The Rev. Frank Logue
King of Peace Episcopal Church
Kingsland, Georgia
Easter Sunday, 2010

 The Wonder of Easter: Peter’s Story
Luke 24:1-12 

There was no air. It was as if the breathe of life itself had been withdrawn. I was suffocating and yet life, such as it was, went on. 

I was in a locked room with most of the group that had come to Jerusalem with Jesus. We were afraid that someone would recognize us on the street. Arrest, torture, death—these were what the future held. We sat together in the upper room, dazed, confused, lost. The room was shut tight, but that was not what suffocated me that night. It was the sure and certain knowledge that Jesus was dead. It was a fact, but a fact I could not fully receive. How could it be? Jesus raised the dead. Jesus, who healed lepers, gave sight to the blind, fed the people by the thousands. How could he die? 

I couldn’t breathe. There was no air.  

I had tried to be brave the night before. After Judas’ betrayal, I followed the arrest party. I followed at a distance. Then I steeled my courage and when they started the fire in the courtyard of the chief priest and settled down around it, I sat among the arrest party. 

A servant girl began to stare at me. I didn’t like what I saw in her gaze, but I just sat tight, not wanting to make a false move. Then she blurted out, “This man was with him.” I didn’t want to be exposed, I quickly replied, “Woman, I don’t know him.” No one said anything further. The fire crackled. Some moments passed. I began to relax just a fraction. A little later someone else saw me and said, “You also are on of them.” But I vehemently countered, “man, I am not!”  

I wanted to bolt from the courtyard. But I stayed. I needed to know what was happening to Jesus. Unimaginably long minutes passed. Somewhere in rooms close by, Jesus fate was being debated. Nothing but gossip swirled around the fire. I moved about. No one in the courtyard knew what was going on. There was talk of stoning, but they wouldn’t dare carry out that penalty on their own.  

I listened intently to every scrap of conversation trying to discover what was going on. It was clear that this crowd expected Jesus to be silenced. Darkness reigned. Death stalked the night. Fear crept back in, chilling my heart, melting my bones. Jesus himself has been talking of his death for some time. We all tried to silence those words, but he talked of his death all the more. I was afraid he might have been right. This may be what was awaiting him Jerusalem all along. But still I nurtured some small hope. 

Time passed. I stood and began walking about, more to warm myself. I could see Jesus across the courtyard. I couldn’t quite see his face, but he was nearby again. I wanted to catch his eye. I wanted him to know I was there, but I didn’t want to risk anyone discovering I knew him. Then another man spoke up, pointing me out saying, “Certainly this fellow was with him, for he is a Galilean.” Again, I defended my very life replying, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

As I spewed forth the hurtful lie, a rooster crowd. Jesus looked up. He was looking straight at me. There was no hate in his eyes. The look was pure compassion. He was hurt to be sure, but Jesus had seen this coming. He knew I had this denial within me. He told me earlier that night that “Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times.” I had been wounded by his words. I knew that I would never, could never betray him, and yet…I had. Jesus saw my betrayal. 

I went out and wept bitterly. I wandered out into that black night, knowing that I was no better than Judas. Whatever else the authorities might do to him, I had disowned my Lord. I didn’t have the courage to go back into that courtyard and declare my allegiance. I wandered the streets alone. At dawn, I went back to the upper room where we had celebrated the Passover hours earlier. The women went out. They would return with news I could not accept. Jesus had been crucified. The crowd had clamored for it and Pilate gave them their wish. 

I knew crucifixion. We had all seen the bodies crying out from the crosses following some insurrection or other crime meriting death. But the details the women gave were so much worse. He had been mocked and beaten and finally nailed to the cross and raised up. Then there were cruel taunts from the crowd and even from one of the thieves. The only words the women heard Jesus say were, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Then the hours passed. They said darkness had enveloped the noon sky for hours. I didn’t doubt it. The whole world was cast into darkness that day. Finally Jesus called out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” and breathed his last. 

These last words sucked the air from my body. Hope was extinguished. I couldn’t breathe. 

I went numb. There were more questions for the women. More answers. Everyone wanted some way to be sure that it was true. But I had seen his mother’s face, Mary of Nazareth. Her eyes told the horror of that day which words can never convey. With crushing finality I knew that it was true. 

All I wanted with every fiber of my being was to see him once more. I just wanted to drop to his feet and beg forgiveness. I ached for a chance to look on him again, to speak to him once more. But this could never be. Jesus was dead. 

The women were waiting, planning. They were going to prepare Jesus body for burial properly, once the Sabbath rest was complete. I was numb. My own flesh was cold as a stone. Others said my face was ashen. They tried to get me to eat or drink. But how could I? Jesus was dead. 

I kept seeing his eyes—those eyes of compassion. He looked across the courtyard with my words of denial hanging in the air between us and loved me anyway. That look of love burned, searing my very soul.  

I wondered over the words the women said he called out from the cross, “Father, forgive them.” But I knew those words were not for me. There could be no forgiveness for my betrayal. I denied my teacher three times. Loudly, vehemently, I denied I knew Jesus. Fearfully denying him, I knew exactly what I was doing. I was saving myself. So complete was my rejection of my Lord, my friend, that I might as well have hammered the nails through his hands myself. Over and over, I replayed the scene in my mind. I repeated my own words of denial over and over in my mind. Again and again he looked on me with love. The more I saw his loving gaze, the more it wounded me. I had not deserved his love. 

That interminably long Sabbath did pass. Somehow I survived the shock. There was no air, but life went on just the same. Early that next morning, the women went out. Much sooner than we expected they came back beating on the door. We heard their voices but fear filled the air. What was wrong? The women told their tale of an empty tomb and the words of the two men gleaming like lightning who said, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” 

The angels had explained that this was exactly as Jesus had foretold. That was true. I could remember Jesus’ own predictions. The others treated the words as women’s talk—idle foolishness. But I wondered. Jesus always valued these women. And he had predicted his death and a return from the grave. I didn’t dare to hope, but I did run. I bolted to the tomb to see it for myself. 

No angels awaited me there. The tomb was empty. Hope flickered. I bent down and saw the strips of linen. The women were excited, but an empty tomb was not good news. What could this mean? I was amazed. What had happened here? It was an empty promise. I wondered what had actually taken place that night and morning. I walked away, confused. 

Jesus appeared to me. He offered me peace. Shalom, he said. Shalom, peace, healing, wholeness. It was inspiration. Inspire. To breathe in. Air rushed back into the world. Jesus gave me the breath of life again. I offered him denial and he gave me peace.  

He opened our minds that night. Finally, we could begin to understand all he had been saying about the teaching of Moses and the words of the prophets. Jesus was the suffering servant Isaiah proclaimed. He was God’s own Son made flesh, offering health and wholeness. We were all transformed. We were continually in the Temple praising God and waiting for the promised gift. In time, the Holy Spirit did come upon us and give us the power to proclaim Jesus boldly to others. We gathered week by week to celebrate the Passover with new significance. The Passover meal became bread and wine in which we experienced Jesus anew. Just like on that night before the whole world collapsed.  

I don’t know what has happened to you in your life. I have no idea what you have faced, or face even now. But I know this with all my being. Jesus knows. He understands. Just like that night when I denied I even knew him and then did so again and again. Jesus looked on me with love. He didn’t love my betrayal. He loved me. My rejection of him when he needed me most killed my spirit. But Jesus loved back to life. That peace is not just for those of us who knew Jesus during his earthly ministry. That shalom, that wholeness, healing, and peace is for you to. Want to feel Jesus like that. Take a deep breath….No really. Right now. Take a deep breath. That’s how close Jesus is to you right now. 

Amen.