving

“After breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me more than anyone?’ Peter said, ‘Yes, my lord. You know that I love you.’ Jesus said, ‘Feed my flock'” (John 21.15).

I grew up watching professional wrestling in the seventies and eighties. In other words, the old-school stuff—folks with bloody foreheads from chairs and trashcans, fights that spread to the concession stand. One type of match from that era was the grudge match. These were score-settling, no-disqualification brawls between guys who were once friends but, at some point one of them turned on the other. Like what happened between Jesus and Peter.

Jesus is our white-hat, the fan favorite standing alone in the ring as Peter, the heel, approaches. The tension just drips off the page, doesn’t it. We don’t know how this is going to go, but we know Jesus is ticked. He’s like a coiled spring, and you wonder if Peter’s going to get through the ropes before Jesus starts wailing on him.

And, boy, when Jesus let’s Peter have it…it’s a sight to see. Sure, Peter tries to fight back, but Jesus wears him down. And walks off with his former friend lying on the mat, beaten. The score has been settled, the crowd cheers. And we see, once again, you just don’t betray Jesus.

That’s, I guess, how it would have gone two centuries later on a Saturday morning. Instead, we get the story above.

Grudges are like the offspring of our subjects these last two weeks—revenge and being right. It’s more personal than revenge. The focus is tighter, don’t you think? It’s usually on a single wrong than a multitude of them. And it’s quieter, more patient, more content to seethe and bubble over.

And Jesus has every right to it. Peter’s not just anyone, he’s Jesus’ lieutenant. Everyone looks to him when things get confusing. He’s eyewitness to the Transfiguration. He’s the tough guy. But, in a moment of decision, he chooses to deny everything just to save his own skin.

Luke’s account is the most chilling. At the third denial, Peter sees Jesus looking at him. Probably a blank expression that could read as everything possibly being felt in that moment—hurt, anger, sorrow, abandonment. So, Peter runs off. They don’t see each other again until this moment, on the beach.

Nobody says a word about it. Everyone knew what had happened between these two. And I’ll bet money the others were whispering to one another about what they thought was about to happen. I would have. I’d have been thinking about what I’d do to someone who’d betrayed me.

What happens, though, is anticlimactic. Jesus acts like nothing has happened. Sure, he says Jesusy things that seem simple but are really very complex, but it’s as though there are no hard feelings, no unsaid words. It isn’t as though we get a sense Jesus has worked through the pain of Peter’s betrayal, it’s as if there was no score to settle. Like what’s past is past and today and tomorrow are what matter.

In other words, it’s as if Jesus held no grudge at all.

My merciful and forgiving friend, you make it look so easy to put aside the pain that only comes from the actions of those we love. I’m not sure I’m really ready to let go of all my grudges, but I acknowledge that’s the Way you pioneered. And, I’m so thankful that as you did with Peter, you always act as though I’ve never caused you pain.