Among the gospels' most unforgettable stories is the one about that wretched Peter, who whacks off an soldier's ear in a showy defense of Jesus, then hangs his Savior out to dry not all that much later, when three people finger him as having been one of the Messiah's sidekicks. No, he says, no way. He flat out lies. Flat out lies. Denial, denial, denial.
And he does it, shockingly, after being told he'd do exactly that, after having the whole horrible night described for him by Jesus himself in no uncertain terms, after looking into Christ's own crystal-ball.
"No, no, no--never met the guy."
Our preacher reminded us of that story, reminded us how sweet it would have been to be able to watch Jesus eyeball Peter-of-the-Forked-Tongue just as the morning rooster let go the promised catcall. I wish the gospel writers had drawn in that scene.
But even my wish is tainted with Adam's fall, because the first dozen reactions I figure Jesus just might do--nod, wink, shake his bloody head, stare reprovingly, snarl, scream, shed a tear, or point a finger at him and say "gotcha"--come from my own human playbook. They're what I'd do if I were Jesus.
But then, of course, Christ is everything we're not. Ain't it the truth?
Because once I've run through the whole gamut of human emotions, once I've created the scene in a dozen different mocking ways--Jesus looking over at Peter, the cock crowing behind them--I can't help but realize that it takes real work for me to realize what face Jesus would show him, real work I can't accomplish on my own. No I-told-you-so stuff. No spite. No rolling eyes. None of that is in the divine playbook.
What he'd do, if he had it handy, is offer Peter the very cup of blessing.
That particular reaction wasn't high on my list, but, through the darkened haze of my own sin, I know--I just know--WWJD. I just know because He's everything I'm not.
And for that plain and divine truth, this Good Friday, I offer my morning thanks.
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