The Bloodstain On My Tunic

The Apostle Peter's Story of Redemption

There is a splatter of blood left on my tunic from the night in the garden. I’m staring at it now. I’ve tried to wash it out. I’ve tried to erase the memory of the trauma of the night. But it’s still there! The stain on my garment is a token of the wound I feel on my soul. Every time I see it, it is a reminder of the rage. I want it gone, but it’s a stain I cannot wash away.

If only I’d have listened to Him. If only my anger could have been tempered. But I couldn’t help it, I loved Him so! I believed. Oh, how I believed His life wasn’t done. We had come so far. We had seen so much. Blind people saw. Deaf people heard. Beggars found hope. Possessed were freed.

He had warned me earlier,

“Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”

But it was just too much to see Him taken captive by a friend—by ONE OF US! Malchus happened to be the recipient of my rage. But also of God’s grace, because I had aimed for his head. I wanted him dead, not injured, along with the rest of them.

I wasn’t ready to see Him go!

Forty-five nights ago.

ONLY FORTY-FIVE!

It seems like an eternity. So much has happened. So much has transpired both inside my heart and among our band of followers. Mary found the empty tomb. Thomas touched His wounds and believed. The band saw Him miraculously rise into the air and disappear through the clouds. And so much more. A century’s worth of words—miracles—emotions since we saw Him again among us.

And we’re still waiting! For what? We do not know. We have learned some hard lessons, so we are now carefully obeying His every word. Waiting. In response to His instructions:

“Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.”

What does that even mean? We don’t know, but we’ve experienced the consequences of failing to obey before, so we are here. In this cold and dark upper room.

Praying. Singing. Talking.

Patiently, and impatiently, WAITING.

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They are looking to me again for guidance and leadership. They are asking me many times throughout the day what we should do. I feel unworthy to take the lead. I’ve tried to divert the attention to James. I turned my head toward John when they asked me the questions. I thought I was done. I assumed the night at Caiaphas’ courtyard was the end of my time with the Rabbi.

I assumed the moment He looked over at me from the High Priest’s doorway was the end of my favor with Him. I told Him I would never deny Him. I told Him that I’d die with Him before I’d ever disown Him. To think He heard me utter the words as He was being abused and accused is UNBEARABLE.

Once with the girl—“You too were with Jesus the Galilean!”

“I do not know what you are talking about!”

And then the other servant girl—“This man was with Jesus of Nazareth.”

“I do not know the man!”

And then the man in the mob—“You really are one of them as well, since even the way you talk gives you away.”

I couldn’t handle it any longer—the cursing from my mouth, the swearing at the top of my lungs.

“I DO NOT KNOW THE MAN!”

And then… SILENCE. Like the world stopped turning, and the crowd hushed by some unseen hand. Those few seconds felt like an eternity. Then the cock crowed. I slammed my hands over my ears to pretend I didn’t hear it. I screamed to try to drown out the sound. But the more I tried, the more I heard His gentle voice proclaiming just hours earlier:

“Truly I tell you, this very night, before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.”

I didn’t believe it. It’s not that I didn’t believe Him—it was that I didn’t think I had the capacity to do such a thing. He was a master at story and metaphor. “Surely,” I thought, “this meant something else!”

But it didn’t.

The grief and pain that bubbled up in me the moment I realized He heard my denial was an ocean of regret. The pain He was experiencing—how could He find it in Himself to look over to me?

It tells me how much it pierced Him.

I understand now how Judas could do what he did to himself in the “field of blood.” I know the depths of agony, knowing I let Him down when He gave so much for us. I struggled with the thoughts of ending it all. I wasn’t worthy of another day of life! I felt like I had sealed my fate that night around the fire.

It was the others who saved me. The love of the band. The late nights listening to me wail over my mistakes. The walks that they wouldn’t let me go on alone for fear I’d harm myself. The assurance that they loved me because He first loved me. It was all that helped me overcome the obstacle of losing hope.

And His return didn’t seem to help. Although I rejoiced and reveled in His time with us, it didn’t seem to ease the pain, at least not until the walk along the lake. We had breakfast by the fire. The fish were spectacular, like they were the other time Jesus commanded us to haul in a boatload. And as we were finishing our meal, He looked at me and nodded His head, summoning me once again to follow Him. I stood up, shook off my garment, and slowly walked to the lake where He had already gone ahead.

I had been expecting this. I knew He would eventually pull me aside to confront my failure. What would He say? More importantly, what would I say?

“Peter,” He said gently, like the day He predicted my betrayal.

“Yes, Lord? Here I am.”

“Peter, do you love me more than these?”

My head jerked toward His. The compassion in His eyes was overwhelming.

The face of the first servant girl by the fire flashed in my mind, and for a moment, fear engulfed my soul. I looked a second time at Him and wondered if the words I was about to utter were true. My confidence had been shaken since that fateful night at Caiaphas’ courtyard. I knew the truth in my heart, even though my head was rattling. I forced out the words as my head shook back and forth in curiosity:

“Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.”

“Feed my lambs.”

I looked in confusion as He stared with the kind of gaze that digs deep into your soul. I wondered what He meant by it.

His gentle voice interrupted my confusion.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Why did He call me by the identity of my father? I think it was so I would know the question was for me and me alone. It was laser-focused on Simon, son of John. I’m thankful for the gesture, because I had not wanted to be THAT Simon since the night of the betrayal.

Another question—another vision. This time, it was the second young servant girl who prompted my denial. When my mind’s eye looked into her face, my hands started to shake. This time, it was easier to confess the truth despite the pain of my denial:

“Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.”

Why a second time? Did He know something that I didn’t know? Did He suspect I was lying? Did He doubt my true love for Him?

“Tend my sheep.”

Could He possibly, once again, be calling me to lead the band of followers? Or even… MORE? After all that I’d done to fail Him?

Once again, His voice broke into the chaos in my mind and emotions:

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Three denials. Three questions.

Could it be… REDEMPTION?!

I was shaken. I was confronted. I felt loved.

This time, I expected the stranger’s face from the mob to flash in my mind. But what happened next rocked me. An image, for sure—but not one of my questioners. It was an image of us standing together with all the others in front of the “gates of hell.” The terrifying mouth of the cave in Caesarea Philippi, where He proclaimed that the gates of hell would not prevail, was the setting for my finest moment. The day He asked who we thought He was. I didn’t think much about it—it just flowed out of my mouth as if it wanted to be proclaimed:

“You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.”

I remember His head turning toward me and seeing the smile on His face. It was celebratory. I sensed a bit of pride as He nodded toward me and laughed:

“Blessed are you, Simon son of John.”

I realized at that moment why He had really been addressing me with my father’s name. He was calling me back to that most shining moment when I proclaimed truth given to me by the Spirit. He was calling me into that identity of following Him fully. He was reminding me that I have a choice—and when I choose well, He sees me for who I am in Him .

There were only three times in our journeys together He called me by my full name, Simon Barjonah (son of John): the first was the day He met me, the second was the day I proclaimed His name at hell’s gate, and the third—this day of redemption by the lake.

Fitting!

I snapped out of my memories and realized He was waiting for me to answer. I felt the emotions rise and my heart began to soar as, without an ounce of reservation, I proclaimed loudly and with tears flowing from my eyes:

“LORD, YOU KNOW EVERYTHING; YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU!”

He put His arm around my shoulder and looked deep into my soul, and with both joy and passion in His voice, He proclaimed:

“Feed my sheep.”

The pain of the moment by the fire subsided for the first time since those denials. The darkness lifted, and the light came flooding in to bring wholeness where I thought it would be no more. Freedom pushed away the heaviness, like a bird in flight, of the shame I had carried before.

I was FREE.

I was REDEEMED.

Alive again, after what seemed like a century of fear.

That wasn’t the end of the conversation by the sea. There was more that I still haven’t found how to process—that I’d stretch out my hand and be carried to a place I didn’t want to go. In my flesh, I should fear what that might mean. Would I die a brutal death like Him? When would that occur? What should I be preparing for?

For now, none of that matters. We are waiting—waiting for a day for His power to come upon us and to enflame us to take His message to the ends of the world. We don’t know when that will come or what it will mean, but for now, we rest. And rest I will.

The last thing He said to me on that day at the sea was the same thing He called me to the first day we met:

“Follow Me!”

I am ready to follow once again into the unknown and advance His message wherever and whenever He compels me to go.

The rest is up to Him.

I’m still waiting in this cold and dark room. The bloodstain is still embedded in the fabric of my tunic. I’m still that same man who cowered more than he conquered.

But I’m different now. Made whole by His love.

I’m redeemed and ready for whatever is to come.

The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come!”

Come, Holy Spirit.