Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house. Peter was following at a distance. And when they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat down among them. Luke 22:54-55
Within the hour, Simon “the Rock” feels like a handful of sand.
Of course he had the best intentions—he followed the flaming torches and flashing swords out of the garden, through the twisty city streets, past the temple complex and all the way to the High Priest’s house. John caught up with him* but didn’t speak; no words can push past their thudding hearts. Their breath came hard and fast as they rushed uphill toward the Palace of Herod Antipas. The high priest’s house nestles beside it like a chick under a hen’s wing.
It’s much more than a house—it’s also a council chamber and judgment hall, where the Sanhedrin meets and theological disputes are hammered out or hammered on. As the guards hustle their master through the portal, Peter and John step up their pace before the iron-ribbed gate swings shut.
“Wait,” murmurs John. He hurries forward and speaks to the gatekeeper–who, after glancing Peter’s way, shrugs and holds open the gate for both of them. Once in, John disappears, leaving Peter in the courtyard. John has connections in Jerusalem, even within the priestly class—his mother’s relations. That’s one reason the sons of Zebedee sometimes give themselves airs and drop names and make asses of themselves—though they are decent fellows most of the time.
Peter tries to look like he belongs. The night has turned chilly and some of the household servants and hangers-on have gathered around a fire. Pulling his cloak around him, he wanders over and joins the circle, ears open for useful information.
Any hopes that his master has been seized by mistake, or that he is some sort of diversion, are soon dashed. Messiah is the main event; all the servants are talking about him. And the gist, Peter soon realizes with alarm, is not favorable.
“After that grand entrance, all he’s done is talk. When will he act?”
“My mother tried to get close to him, to heal her bad hip. But she was turned away.”
“The signs are dried up, they say. I’ll bet they were just tricks all along.”
This is ominous. These are ordinary people, the kind of who flock to Jesus, love him, know he is on their side. If the ordinary people start to turn against him . . .
“You there.” Peter looks up to meet the narrowed eyes of a servant girl. “Didn’t I see you with him in the temple court?”
It strikes like a javelin, cleanly thrown: raw fear. It invades and occupies him; takes over his voice, hands, heart. “Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Every face turns to him: young old, thin, round, all hollow-eyed in the firelight; judging, accusing. He glares back, hitching his cloak tighter as though it could protect him. Best to bluff it out, bide his time, wait for an opportunity—to do what, he doesn’t know.
The servant girl is called away and a butler arrives, brisk and officious, rubbing his hand to warm them. What news? they ask him.
“It doesn’t look good for the Galilean. He won’t even answer to his own defense. They keep threatening to take him before Pilate, but he doesn’t even opens his mouth. Sanhedrin’s next.”
“What’s–” Peter clears his throat. “What’s the charge?”
“Good question.” The butler glances his way, gives him a second look. “Wait—haven’t I seen you before? Aren’t you one of the man’s followers?”
It happens again: something takes hold of him. “No! I just got here. Don’t know him.”
The butler doesn’t look convinced, but has more important things to attend to. After a moment he goes back inside, promising to keep them informed. Peter shrinks back but holds his place by the fire. Most of the circle ignore him, but one, a lowly stable hand by the look of him—a nobody–keeps staring. Peter tries to stare back but the youth won’t relent. Minutes pass, people come and go. Through the open doors of the house he hears voices raised, tempers rising. Something is about to happen.
The stable hand bursts out, “I know you were with him! I saw you—and besides, you talk like a Galilean.”
He jumps to his feet, the very picture of indignant outrage. “Curse you, boy! By all that’s holy, how many times do I have to say it—I don’t know this person you’re talking about!”
He stalks toward the gate. Already the darkness has begun to lift, giving way to a pearl-pink glow of dawn. A small crowd is crossing the courtyard from the other side—guards with spears, and among them—
A jaunty, familiar sound pierces him through: a rooster’s crow.
A face in the passing crowd turns toward him. The Master eyes bore into his, uncovering the wretch that has always lived there, who once said to him, “Lord, depart from me! I’m a sinful man!”
Lord, never depart from me! For I’m a sinful man . . .
*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.
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