fishing for warmth

the day the rooster crowed, it was cold. and the servants and officials stood around a fire they had made to keep warm. an ordinary man, too, stood in their midst, warming himself. but the fleeting flames cast brief shadows upon his skin only, their transient warmth not penetrating beneath the surface, where the heart was gnawing in a wintry cold. it was colder than it had ever felt before, and huddled in a crowd of faceless people, this man knew the chill of owning a face, wielding an identity, but trying desperately to lose it.

it was not that his heart had turned cold, but it was true that a thin, white crust of fear had crept over it, a fear that ate into his bones and into his conscience. it was an uncertainty which kept his feet shuffling, a nervousness that made his teeth shiver and a dismalness which kept his head bowed in disgrace.

images fastforwarded their way through his mind- barrage of thoughts, accusations, memories, like bullets racing and tearing their way through mental paths. in this jungle of confusion there was one voice which held so still, which felt so real, and for all its reality and earnestness seared deeper than any shifting image. it was his own. which he now tried to estrange from his mind, but could not. the more he tried to stifle it down with pillows of denial, the more it struggled and kicked, kicked and pressed into his consciousness.

"Lord, why can't i follow you now?
i will lay down my life for you!"


Lord, i can't follow you now. no, i will not no not betray you. greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends! you are my friend, you know that i love you. oh but, but. i am so afraid.

"didn't i see you with him in the olive grove?" a voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, sharpened thrice over. it ran through him mercilessly, it silenced his thoughts, froze his memories, pierced his centre. why is it so cold outside here? you are behind this door, and for the first time since i met you it is a door i dare not go behind. the waters did not deter me, but this door- it is so heavy, it is a kind of death. why cant i love you enough to be unafraid?

i'm sorry.

and at that moment a rooster began to crow. when his heart couldn't take anymore it was a final arrow, a final breaking of a lacking thing so that wholeness could be arranged, pieced together, made new. beside the ashes of a dead fire, whose flames in a foreign crowd only chilled and could not warm, peter's tears fell to the ground and soaked up the dust.

---

i think we often turn to things for warmth when the cold is not merely an external thing, but an internal one. but inner chills are not warmed by gloves, mittens or scarves, nor by foreign fires. such cloaks are threadbare and insufficient. and what warmth does fire provide amidst false company and torrential wind? peter waited in the courtyard, trying hard not to be himself, trying hard to lose himself or lose his fear- he did not know which.
but what he sought in the fire lay elsewhere, in a place after the time of loss and grief, after the time of waiting and release, after the time of questioning and doubt, a place at the end which wraps up the beginning.

peter the fisherman learned, again, how to fish.

he cast down his failure, lack and brokenness and pulled up the rest of his life.

he recognised the voice which asks a question-
that same voice which asks that same cutting, searching question today,
and he said, "Lord, you know that i love you."
'

john 18:18
'it was cold, and the servants and officials
stood around a fire they had made to keep warm.
Peter also was standing with them,
warming himself.'

john 13:37
'Peter asked, "Lord, why can't i follow you now?
I will lay down my life for you."

john 21:5-6
'Friends, haven't you any fish?'
"No," they answered.
He said, "Throw your net on the right side of the boat
and you will find some."

john 21:17
'Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time,
"Do you love me?"
He said, "Lord, you know all things;
you know that i love you."