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For Peter, it must have felt like a dream—one of those dreams so vivid and full of wonder that waking up from it feels like a cruel joke. The years of walking beside the man from Nazareth, the teachings, the miracles—it all seemed like a heroic fairytale. And yet, the fairytale had crumbled into a nightmare. The man he had sworn to follow, whom he had called Messiah, had been brutally executed. Peter had denied him, not once, not twice, but three times. The weight of failure pressed heavy upon him.
“What was I thinking?” he must have asked himself. “I was like a child pretending to be someone special. He called me Peter, the Rock. But I was no rock. When the storm came, I crumbled into sand. I should have known better—I am just a fisherman.” And so, Peter retreats into the familiar. “I am going fishing,” he says. He is back on his boat, back to the old life, the old self. But this return is not resurrection; it is regression. Peter without Jesus is just Simon again. Standing on the deck, scanning the waters for a promising spot, memories stir. He remembers another time, another boat, another night of empty nets. He remembers when Jesus stepped into his vessel, turned his world upside down, and filled his nets to breaking. And then, as if summoned from the depths of his heart, a whisper: “Cast the net to the right side of the boat.” Something stirs in him. An ember glows in the ashes of his soul. He obeys. The net, barren moments ago, suddenly teems with life—large fish, one hundred and fifty-three of them. The weight of the catch is nothing compared to the weight lifting from his heart. He knows. It is the risen Christ. Peter does not hesitate. He wraps himself in his cloak, as if clothing himself anew, and plunges into the sea. The water swallows him whole, but he is not drowning—he is being reborn. He rises, dripping, breathless, alive. On the shore, the resurrection waits, a charcoal fire crackling beside. The fire—another memory. Another fire, another night, the scent of smoke mingled with shame. Three times he denied; three times the rooster cried. But now, around this fire, another threefold calling. “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” “Feed my lambs.” Again. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” “Tend my sheep.” Once more. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” And with each “Yes,” the cracks in Peter's heart begin to mend. With each answer, the weight of denial is lifted. With each confession of love, the breath of resurrection fills his lungs. The Simon of shame is no more. The Peter of grace stands in his place. Once, Peter fell beneath the waves of fear. Now, he walks upon the waters of mercy. Once, he sank into despair. Now, he rises with the dawn of redemption. As Jesus is risen, so too is Simon Peter. Does seeing the risen Christ guarantee belief in the resurrection? What about touching? For the disciples, these seemed to be the necessary conditions for faith. Most of them believed upon seeing him, but Thomas needed more—he insisted on touching Christ’s wounds before he would believe:
"Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Now, we find ourselves in a position where neither seeing nor touching is possible. But we are not alone in this. For over 2,000 years, Christians have believed in the resurrection without the physical evidence available to the first disciples. This raises a fundamental question: What does it mean to believe in the resurrection? It’s important to note that believing in something is different from merely believing it to be true. We can believe that an apple falls from a tree and accept gravity as the explanation, but we don’t believe in gravity—we acknowledge it as a fact. To believe in something, however, implies trust, faith, and a transformative relationship. The resurrection, then, is not an event to be proven but a reality to be lived. It is not about affirming a historical fact but about embodying its power. Just as the Word became flesh in the incarnation, the resurrection becomes flesh when it takes root in our lives. Consider how words take form in action: when you tell yourself to sit in silence, the word "sit" is embodied in your movement. Similarly, resurrection faith is not just acknowledged but lived—it is the movement from despair to hope, from failure to renewed effort, from sorrow to joy. The resurrection is not just about what happened to Jesus; it is about what continues to happen in us. It is the transformation from closed doors to open ones, from fear to peace. Reflect on how the resurrection takes shape within you. What in your life needs to rise? Where do you need to embody hope, renewal, and new life? Breathe in the very Breath of resurrection, and let it bring you from death to life. The resurrection is the final form of the incarnation—the Word made flesh, transcending life and death, and dwelling within us. Cross on Jesus points, To suffering I cling to. Empty cross awaits. Jesus, on the cross, Asks why, with no true answer. Empty tomb echoes. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
April 2025
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