Jesus allows himself to be bound—the one bound by nothing.  In his binding we are being set free.  You were bound; maybe you remember.  We can feel as if we still are—bound by worry, by lust, guilt, bound by envy, resentment, anger, or by sorrow, or loneliness.  Would you be free?  Would you let Jesus set you free?  He sets free by being bound for you.  He sets his face and steadies his heart.

          He could have called his ten thousand angels.  His hands are never tied, though the soldiers wrap him with seven new ropes!  We were bound, and he binds himself to us to set us free.  Many walk through this life in ignorance and sin, in ignorance of their sin.  We walked that way, too, once.  Beloved, don’t continue in old ways, don’t let yourself remain bound; Jesus has set you free.

          Peter follows, at a distance, just far enough so the officials won’t take an official interest in him.  He doesn’t follow out of idle curiosity!  Peter doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He thought he was doing the right thing, what Jesus wanted him to do, when he took out the sword and swung at those who would try to hurt his Jesus.  Jesus said stop.  Peter tried to do what was right; Jesus told him it was wrong.  Peter was confused.  He so wanted to do what Jesus asked of him, do the right thing, go the new way.  It felt like he got it wrong so often, as if he would never learn.  He feels the darkness; he wants light.

          The details of what happens are so vivid and particular that it must have been John who went along with Peter, just as, later, they were the first to run, together, to the empty tomb.  They are running an awful risk!  They’re willing.  What risk are we willing to run for Jesus?  I’ve run from him often enough.

          John is let into the high priest’s house; Peter must wait at the door.  So close and so far, that waiting outside: how often we’ve been there!  Feeling it.  Wanting yet afraid: afraid of what may happen if we do enter, afraid of what will happen if we don’t.  John speaks to some people; they motion for Peter to come in.  Passing through the door, he’s questioned, like some test, as though everything hangs upon the right answer: “You aren’t one of this man’s disciples too, are you?” (18:17).  Challenging him—who goes there!?  An opportunity to tell them what they already know, or to deny it, ignorant, innocent.  Implicated, either way.

          Have you never been questioned at the gate?  The powers at work in this world have an interest in your answer.  So does God.

          Peter, who has seen what happened to Jesus in the garden, having a sick feeling about what is going to happen to Jesus, says the most natural thing: who, me?  Ha ha.  No.  No!  Not me.  See what fear does to us?  Those who save their lives will lose them—fear causes us say and do things . . . and those who lose their lives, for my sake—grace enables, empowers us to say and do things we couldn’t imagine, before.  Grace is the power to set our face and steady our heart.

          John is trying to get information.  Peter tries to stay as close to the door as he can, but it’s dark, and “it was cold, and the servants and officials stood around a fire they had made to keep warm.  Peter was also standing with them, warming himself” (18:18).  Let that image sink in.  See it.  Feel it.  The cold, the dark, the warmth of the fire, the risk.  It’s not long before another one challenges Peter to lie or tell the truth.  In which is safety?  In which is life?  We so want to do what is right; so often we fail.  Is it weakness?  Fear?  Inertia?

          They leave Peter alone with his thoughts for a while, he on one side of the fire, the rest on the other.  Now the third time: “a relative of the one whose ear Peter had cut off, challenged him: ‘Didn’t I see you . . .’” (18:26), as much as to say—Tell me I’m a liar!  I was there!  But a habit begun, especially a self-serving habit, can be a hard habit to break.  Until God steps in, speaks.

          God has the strangest ways of speaking.  In the first dim hint of light that lethal morning, God speaks through a rooster, and Peter knows it.  He knows it and remembers just what he had said, and what Jesus had told him: “Lord, why can’t I follow you now?  I will lay down my life for you.”  So say we all, with such certainty of devotion and love.  “Will you really lay down your life for me?  Very truly I tell you, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times!” (13:37-38).  Once is a mistake.  Twice is a shame.  Three times is the door to a habit.  God has the strangest ways of speaking.  Later that day, this day, God speaks through a blood-smeared cross, socketed into the rocks and dust atop a wind-swept hill under a dark sky.  God has the strangest ways of speaking.  If we would just listen.  If we would just listen.

          Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!