Oh! Hi there! Didn’t see you sitting there.
Yes, it’s me… Peter. Yeah… that’s right.
Yep, I really did say those things. Hard to believe, isn’t it? I really put my foot in my mouth that night. It still amazes me that Jesus stuck with me after all that.
… Oh, you want to hear the story, do you? Well, alright, but it’s not exactly a tale I enjoy reliving, to be honest. For me, as you can imagine, it’s a mix of emotions – bittersweet. I hate to tell it, and yet, in a way, I also feel compelled to tell it. It was the worst day of my life… and, strangely, also the best.
How can that be? Well, you’ll understand as I tell you. But it’s a long story, so you’d better settle in…
Most people think they know this story, but I can tell you, quite literally, they usually only know half of it. You’ll see what I mean as we go on.
Alt text: Peter’s Denial of Jesus Christ depicted in a classic painting, highlighting the emotional turmoil and shame of the apostle.
The Initial Prediction of Three Denials
Where should I even begin? I suppose the most logical place is the night of the Last Supper, that final meal we shared with Jesus in the upper room. I had a reputation for speaking before thinking, for blurting things out, and that night was no exception. I was really on form, if you can call it that.
Jesus started going around to wash our feet, a task usually reserved for the lowest servants. When he came to me, I protested. I was mortified. We’d been walking dusty roads all day, through animal waste and who knows what else. My feet were disgusting, they stank. No way was I going to let Jesus wash my feet (John 13:1-17).
But he told me, very gently, that if I didn’t let him wash my feet, I would have no part with him. I honestly didn’t grasp what he meant, and I doubt the others did either. But my immediate, impulsive reaction was to go all in. I said to Jesus, “Well, in that case, wash all of me! Wash my head, my hands, my whole body!”
He patiently explained that I didn’t need a full bath, I was already clean. Just my feet needed washing. I understand now the deeper meaning, the spiritual cleansing he was talking about, but that’s a lesson for another time.
After he washed our feet, we reclined at the table for supper (John 13:18). He broke bread, and passed it around.
Then, partway through the meal, (John 13:19-35) Jesus’ face clouded over, a shadow passed across his eyes. He looked at all of us disciples gathered there and said, in a voice heavy with sadness, “One of you will betray me tonight.”
It was a shock that hit us like a physical blow. We had followed him faithfully for over three years! We had listened to his teachings, witnessed his miracles, given up everything to be with him. We had been there through the crowds and the celebrations, and through the hostility and rejection. Why would one of us betray him? It seemed impossible.
My mind raced, trying to figure out who it could be. I like to think I’m a reasonably analytical person, and after a moment of mental wrestling, I landed on Thomas.
He was always questioning, wasn’t he? Always critical of what Jesus said. He was always the last to believe, always needing tangible proof. If anyone among us was capable of betrayal, it had to be Thomas.
But in my time with Jesus, I had learned, or at least tried to learn, to watch my tongue. I was notorious for speaking without thinking, for inserting my foot squarely in my mouth. But tonight, I resolved to be careful.
If I wasn’t cautious with my words, I might somehow end up being the one to betray Christ. And that was the last thing I wanted. Besides, just days before, Jesus had even called me “Satan” when I tried to dissuade him from going to Jerusalem (Matt 16:23). The thought that maybe I was the one destined to betray him was terrifying.
So, instead of blurting out my suspicion about Thomas, I decided to get John to ask. John was the youngest of us, barely more than a boy, really. Jesus seemed to have a special affection for him.
I was sitting next to John, and he was right beside Jesus, so I leaned over and whispered in John’s ear to ask Jesus who the betrayer was.
I could have just asked myself, of course, but I was trying to practice self-control, to think before I spoke.
So John asked, and Jesus, in a cryptic way, by dipping bread in a dish and giving it to Judas, indicated who it was. Judas. Well, I breathed a sigh of relief. Phew! It wasn’t me. I wasn’t going to betray him! I was in the clear!
I settled back, ready to relax and enjoy the rest of the meal, now that that unpleasantness was out of the way.
After the meal, Jesus started talking about going away, about us not being able to follow him just yet. I had relaxed too much, it seems, because I promptly forgot my resolution to watch my mouth. I blurted out, “Jesus, where are you going?” And he said, “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now.”
And then, there it was again, my foot firmly lodged in my mouth. I started boasting, bragging. I declared, “Lord, why can’t I follow you now? I will lay down my life for you!” I was full of bravado, completely convinced of my own courage and loyalty.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? I confidently told Jesus I would die for him… I had no inkling then that it would be he who died for me… But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Right after my bold declaration that I would follow him anywhere, even to death, Jesus looked at me, a sad but knowing smile playing on his lips. He said, “Will you lay down your life for me? Truly, truly, I say to you, before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times” (John 13:38).
That shut me up pretty quickly. I had thought I was safe. Jesus had said Judas would betray him. Not me.
But now, Jesus was saying that I would deny him, and not just once, but three times! How could that be? I would never deny Jesus! Never! I was ready to die for him! Why would I betray him? Why would I deny him?
I was dedicated to helping him establish his kingdom – denying him, especially three times, would be the exact opposite of helpful. Well, that silenced me for the rest of the meal. My mind was in turmoil, wrestling with what Jesus had just said.
The Second Prediction of Three Denials
After supper, we left the upper room and made our way to the Mount of Olives. It was a cool night, the air crisp and clear. The stars were out, seeming exceptionally bright against the dark sky.
As we walked, my mind was racing. With each step, my anger at Jesus’ prediction grew. Hadn’t I been with him for over three years? Hadn’t I been his constant companion, always at his side? Hadn’t I always done my best to do everything he asked? Why would I deny him now, when he was so close to… well, I still thought he was close to taking his throne, to establishing his kingdom in power. Denying him now would be utterly insane!
When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to us, and with a deep sadness in his eyes, he told us that before this very night was over, all of us would fall away from him.
Now, that should have made me feel a little better, in a strange way. Before, at supper, he had singled out Judas for betrayal and me for denial. But now, he was saying we all would abandon him.
Alt text: Jesus predicting Peter’s denial, a moment of intense foreshadowing and personal challenge for the apostle, artwork portraying their interaction.
Perhaps misery loves company, but instead of comfort, it just made me even more indignant. Why was Jesus lumping me in with the others? I was stronger than any of them. I was more loyal.
Yes, I spoke impulsively sometimes, but that was because I was a man of action, decisive. I would rather speak without thinking than be paralyzed by indecision. It was a strength, not a weakness. I was always honest, always said what I thought. These other disciples were too timid, too afraid to speak up. But not me.
And I told Jesus exactly that. I challenged him, “Even if they all fall away on account of you, I never will.” He was wrong about me before, and I was determined to prove it.
Then, it was like a chilling replay of the Last Supper. Jesus looked directly at me, just as he had earlier. But this time, his words were even more precise, even more pointed. He said, “Truly I tell you, today, this very night, before the rooster crows twice, you yourself will deny me three times” (Mark 14:30).
I made up my mind right there and then that I would show him. I would prove him wrong. And I told him so, emphatically. “Even if I have to die with you, I will never deny you.” No matter what the rest of the night held, I would stand by Jesus’ side. Unwavering.
Falling Asleep Three Times
After this intense exchange, Jesus went a little further away to pray, asking us to stay awake and pray with him. I really intended to, I truly did. But exhaustion was a heavy cloak. After a while, despite my best efforts, my eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted off into sleep. A short time later, Jesus returned and found us all asleep (Matt 26:36-46).
But, incredibly, even though all of us were sleeping, Jesus singled me out again. We were all equally guilty of failing him, but he focused on me. “Simon,” he said, “are you asleep? Couldn’t you watch for even one hour?”
Initially, I felt a surge of resentment. Why me? Why always me? Everyone else was asleep too. And besides, it had been a long, emotionally draining day, and an even longer week leading up to it. And if even half of what Jesus had been hinting at was true, we were facing a monumental, life-altering few days. Tomorrow was likely to be the most significant day of our lives!
And yet, Jesus expected us to stay awake all night praying? Come on, Jesus, we needed sleep! We were only human!
But then a chilling thought struck me. “Wait… maybe by falling asleep when Jesus specifically asked me to pray, I had already denied him for the first time. Could that be it? Could Jesus see my weakness, my inability to even stay awake for him, as a form of denial? I wouldn’t have considered it that way, but did he?”
Whether he saw it as a denial or not, the thought spurred me into renewed resolve. I determined not to fall asleep again. I would stay vigilant.
Jesus went off to pray a second time. And wouldn’t you know it, before I knew it, Jesus was gently shaking me awake again. I had failed. Fallen asleep twice! Shame washed over me. But I doubled down on my resolve. No more sleep. I would stay awake this time.
But the night was relentlessly long, and my body was stubbornly tired. Before I knew it, Jesus was calmly, almost sadly, waking us all up for the third time.
For a fleeting moment, panic flared. Jesus had said I would deny him three times, and I had now fallen asleep three times! Was this what he meant? Was my physical weakness, my inability to keep my promise to stay awake, the denial he had foreseen?
It couldn’t be – that seemed too trivial, too insignificant. And besides, the rooster hadn’t crowed yet – not even once. So, surely, sleep wasn’t the denial he was talking about.
But… a deeper unease settled in. I was starting to see just how weak my resolve truly was. I was beginning to understand the frailty of my flesh. I had confidently told him I would stay awake and pray with him, a seemingly small request, and I couldn’t even manage that. I had vehemently declared I would never deny him, and now, doubts, cold and clammy, began to creep into my heart. Was I truly as strong, as loyal, as I believed myself to be? Or was I deceiving myself?
Right there, in the pre-dawn darkness of the Mount of Olives, I made a new, more somber resolution. I would stay awake now, no matter what. I would stay by Jesus’ side, whatever came next. And come what may, I would not deny him. Not in any meaningful, conscious way. I would stand firm.
The Betrayal by Judas
I didn’t have to wait long to test my resolve. Almost immediately, Jesus announced, his voice clear and steady, “Look! The betrayer is at hand!”
We all turned, peering into the darkness, and Jesus was right. Emerging from the shadows, torches flickering, came Judas, leading a detachment of the temple guard, armed with swords and clubs. This looked very bad. Danger crackled in the air.
Instinctively, my hand went to the sword I had strapped beneath my tunic earlier. If they tried to lay a hand on Jesus, I was ready to fight. I was going to be the first to defend him, just as I had sworn. I was prepared to spill blood, to kill those soldiers if necessary, even to die for Jesus, if that’s what it came to. Whatever happened, though, I would not deny him. Not willingly.
Judas approached Jesus and greeted him with a kiss, the pre-arranged signal. A sickening wave of betrayal washed over me. Jesus and the soldiers exchanged a few words, and then one of the officers stepped forward, announcing they were there to arrest Jesus! And then, incredibly, Jesus said to them, “If you are looking for me, let these men go.” He was trying to surrender himself to them, to protect us.
What was Jesus doing? Giving himself up? No. Absolutely not. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Not if I could help it.
With a surge of adrenaline and a roar of defiance, I drew my sword from its sheath and swung it in a wide, overhand arc, aiming with all my might at the head of the High Priest’s servant. His name was Malchus, and I had seen him around the temple, sneering at Jesus, mocking him, spreading rumors. I decided to take him out first, to make a statement.
But Malchus was quicker, more agile than I’d anticipated. He ducked and twisted just enough so that instead of splitting his skull, all I managed to do was lop off his right ear (John 18:1-11). A messy, bloody injury, but far from fatal.
I recoiled, ready to strike again, to finish what I’d started. But by this time, the temple guards had drawn their own weapons, swords flashing in the torchlight. I was poised to attack again, to wade into the melee, when… Jesus’ voice cut through the chaos, silencing everyone, especially me.
Jesus singled me out once more, his voice firm but tinged with sorrow. “Put your sword back in its place,” he commanded. “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”
I was stunned, utterly bewildered. Jesus had predicted I would deny him, and I had vehemently denied it. When they came to arrest him, I had sprung to his defense, exactly as I’d promised. And now, he was telling me to stop? To sheathe my sword?
What was he doing? What was he thinking? I was trying to protect him, to fulfill my pledge of loyalty, and he was rebuking me for it?
But I had learned, however imperfectly, to obey Jesus, even when I didn’t understand. Grudgingly, I lowered my sword, shoved it back into its sheath, and stepped back, confusion swirling in my mind. Maybe he had a plan. Maybe he was going to call down legions of angels, or fire from heaven, and incinerate the soldiers. Maybe he wanted me out of the way so I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. Perhaps this was all part of some grand, divine strategy.
But instead of divine intervention, something even more astonishing happened. Jesus reached out, took Malchus’ severed ear, and miraculously, healed it, reattaching it as if nothing had happened!
There he was, healing his enemies, showing compassion to those who had come to arrest him. I remembered his teachings about loving our enemies, about doing good to those who persecute us. But wasn’t this going too far? Didn’t Jesus realize they wanted to kill him, not just arrest him?
And if Jesus was killed… the thought sent a chill through me. If Jesus was killed, all our hopes, all our dreams, everything we had believed in, would be shattered.
But Jesus wasn’t dead yet. The soldiers, recovering from their shock, seized Jesus, bound his hands roughly, and began to lead him away. And just as Jesus had predicted, all the other disciples scattered. They fled, melting into the darkness.
The cowards, I thought, with a surge of self-righteousness. But not me. I had promised Jesus I would not desert him, I would not deny him. I would not betray him. And I was going to keep my promise, even if I was the only one.
So, I followed Jesus, keeping a safe distance, trying to remain unseen in the shadows. After a while, John – probably seeing my courage, or perhaps just driven by his own loyalty – caught up with me, and together, we followed Jesus as they led him to the courtyard of the High Priest. It turned out to be fortunate that John was with me, because he knew some people in the High Priest’s household, and he managed to get us both into the courtyard. They didn’t recognize me, and I would never have been able to get in on my own.
The First Denial of Christ
As we waited for John to speak to the gatekeeper and get permission for me to enter, I stood just outside the entrance, trying to blend into the shadows. It was still dark, the courtyard lit only by flickering firelight. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I also didn’t want to look like I was hiding, or I would definitely be refused entry.
But apparently, I wasn’t as inconspicuous as I thought. The servant girl who was guarding the gate, she fixed her gaze on me, scrutinizing my face. Before John could return, she spoke, her voice sharp and accusing, “You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?”
My mind went blank. I desperately needed to get into the courtyard. I had to be near Jesus, to see what was happening, to be ready to… to do what? I didn’t even know anymore. But I felt compelled to be close to him. If I wasn’t inside, I couldn’t… well, I couldn’t protect him, I reasoned, even though just moments ago he had rebuked me for trying to do just that.
If they knew I was one of his followers, they would never let me in! The thought flashed through my mind, panic rising. So, instinctively, without thinking, without even pausing to consider the implications, I said the first thing that came to my lips, the only thing I could think of that would get me through the gate. I said, “I am not” (John 18:17).
The words were out before I could retract them. And even as I said them, a cold dread began to seep into my heart. Had I just… denied him? But there was no time to dwell on it. Just then, John returned, and the servant girl, apparently satisfied with my denial, or perhaps simply distracted, allowed us to enter the courtyard. I slipped inside, relief and a growing unease battling within me. I saw a group of soldiers gathered around a fire, their faces grim. Jesus was indeed being questioned by the High Priest – for the moment, at least, he seemed relatively safe.
The Second Denial of Christ
I made my way over to the fire, joining the group of soldiers to try and keep warm. You might think it foolish to stand so close to those who had arrested Jesus, but I had a plan, of sorts. I thought that if I mingled with the soldiers, I might overhear something, find out what they were planning to do with Jesus. Information was power, or so I hoped.
So, I stood there, trying to appear nonchalant, warming my hands by the fire. And then, it happened again. One of the soldiers, perhaps someone who had been in the Garden earlier and had gotten a good look at me when I’d attacked Malchus, turned to me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He scrutinized my face, and then, echoing the servant girl’s question, he said, “You are not also one of his disciples, are you?”
Again, fear constricted my throat. Again, the same desperate calculation flashed through my mind. If I admitted to being a follower of Jesus, I would be arrested, or worse. I wouldn’t be able to help him, to protect him, to… to do anything. And so, once more, the lie slipped out, smooth and practiced now. “No, I am not,” I repeated (John 18:25).
Shame burned in my chest with the heat of the fire, but I pushed it down, telling myself it was necessary, that I was doing this for Jesus, to stay close to him. Each denial felt like a fresh betrayal, chipping away at my soul.
The Third Denial of Christ
Time passed, marked by the crackling fire and the murmur of voices. Standing for so long was tiring, and I was starting to feel exposed, too visible. Anyone looking at me could see my face, recognize me. So, I decided to sit down by the fire, hoping to become less conspicuous. From a seated position, I could still keep warm, still stay near Jesus, and perhaps better conceal my face in the shadows.
But no sooner had I settled down than another challenge arose. One of the servant girls from the High Priest’s household, not the gatekeeper this time, but another one, came out and saw me sitting there. She pointed directly at me, her voice ringing with certainty. “This man also was with him. He was with Jesus of Galilee.”
When she said “Galilean,” I saw a soldier’s hand move towards the hilt of his sword. Danger flared again, sharp and immediate. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I had to maintain my cover, to distance myself from Jesus, or everything would be lost. So, before I could even think, before my conscience could protest, the denial burst from my lips, more forceful, more vehement this time. “Woman, I do not know him! I don’t even know what you are talking about!” (Matt 26:69-70; Mark 14:66-68; Luke 22:56-57). My voice was sharp, edged with irritation, hoping to sound convincing, to shut down any further questioning.
I was angry now, at the servant girl for persisting, at the soldiers for their suspicion, and most of all, at myself for my weakness, for my repeated failures. They could all sense my rising anger, the defensive posture I was adopting. I abruptly stood up, making a show of huffing away from the fire, heading towards the doorway of the courtyard. I wanted to appear as if I was leaving, to give the impression I was offended and done with the whole situation. But I wasn’t really going to leave. I just wanted to retreat to the relative obscurity of the doorway, to become less of a target, to avoid any more awkward, accusing questions.
The Rooster Crows the First Time
But as I turned to go, as I moved towards the arched entrance, a sound pierced the night, a sound that even now, decades later, still makes me shudder. It was the unmistakable sound of a rooster crowing (Mark 14:68).
Alt text: Peter recoiling in realization after the first rooster crow, his face etched with dawning horror as Jesus’s prediction comes to pass, artistic representation of the biblical moment.
My blood ran cold. My heart plummeted. Jesus’ words echoed in my mind with devastating clarity. “Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.”
And it had happened. Just as he said. I had denied him. Three times already, and the night was still young. The rooster’s crow was a stark, undeniable confirmation of my failure, of my utter lack of faithfulness.
“But you don’t understand!” I wanted to scream to the heavens, to anyone who would listen. “I had to say I didn’t know Jesus! I had to maintain my disguise to stay close to him! I had to deny him so that I could protect him!”
But the words remained trapped in my throat. I couldn’t yell, couldn’t explain. The soldiers were still within earshot. Any outburst would only draw more attention, potentially exposing me completely.
So, I crouched down in the doorway, shrinking into myself, trying to become invisible, to disappear into the shadows, hoping to escape the weight of my own shame and the piercing sound of that rooster’s crow, which seemed to reverberate endlessly in my ears.
The Fourth Denial of Christ
But even the supposed anonymity of the doorway offered no refuge. As I huddled there, trying to compose myself, a man and a woman walked past together, heading towards the fire. The woman glanced at me, then nudged the man, and in a voice loud enough for me to hear, she declared, “This man also was with Jesus of Nazareth” (Matt 26:71-72; Luke 22:58).
The man stopped, looked at me, his gaze direct and challenging. “Surely you are one of them!” he accused.
By this point, the denials had become almost automatic, a reflex. I had already crossed the line, betrayed my Lord three times. The rooster had already crowed, marking my profound failure. What difference would one more denial make? The dam was broken. The floodgates of shame and self-preservation had opened.
So, the words came easily now, too easily. I repeated the lie, and this time, I even added an oath for emphasis, a vulgarity I’m ashamed to recall, even now.
I spat out, “Man, I am not! I do not know the man!”
My tone was sharp, aggressive, intended to intimidate, to shut down any further questioning. It worked. The man and woman, perhaps sensing my anger, or simply not wanting to get involved in a confrontation, shrugged and backed off. “Okay, okay!” they said, their voices placating. “We’ll leave you alone.” And they moved away, leaving me alone with my growing burden of guilt.
The Fifth Denial of Christ
But just as a brief respite seemed possible, as I dared to hope I might finally be left in peace, that pesky servant girl, the one who had first challenged me at the gate, appeared again. She seemed determined to expose me, to unmask my deception. She saw me still lurking in the doorway, and again, she pointed me out, this time addressing her accusation to those standing nearby.
She declared, her voice carrying across the courtyard, “This fellow was with Jesus of Nazareth” (Mark 14:69-70).
I groaned inwardly. “Come on, girl,” I thought, exasperated and increasingly desperate. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? Or the second? Or the third?” But of course, repeating my previous denials was now the only path available to me. I had already claimed ignorance of Jesus multiple times. Changing my story now would only make me look even more suspicious. So, I simply reiterated the lie, mechanically, devoid of conviction, just going through the motions of self-preservation. I denied again that I knew Jesus.
The Sixth Denial of Christ
Time dragged on, each moment an eternity of self-loathing and fear. For almost an hour, no one else approached me, no one else challenged my presence in the courtyard. A fragile hope began to flicker within me that maybe, just maybe, I had weathered the storm. Perhaps I would escape detection, slip away unnoticed once the ordeal was over.
But just when I allowed myself a sliver of optimism, when I thought I was finally in the clear, who should appear but… one of the relatives of Malchus! The man whose ear I had sliced off in the Garden. Apparently, this man was also a servant of the High Priest, and he too had been present in the Garden of Gethsemane, a witness to my impulsive act of violence.
He strode into the courtyard, his eyes scanning the faces, and then, he saw me. Recognition flared in his gaze. He pointed directly at me, his voice booming across the courtyard. “Didn’t I see you with him in the garden?” he shouted. “Aren’t you one of his followers? This man is definitely one of them; for he is a Galilean.”
Panic surged, cold and suffocating. This was different. This man wasn’t just suspicious; he was a witness. He had seen me with Jesus in the Garden. He was related to Malchus, the man I had attacked. He had a legitimate reason to accuse me, and his testimony carried weight. I stammered, trying to concoct some feeble excuse, some way to explain away his accusation, to claim he was mistaken. But my desperate attempts to deny his claim only made things worse.
He pounced on my hesitation, on my stammering denials. “Certainly you are one of them,” he pressed, his voice rising with triumph. “For your accent betrays you. You even talk like a Galilean!” (Matt 26:73; Luke 22:59; John 18:26).
My heart sank. He was right. My Galilean accent, so familiar, so natural to me, was now my undoing. My speech, the very thing that identified me, was betraying me, linking me to Jesus, exposing my deception. I was trapped. Cornered. Desperate.
In a final, desperate act of self-preservation, I decided to unleash the full force of my denial, to offer irrefutable “proof” of my separation from Jesus. He said my speech betrayed me? I would show him what kind of mouth I truly had. I was a fisherman, born and bred on the shores of Galilee. Fishermen knew how to curse, how to swear with a fluency and inventiveness that would make sailors blush. I knew every profane word, every vulgar phrase, every blasphemous oath imaginable. And in that moment of utter desperation, I let them fly.
I erupted in a torrent of curses, oaths, and vile language, vehemently swearing that I didn’t know what he was talking about, that I had never heard of Jesus, that I was not one of his followers. The language I used was so crude, so filthy, so utterly removed from anything associated with Jesus, that I hoped, desperately, it would finally convince them, finally silence my accusers, finally sever any connection between me and the man they had arrested.
And just as I was reaching the crescendo of my profane tirade, just as the most offensive words were rolling off my tongue in true fisherman fashion, I heard another sound, a sound that ripped through my carefully constructed wall of denial, a sound that stopped me dead in my tracks, silencing the curses mid-utterance.
The Rooster Crows Twice
The vile words died on my lips, choked off by the sudden, piercing sound. For just as I was in the act of denying Christ for the sixth time, I heard the rooster crow again. Not just once, but twice (Matt 26:75; Mark 14:72; Luke 22:60-61).
And in that instant, the full weight of Jesus’ prophecy crashed down upon me, crushing me beneath its immensity. I remembered, with agonizing clarity, exactly what he had said, not just once, but twice: “Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times” and “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.”
Jesus had been right. Precisely right. In every detail.
That’s why I said earlier that most people only know half the story. Most people think I only denied Christ three times. But the truth, the agonizing, undeniable truth, is that I actually denied him six times. Three times before the first rooster crow, and another three times before the second. A litany of failures, each one a fresh stab wound to my soul.
I think it’s an act of divine grace, of merciful omission, that the Gospel accounts often seem to condense the denials, making it appear as though there were only three. Perhaps God, in his compassion, chose to soften the record of my abject failure. But when you carefully examine all four Gospel accounts side by side, the timeline becomes starkly clear: there were six distinct denials.
When I heard that second rooster crow, the sound echoing through the courtyard and into the deepest recesses of my being, I felt utterly broken. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I could bear it no longer. I turned and fled from the courtyard, stumbling blindly into the pre-dawn darkness, and wept bitterly. My world had turned black. Hope seemed extinguished.
Jesus Dies on the Cross
The next few days were a blur of grief and despair. I retreated into myself, isolating myself from the other disciples. I learned, through hushed whispers and fragmented reports, that they had crucified Jesus on a Roman cross at Golgotha. I couldn’t bring myself to go and see him. I heard that John went, and Mary, Jesus’ mother. But I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t bear to witness the culmination of my betrayal, the agonizing consequence of my faithlessness.
I wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eyes, even in death. I had denied him, abandoned him in his hour of greatest need. All my boasts, all my strong words, all my promises of loyalty – all reduced to ashes. I had denied him, not once, but six times. And now, he hung on a cross, suffering, dying, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to help. My guilt was a crushing weight, suffocating me.
I heard that Judas, consumed by his own remorse, had taken his own life. I understood his despair. The thought of following him into the oblivion of suicide flickered through my own mind, a dark temptation in the depths of my anguish.
That Friday, the day of the crucifixion, was unequivocally the worst day of my life. A day of utter darkness, of irreparable loss, of soul-crushing guilt.
But I also told you, at the beginning, that it was strangely, inexplicably, also the best day. Let me explain how that could possibly be.
You see, in his infinite wisdom and boundless grace, God has a way of taking our biggest, most catastrophic mistakes, our most profound failures, and turning them around for good. It’s a truth that has sustained me through all the years since, a truth that lies at the very heart of the Gospel.
Sometimes, often even, God allows our dreams to crumble, our proud boasts to be exposed as empty air, our arrogant self-assurance to be shattered into pieces. He allows us to fall, sometimes spectacularly, to confront the stark reality of our own weakness and inadequacy.
And then, only then, after our illusions of self-sufficiency are completely demolished, after our pride and arrogance are crushed to dust, he begins his real work in us. He begins to reshape us, to mold us, to refine us, transforming us into the people he always intended us to be. It’s in our brokenness that his strength is made perfect.
And that is precisely what happened with me. On that horrific day, I denied Christ not just three times, but six. I plumbed the depths of human failure. But what I didn’t fully comprehend then, in the midst of my despair, was the immensity of Christ’s love, a love that extended even to me, even in my denial. I didn’t grasp that Christ, in going to that cross, went there to die for every sin I had ever committed, every sin I would ever commit. Every harsh word, every selfish thought, every act of disobedience, every moment of faithlessness.
Even my six denials, those shameful acts of betrayal, were covered by his sacrifice. He bore the penalty for them all. He absorbed the full weight of my sin, and the sins of the entire world, upon himself.
Jesus Rose from the Dead
And then, three days later, something miraculous, something utterly beyond comprehension, occurred. Jesus rose from the dead. When the first reports reached us, carried by trembling women with wide, disbelieving eyes, I couldn’t accept it. It seemed too incredible, too impossible to be true.
In all honesty, a part of me didn’t want to believe it. You see, if Jesus had remained dead, if his story had ended in the tomb, then perhaps… perhaps it would have meant that we had all been mistaken about him. That he wasn’t the Messiah, wasn’t the Son of God, wasn’t who he claimed to be. If Jesus had remained dead, it would have somehow lessened the magnitude of my denial. I would have just denied a mere man, a misguided prophet, a well-intentioned but ultimately failed leader.
But if Jesus rose from the dead… that changed everything. If he truly conquered death, if he emerged victorious from the grave, then it meant that everything Jesus had ever said, everything he had ever claimed, was undeniably true! And that also meant, with terrifying and awe-inspiring certainty, that Jesus was who he said he was. He was God, incarnate.
And that realization filled me with both terror and a strange, nascent hope. Terror, because it meant… that I had denied God. But also hope, because if he was truly God, perhaps, just perhaps, even my monumental betrayal could be encompassed by his divine mercy.
So, when those women, Mary Magdalene and Joanna and Mary the mother of James, returned from the tomb on that first Easter Sunday morning, breathless and ecstatic, telling us that the grave was empty, that his body was gone, I was caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Disbelief warred with a desperate yearning to believe. Fear mingled with a faint glimmer of hope.
They recounted their incredible story: they had gone to the tomb early that morning, intending to anoint Jesus’ body with spices. But they found the stone rolled away, the tomb empty. And then, they had seen a vision of angels, radiant and awe-inspiring, who told them that Jesus was alive, that he had risen, and that he was going to meet his disciples in Galilee.
The First Reaffirmation by Christ
One of the women – I honestly can’t remember which one now, the whole day is still a chaotic jumble in my memory – took me aside, her voice urgent and hushed. She told me that the angels had given her a specific message, not just for the disciples as a group, but for me, personally. Jesus, through his angelic messengers, had singled me out again, just as he had done so many times before, in moments of rebuke and in moments of profound teaching.
She said the angels had instructed her, “Go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’” (Mark 16:7).
“And Peter.” Those two words resonated within me like a thunderclap. Why was I being singled out again? What did it mean, “Tell the disciples and Peter”? Was I being told that I was no longer considered a disciple? Had my denials severed my connection to the group? Or was it, could it possibly be, that Jesus, in his resurrection, was reaching out to me personally, offering a path back from my devastating failure? Was he singling me out not for condemnation, but for… reconciliation? For forgiveness?
The thought was almost too much to bear. Hope, fragile and tentative, began to stir in the ruins of my broken spirit. I had to know. I had to see him.
The Second Reaffirmation by Christ
I left the other disciples, seeking solitude, desperate to process the bewildering news, to wrestle with the implications of a risen Jesus, and the even more perplexing message directed specifically to me. Jesus rose from the dead, and I had denied him. Should I be filled with dread, anticipating his wrath? Or could I dare to hope for… what? Mercy? Forgiveness? Reinstatement?
I wandered away, my mind racing, trying to imagine what I would say to Jesus if I did see him again. How could I possibly face him after what I had done? What words could I utter that wouldn’t sound hollow and insincere?
And then, in a moment that defied all expectation, in a private, intimate encounter that remains sacred to this day, there he was. Jesus himself appeared to me, alone. (Luke 24:34; 1 Cor 15:5).
The details of that encounter, the words we exchanged, the emotions that flooded through me – these are things I have never shared with anyone, and never will. It was a moment too profound, too personal, too transformative to be reduced to mere words. It was a time I will never forget, a sacred space carved out of eternity, just for me and my Savior. My time, alone, with the resurrected Lord.
It was a moment of profound tenderness, yet also of searching intensity. A stern moment, yes, but also overwhelmingly intimate. I stood before him, trembling, like a lamb before a lion, humbled and ashamed. Yet, simultaneously, I felt a profound sense of peace, of comfort, of being utterly safe, like a lamb cradled in the arms of its shepherd.
He appeared to me, and in his risen, glorified presence, all my fear, all my guilt, all my despair began to melt away. Though I knew the enormity of my sin, I also knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that he had risen for me, that he had died for me, that he loved even me, despite my denials, despite my betrayals, despite my utter unworthiness.
I knew, in that transformative encounter, that nothing I could ever do, nothing I had ever done, could ever separate me from his love. I had denied him, publicly and repeatedly, I had even spoken blasphemy in my desperate attempts to disassociate myself from him. And yet, he stood before me, risen, radiant, and full of grace, offering not condemnation, but forgiveness, not rejection, but reaffirmation. He still loved me. He still accepted me. It was, and remains, utterly amazing.
The Third Reaffirmation by Christ
About a week or so later, after the initial shock and overwhelming joy of the resurrection had begun to settle into a new, transformed reality, some of us disciples found ourselves at the Sea of Tiberias, the Sea of Galilee. I, restless and needing to clear my head, decided to go fishing. Fishing had always been my solace, my refuge. Out on the water, surrounded by the rhythm of the waves, the vastness of the sky, the familiar tasks of casting nets and hauling in catches, I found a sense of peace, a space for reflection. I found that I could think more clearly when I fished.
Some of the other disciples, James, John, Thomas, Nathanael, and the two sons of Zebedee, decided to join me. So, we went out in a boat, casting our nets into the dark waters of the Sea of Galilee. We fished all night, diligently, tirelessly. And we caught nothing. Not a single fish graced our nets. Frustration mounted, but strangely, the lack of fish didn’t diminish the quiet camaraderie, the sense of fellowship we shared. It was, in its own way, a wonderful night, a time of quiet companionship, of shared memories, of simply being together in the peace of God’s creation. That’s what we fishermen always say when we come back empty-handed, isn’t it? “It wasn’t about the fish; it was about the fellowship.”
But in this case, it was genuinely true. We had a good time together, talking, reminiscing, sharing our experiences of the past few weeks, and of the years we had spent following Jesus. We talked about the first time we had met him, on these very shores, when he had called us to leave our nets and become “fishers of men.”
John even cracked a joke about how it was probably a good thing Jesus had called us to be fishers of men, because we were clearly lousy fishers of fish. Here we were, professional fishermen, returning from a night’s work with empty nets. We remembered that day, years ago, when Jesus had first called us, we had been fishing just as unsuccessfully, toiling all night and catching nothing.
And then, Jesus had appeared on the shore, a figure in the pre-dawn light, and had instructed us to cast our nets on the other side of the boat. And against all logic, against all our years of fishing experience, we had obeyed.
Well, just as we were sharing these memories, just as the first hints of dawn began to paint the eastern sky, a figure appeared on the shore, a man standing by the water’s edge. He called out to us, his voice carrying across the still water, “Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
“No,” we yelled back, our voices tinged with weariness and a touch of self-deprecating humor. “We haven’t caught a thing.”
Then, the man on the shore, this stranger whose face we couldn’t yet clearly discern in the dim light, gave us an unexpected instruction. “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some,” he called out.
We exchanged glances, rolling our eyes at each other. “Who does this guy think he is?” someone muttered. “Jesus?” It sounded so absurdly familiar, so reminiscent of that day years ago when Jesus had first called us. A stranger on the shore, telling experienced fishermen how to fish. What did this landlubber know about catching fish? We were the experts here.
But then, a flicker of recognition sparked in my mind. That voice… that audacious, improbable instruction… it couldn’t be… could it?
And yet, remembering that first miraculous catch, remembering the sheer impossibility of it, and the even more improbable command that had preceded it, we decided, almost without conscious thought, to humor this stranger. Just for old times’ sake, perhaps. Rather than arguing, we simply did as he said. We threw our net out on the right side of the boat – and then, the impossible happened again.
The net filled, instantly, explosively, with a writhing mass of fish. So many fish that the net bulged, straining at the seams, becoming impossibly heavy. We couldn’t even haul it into the boat! The sheer weight of the catch threatened to capsize us. It was a miraculous, overwhelming abundance.
I stared at the overflowing net, my heart pounding in my chest. I looked back towards the shore, towards the figure standing there, now bathed in the soft glow of dawn. And in that moment, something clicked into place, a veil lifted from my eyes. I recognized him. It was him. It was Jesus. He had done it again. The same impossible miracle, the same improbable command, the same overwhelming result. It could be no one else. It was Jesus! (John 21:1-7).
Without a word, without hesitation, I plunged into the sea, abandoning the boat, the fish, everything. I swam with all my strength towards the shore, towards him. I had to be with him. Now. Immediately.
The Fourth-Sixth Reaffirmations by Christ
After we had hauled the miraculous catch ashore, and shared a simple breakfast of bread and fish that Jesus had miraculously prepared over a charcoal fire, Jesus turned his attention to me. He drew me aside, away from the other disciples, and fixed his gaze upon me, his eyes searching, probing, filled with a love that both humbled and overwhelmed me.
And then, he asked me a question. A deceptively simple question, yet one that cut to the very core of my being. “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
Now, to understand the full weight of this question, you need to understand the nuances of the Greek language, the language in which the Gospels were originally written. Jesus didn’t just ask, “Do you love me?” He used a specific word for love, a word that carried profound implications. He asked, “Simon son of John, do you agapao me?”
Agape love. Complete, unconditional, selfless, divine love. The highest form of love, the very love of God himself. The question startled me, confused me a little. I knew that I loved Jesus, in my own flawed, imperfect way. But agape love? That seemed… unattainable for someone like me, someone who had so spectacularly failed him. I knew that Jesus loved me with agape love, a love that had encompassed even my denials, even my betrayals. But could I, in my broken, human state, ever truly reciprocate that kind of love?
Before my denials, in my arrogance and self-confidence, I would have boasted, without hesitation, “Of course, Lord, I love you with all my heart! With agape love! You know I would die for you!” But now, everything had changed. I had been stripped bare, exposed in my weakness and fallibility. I had seen the depths of my own heart, the gap between my bold pronouncements and my actual performance. I knew, with painful clarity, that as long as I was in this flesh, I could never consistently, perfectly, love him with agape love.
So, I answered Jesus honestly, humbly, without any of my former bravado. “Yes, Lord,” I said, my voice quiet, stripped of all pretense. “You know that I love you.” But in my response, I consciously chose a different word for love, a word that felt more truthful, more aligned with the reality of my imperfect affections. Instead of agapao, I used the word phileo.
Phileo love. Brotherly love, affectionate love, friendship love. A warm, genuine love, but not the all-consuming, unconditional agape. Phileo love is the kind of love we have for our family, our close friends, our companions. It’s a real love, a valuable love, but it’s not perfect love. And I knew, in that moment of profound honesty, that phileo love was the best I could honestly offer.
So, I said, “Yes, Lord, you know that I phileo you.”
Jesus then asked me a second time, “Simon son of John, do you agapao me?” And again, I knew I couldn’t, in all honesty, claim to love him with agape love. The experience of my denials had shattered my illusions of spiritual strength. I had learned the hard way the limitations of my own heart. Before, I would have confidently asserted, “Oh yes, Jesus! You know that I will love you 100%, with all that I am!” But not now. Humility had replaced hubris. Brokenness had replaced bravado. I had been shown, in the most painful way imaginable, just how weak I really was. So again, I gave the same honest answer, the same qualified affirmation of my love. “Yes, Lord, you know that I phileo you.”
And then, a third time, Jesus asked me, but this time, he shifted his own language, meeting me where I was, accepting the reality of my imperfect love. Seeing that I understood my own heart, seeing that I had come to a place of humility and self-awareness, he asked, “Simon son of John, do you phileo me?”
And a third time, I answered, my voice filled with emotion, with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude, of shame and a dawning sense of redemption. “Lord, you know all things,” I said, my voice thick with tears. “You know that I phileo you.” There was nothing hidden from him, no pretense I could maintain. He knew my heart, in all its brokenness, in all its imperfection, in all its genuine, if flawed, love for him. And that, it seemed, was enough.
Peter and the Grace of God
You see, Jesus knew my heart. He knew, even before it happened, that I would deny him those six times. He knew the depths of my weakness, the frailty of my resolve. And yet, he also knew the flicker of genuine love that still burned within me, however dimly. And he loved me anyway. He loved me through it all, through my denials, through my betrayals, through my abject failure. And he offered me, not condemnation, but forgiveness, not rejection, but reaffirmation.
Six times I denied Jesus. And six times, in his resurrected grace, he reaffirmed his love for me, drawing me back into fellowship, restoring me to service, entrusting me with a renewed mission. First, by singling me out in the angelic message on resurrection morning, specifically mentioning my name. Second, by appearing to me personally, in that private, transformative encounter. Third, by orchestrating the miraculous catch of fish on the Sea of Tiberias, mirroring our first encounter and reminding me of his power and provision. And then fourth, fifth, and sixth, by asking me those three searching questions, probing the depths of my love, and then entrusting me with the sacred task of shepherding his sheep, feeding his lambs. Six reaffirmations to counter six denials. Grace upon grace. God’s boundless, overwhelming grace, covering over all my sin, all my shame, all my failure.
The profound lesson I learned, in the crucible of my denial and the transformative fire of Christ’s resurrection, is this: no matter how deeply we sin, no matter how often we stumble, no matter how spectacularly we fail, the love of Jesus Christ endures. His forgiveness is always available. His grace is always sufficient. His death on the cross paid the full penalty for all our sins – past, present, and future. His resurrection is the ultimate proof of the efficacy of that sacrifice, the resounding declaration of God’s acceptance.
And ever since that resurrection morning, ever since that transformative encounter with the risen Lord, I have never been the same. My life was irrevocably changed, not by my own strength or goodness, but by the overwhelming grace of God.
You can read a little bit about how I changed in the book of Acts, chapters 2 and 3. I was still Peter, still impulsive, still outspoken, still prone to putting my foot in my mouth. But now, my boldness was channeled, my energy redirected, my voice amplified with a new purpose. It was all for Jesus now. I was preaching for him, boldly, fearlessly, filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, turning the hearts of thousands of Jews back to God, back to the Messiah they had crucified, but who was now gloriously risen.
Before the resurrection, I wouldn’t even admit I knew Jesus, terrified of association, desperate to distance myself from him. But now, transformed by grace, empowered by the Spirit, I tell everyone I can, everywhere I go, about the saving power of Jesus Christ, the risen Lord, the forgiver of sins, the hope of the world.
And that, my friend, is the story you asked me to tell. The story of my denials, yes, but ultimately, the story of redemption, of restoration, of the boundless, transformative grace of God.
The Gospel and the Grace of God
But I imagine you asked me to tell you this story for a reason. Perhaps you see yourself in my failures. Perhaps you feel you have committed sins that are too great to be forgiven, betrayals too deep to be healed. Let me tell you, my friend, from the depths of my own experience, from the very heart of my own brokenness and restoration, such a sin is impossible. If Jesus Christ loved me, Peter, the denier, the betrayer, the oath-breaker, and forgave me, after I had denied him not just three times, but six, then there is no sin, no failure, no betrayal that is beyond the reach of his grace.
My friend Paul, the apostle, the one who once persecuted the church with such zeal, he called himself “the worst of sinners.” He had committed terrible acts, countless murders in his persecution of Christ’s followers. And yet, Jesus Christ loved him, called him to be an apostle, and forgave him completely.
And guess what else I have discovered, in the long years since my restoration? Every time I sin, every time I fall short, every time I succumb to temptation – and I still do sin, we all do, every day – every sin, in a sense, is another denial of Jesus Christ. I’ve probably racked up countless denials by now, in thought, word, and deed. Billions, perhaps, if we were to count them all.
But the death of Christ, that once-for-all sacrifice on the cross, covers all my sins – past, present, and future – no matter how numerous, no matter how grievous. That is the staggering, liberating truth of the Gospel.
But let me leave you with this crucial point, as I conclude my story. The death of Christ, his sacrifice on the cross, is of no saving value to you, personally, if you do not believe in Jesus for eternal life. The transformative relationship I have with Jesus Christ, the forgiveness and restoration I have experienced, is mine only because I believed in Jesus for eternal life, because I placed my trust in him alone for salvation.
It’s not because I became a good person. I’m not. I’m still flawed, still fallible, still prone to sin. It’s not because I started living a “pretty good life,” cleaning up my act, and trying to earn God’s favor. No, even now, after all these years of following Christ, I still stumble, I still sin, I still fall short of God’s perfect standard.
It’s not because I believe God is so loving that he’ll just “let me in” to heaven, regardless of my sin. Well, He is infinitely loving, but He is also perfectly just. And justice demands that sin be punished. A just God cannot simply overlook sin, cannot simply wave it away. And in myself, in my own righteousness, I am utterly unrighteous. My own good deeds are as filthy rags in the sight of a holy God.
There are many people who mistakenly believe that being a “good person,” living a moral life, doing good works, will somehow earn them a place in heaven. But those who believe this, however well-intentioned they may be, are, in essence, denying Jesus.
You see, Jesus himself declared, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6). He is the only way to God. There is no other path to salvation, no other means of reconciliation with the Father.
And he also said, with unwavering clarity, that “whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16). He promised, “Whoever believes in me is not condemned, but has crossed over from death to life.” (John 5:24). He affirmed, “Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me has eternal life.” (John 6:47).
And if Jesus said these things, if he offered eternal life as a free gift to all who believe in him, but you place your trust in yourself, in your own goodness, in your own good works, in any other path to salvation, then you are, in effect, denying Christ. You are rejecting his gracious offer, dismissing his atoning sacrifice, refusing to believe his word.
Jesus Christ has done everything that needs to be done for your salvation. He lived the perfect life you could never live. He died the atoning death you deserved to die, bearing the penalty for your sins. And his resurrection from the dead is God’s ultimate stamp of approval, the resounding declaration that his sacrifice was fully acceptable, fully sufficient to cleanse you from all unrighteousness.
But to receive this gift of eternal life, to experience this forgiveness, to be reconciled to God, Jesus says that you must simply believe in him, trust in him alone, for it. Have you done that? Have you placed your faith in Jesus Christ alone for your salvation? Have you entrusted your eternal destiny to him?
Don’t deny Christ any longer. Don’t reject his gracious offer of salvation. Believe in him today. Receive his forgiveness. Embrace his grace. And experience the transformative power of his love, a love that is stronger than death, a love that can cover even the multitude of your sins, a love that can make even the worst day of your life, strangely, miraculously, the best.
I must give credit to this book for helping me see the truth of the Six Denials of Peter: Life of Christ in Stereo: The Four Gospels Combined As One
Here is a list of the references used in this study, which you may use to perform your own study on the six denials of Jesus. Note that it is not certain that there were six denials, but if we believe in the inerrancy of Scripture, there had to have been more than three for it is nearly impossible to get all the references to fit into only three denials.
2 Predictions of The Denials of Peter
- Rooster 1 – John 13:38
- Rooster 2 – Mark 14:30
6 Denials of Christ by Peter
- At the entrance, to the servant girl, before Sanhedrin meet (John 18:17).
- Jesus bound to be taken, standing around the fire, to men (John 18:25).
- Sitting around the fire, to the high priest’s servant girl (Matt 26:69-70; Mark 14:66-68; Luke 22:56-57). (Peter goes out of the courtyard; Matt 26:71; Mark 14:68; rooster one – Mark 14:68)
- Another woman and another man simultaneously accuse him (Matt 26:71-72; Luke 22:58).
- The servant girl again (Mark 14:69-70).
- Another man (Luke 22:59) — who is probably the kinsman of the one who’s ear Peter had cut off (John 18:26) — accuses him, and says that Peter’s “speech betrays him” (Matt. 26:73) This is where Peter’s speech really does do the betraying, for he utters curses and even swears. Peter’s speech betrays Jesus.(rooster two – Matt 26:75; Mark 14:72; Luke 22:60-61)
This is apostasy by Peter. A public declaration of no relation to Christ. But this is also grace upon Peter. There were six denials, but have to really dig to find them. We all think it was only three.
6 Reaffirmations of Peter by Christ
- “And Peter” (Mark 16:7)
- Appeared to Simon (Luke 24:34; 1 Cor 15:5; 1 Pet 1:3ff)
- The appearance on the shore (John 21:1-21)
- Question 1 – Do you love (agape) me? (John 21:1-21)
- Question 2 – Do you love (agape) me? (John 21:1-21)
- Question 3 – Do you love (phileo) me? (John 21:1-21)
Application
- We have all denied Christ. We have all sinned (Rom 3:23).
- The Death of Christ paid the penalty for all our sin (1 John 2:2).
- The Resurrection proves that Christ’s sacrifice was acceptable (1 Cor 15).
- Unbelievers must just believe in Jesus for eternal life (John 3:16; 5:24; 6:47).
- Believers still sin – Grace covers even these (Rom 5:20).
- Confession and Repentance are for ongoing fellowship (1 John 1:9).
