Ransom | Witness (Luke 22:54-62)

We are often called upon to take a stand and make a statement witnessing about our relationship to our Savior. Peter had that opportunity and notoriously failed. Why? Peter had his eyes on the wrong place and built his faith on the wrong thing. God grant us such a faith that will not fail because it is built on him who will not fail us.

Transcript

This courtyard scene never ceases to shatter me on impact. As I read it, I can almost feel the fire's warm sensation, the body's uneasiness, the fear of what’s to come, and the reality that Peter, me, and you are no different. It had been a long, dark night for Peter. Longer than any he had ever known. He had followed Jesus for three years, walked with Him on water, seen Him heal the blind and raise the dead. He had been part of that moment when Jesus asked, “Who do you say I am?” and, with a boldness that made the other disciples jealous, Peter had declared, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And yet, this night was different. This was not the Messiah he had imagined. The Jesus who had calmed the storm with a single word was now silent before His accusers. The Jesus who had commanded demons to flee now stood chained like a common criminal. The Jesus who had walked through angry mobs unscathed now had blood dripping from His face. Peter followed Him. He had run at first, but something in him couldn’t stay away. And yet, what was he hoping for? Was he still expecting Jesus to turn the tables, to reveal some last-moment miracle, to prove, once and for all, that He was winning? But with each passing moment, Jesus looked less and less like a winner. And Peter’s courage started to falter. Do you see your place in the courtyard?

You and I stand right there with Peter. It’s easy to follow Jesus when He looks like He’s winning. When the Church is growing, when faith is applauded, when people nod in admiration as you talk about your beliefs. When it costs you nothing. But what about when Jesus looks like He’s losing? What about when your faith makes you an outsider? What about when the culture tells you that your beliefs are outdated, that your Savior is a relic of Western Civilization’s past? What about when standing firm means losing the approval of your coworkers, your friends, your family, the ones you can’t imagine losing? Where do you stand then?
Peter didn’t want to be far from Jesus that night, but he also didn’t want to be too close. He found a middle ground—a place in the courtyard, just near enough to watch but not near enough to suffer. How often do we do the same? How often do we want to be associated with Jesus but not too associated? How often do we hold on to just enough faith to be comfortable but not enough to be crucified with Him? How we see this in our culture today. While it does seem like outright anger against Christianity has subsided in recent days, in fact, studies seem to indicate more and more young people are seeking the Church, and yet do we not still see the temptation around us and in us, to keep things as uncontroversial as possible. To be so concerned that outsiders will reject us and our church that we water down the message, give in on teaching, because to stand with Jesus on everything seems dare I say life-ending. And how we are scarily good at justifying this… “As long as they believe in Jesus as the Savior,” why do I need to care about the correct teaching of communion or what so and so does in their private, alone moments,” our pragmatic American mind showing itself, forgetting that Jesus holds no such distinctions “Teach them to obey everything.” Everything. No room for compromise. The truth knows no such thing. Yet, how quick we are to pretend it is. 

Notice Peter’s first denial wasn’t difficult. It came almost instinctively. A servant girl—hardly a threat—looked at him and said, “You were with that Nazarene, Jesus.” “I don’t know or understand what you’re talking about.” It was a lie, of course. But it was a small one. A dodge. A way to keep himself safe. And isn't that how it begins with us? A little hesitation to speak up. A small compromise. A way to avoid making things awkward. The second denial was stronger. The pressure was mounting. “You also are one of them!” someone else said. “Man, I am not!” Now it’s no longer a dodge—it’s a lie spoken with conviction. Fear tightens its grip. The need to protect himself outweighs everything else. And then the third time. Now the bystanders are closing in. “Certainly you are one of them, for you are a Galilean.” This time, Peter curses. The language of a fisherman returns to his lips. “I do not know this man!” Not just “I don’t know Jesus.” Not just “I’m not His disciple.” But this man. Peter has created the ultimate distance. Jesus is no longer “Lord” or “Rabbi” or even “Jesus.” He is just this man. We shudder at the words. But how often do our lives say the same?
When faith is easy, we call Him “Lord.” But when faith costs us something, we keep Him at arm’s length. Maybe we don’t say it outright, but our silence speaks. Our choices speak. Our refusal to be identified speaks. Cyprian, a third-century Christian who faced severe persecution, wrote extensively about the cost of discipleship. He warns about Christians who follow Christ only when it is easy: “It is not enough to confess Christ with our lips while we deny Him with our deeds. Many are faithful in peace but fall in persecution. What use is a faith that stands only in fair weather?” Cyprian speaks directly to our modern struggle—we love following Jesus when it brings applause, but what about when it costs us? It’s when we hear this reality, and believe me, I know it so personally, we feel crushed, and wonder “What would Jesus have with me?” Which then feeds even more into thinking that when we are tempted, like Peter, it would be better to follow at a safe distance, would Jesus even want me near him? But true discipleship means standing with Christ even when it feels like He is losing. Will we back a “winner,” or will we stand with the Crucified One? And then—the rooster crows.

Luke tells us something the other Gospels don’t. At that moment, Jesus turned and looked at Peter. It wasn’t an “I told you so” look. It wasn’t a look of disgust or anger.  It was a look that saw Peter completely. A look that held his failure, his fear, his flakiness—and loved him anyway. As the great preacher John Chrysostom once said, “The Master did not turn away from His disciple, nor did He abandon him to his guilt. He did not crush him with a rebuke, but turned and looked upon him with the eyes of mercy, awakening the heart of His beloved one to tears.”  And Peter broke…because of love. He wept bitterly. Not just because he had failed, but because he had failed someone who still loved him. Have you ever felt that? The deep, gut-wrenching sorrow of realizing what your sin has cost? That moment when the Holy Spirit convicts you—not just of wrongdoing, but of the weight of it? When you hear the rooster crow in your own life? When you imagine that look of Jesus staring at you? We all have.

We know the pain of realizing we have distanced ourselves from Jesus. We know the grief of choosing comfort over faith, safety over truth, silence over confession. How often we assume Jesus is disgusted with us when we fail him? Yet the truth is that He looks upon us with the same mercy He showed Peter. His gaze calls you back, not in shame, but in grace. This is the gospel story. Peter’s story could have ended in despair. Judas also betrayed Jesus that night, and he was filled with sorrow too. But his sorrow had nowhere to go. It turned inward and consumed him. But Peter’s sorrow—Peter’s bitter, broken weeping—had somewhere to go, better it had Someone to go to, the very embodiment of grace himself, our Jesus.
The same Jesus who looked at him with love in the courtyard would seek him out on the shores of Galilee after Easter. The same Jesus whom Peter denied would later restore him with four simple words: “Do you love me?” And Peter would go on to stand before crowds, before rulers, before the very people who had crucified Jesus, and boldly declare, “There is no other name under heaven by which we must be saved.” What changed? Peter saw Jesus walk out of that tomb. He saw that Jesus wasn’t a loser after all. That the bloodied, beaten, silent figure he had abandoned had been winning all along. Jesus won by losing. He conquered by surrendering. And that victory—His death and resurrection—turned Peter’s cowardice into courage, his shame into proclamation, his denial into devotion.
So where do you stand today? Have you denied Jesus? Maybe in silence when you should have spoken. Maybe by choosing comfort over faithfulness. Maybe by outright running, because it felt safer. But listen carefully: Jesus still looks at you. Not with anger. Not with condemnation. Not with shame. But with love. The same love that took Peter’s failure and turned him into a witness. The same love that took a cross and turned it into a triumph. The same love that looks at you now and says: Come home. Such shame is not the final chapter of your life’s book, dear Christian. Your Savior looks at you even now, especially now, not in disappointment but love. I treasure how hymn-writer Paul Gerhardt put it once, “Through waves and clouds and storms His power will clear your way; Wait for His time; the darkest night Shall end in brightest day.”  

The gospel look of Jesus will never turn away from you. Jesus has seen your shame, he knows its depths, he bled for it all. One look of his shining face changes everything. Shame is complicated, but Jesus isn’t. He looks at you through the Bible and says, “There’s a place in my Father’s house for you. I know your history, I know your past, I know your story. I know everything about you and everything you’ve ever done. I know. But look into my eyes when I tell you that I will never be ashamed of you. You are family.” And when you look into his eyes, he will turn you around and say, “Now go!” Just like he did with Peter. 
By faith and the Spirit’s power, let’s continue to make our church a place where shame can be aired, stories can be told, so that THE Story can be made known. That’s the kind of church Jesus always wanted. A place where we recognize our shame, not deny but profess, a place where we look at our sin and repent, and where we cry with each other, first tears of pain and regret, but then look into the eyes of our Christian family members and see so much more. To see the very look of Jesus, true peace, real compassion, absolute forgiveness. Because when we share our fears and shame, and hear the Scriptures’ response from our dear spiritual family, we see not just our Christian sibling, but we see Him.

So take heart. The same Jesus who turned and looked at Peter looks at you now. Not with rejection. Not with disappointment. But with the fierce love of a Savior who went to the cross for you. His gaze does not condemn—it restores. His eyes do not accuse—they invite. And His love does not waver—it wins. Peter’s story did not end in the courtyard, and neither does yours. Christ’s resurrection changes everything. Your past does not define you—His cross does. Your shame does not have the final word—His grace does. Your failures are not your identity—His victory is. So look into His eyes. See the love that has never let you go. See the mercy that covers every denial, every doubt, every moment of fear. And hear His voice, calling you forward: “Follow me.” Because in Jesus, shame is not the end of the story. Forgiveness is. And that’s the story we carry into the world. That’s the message we proclaim—not a faith that follows Jesus only when He looks like He’s winning, but a faith that clings to Him even when it seems like He is losing, because we know the truth: He never loses. And in Him, neither do we. Amen.