Remsen Bible Fellowship, 06/22/2025
Text:
Mark 14:66-72, And as Peter was below in the courtyard, one of the servant girls of the high priest came, 67 and seeing Peter warming himself, she looked at him and said, “You also were with the Nazarene, Jesus.” 68 But he denied it, saying, “I neither know nor understand what you mean.” And he went out into the gateway and the rooster crowed. 69 And the servant girl saw him and began again to say to the bystanders, “This man is one of them.” 70 But again he denied it. And after a little while the bystanders again said to Peter, “Certainly you are one of them, for you are a Galilean.” 71 But he began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, “I do not know this man of whom you speak.” 72 And immediately the rooster crowed a second time. And Peter remembered how Jesus had said to him, “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” And he broke down and wept.
I remember that morning alongside the Sea of Galilee. My back was sore from hauling in nets full of fish throughout the night before. We were finishing up with a few more casts before the sun rose and the fish went into deeper waters. Our fishing partners had already pulled ashore and were mending their nets.
It was my brother who looked down the beach and saw him approaching. We had met this man a few months ago when we were down south listening to a wilderness preacher—the same preacher had pointed my brother to another man—a wandering teacher from a podunk town. And the preacher told my brother to follow this other man instead. After my brother met him, he came and found me, claiming he had met God’s Anointed One. That made me wonder about his sanity—but I went with him and met this supposed Anointed of the Lord. This guy was from Nazareth. Nazareth, of all places.
But then he spoke to me. And he didn’t simply speak, he spoke with the weight of authority. And he gave me a new name: “Peter.”
But we were back in Galilee now. Back to fishing. Back to real life. Back to my father and my wife. Back to life as Simon, son of John.
I wondered what Jesus was doing there along the shore. As he drew nearer, he called out to us—“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” There was that authority. How could we do anything but listen? How could we not follow?
That next Sabbath he came with us to the synagogue service in Capernaum. His teaching astounded everyone who heard—that authority. The weight of his words. We’d never heard anything like it. Then a demon-possessed man came bursting into the synagogue, saying crazy things—calling Jesus the “Holy One of God”. Jesus rebuked the spirit and healed the man.
That night, we returned to my home. My mother-in-law had been sick for some time, the fever left her bedridden. As we entered the house, we told Jesus about her situation. He came and took her by the hand—I thought maybe he would pray over her. Instead, he lifted her up. Then she got up—and made the evening meal! The word spread so quickly of this, and the incident at the synagogue, that everyone with any kind of illness—physical, mental, or spiritual—was gathering at the door and trying to burst in. They just wanted to see and hear—and experience—this Jesus.
It was a similar situation a few weeks later, after we had gone on a preaching tour. We were gathered back in my home and the crowds pressed in. But then part of my ceiling started to fall in. People were pressed in so tight to hear Jesus teach that I was stuck there, watching my ceiling fall on the heads of all these people—and then it opened up. A group of men on my roof dropped a paralyzed man down in front of Jesus. And then Jesus did what no one expected—he told the man his sins had been forgiven. The teachers of the law were scandalized. So Jesus proved he had the authority to do it—and healed the paralytic right then and there. That man picked up his bed, and the crowd parted so that he could carry it home.
Friends, that was just the start of the marvels. His teaching continued to amaze and even stun those within earshot—and those who heard it second hand. He claimed to be Lord, even over the Sabbath! After he had called the twelve—those of us whom he named Apostles, or sent ones—he told us that in spreading the word we were scattering seed. And though we had a responsibility to scatter that seed of the gospel message, the news of his kingdom, we really couldn’t control what kind of soil it landed in. But then he encouraged us by saying that true kingdom growth was often slow and hard to see—just like those seeds in the ground. But when it took root in the good soil, it would bear fruit. His words were so authoritative—so compellingly true—they continued to demand our attention.
And he continued to heal. And as amazing as the healings were—a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years healed in a touch, a little girl who had died being brought back to life—they weren’t the only miracles we saw. One night we were sailing across the Sea of Galilee, and he was asleep in the stern of the boat. The storm picked up, and then began to rage, and we all thought we were going to drown. And Jesus kept sleeping. We woke him up and asked if he even cared what was going to happen to us! But he didn’t panic. Instead he rebuked the sea—telling it to be at peace. And then he rebuked us, and asked why we wereafraid. What kind of man is this?
And his authority went beyond humanity. Remember that man in the synagogue? Well Jesus didn’t simply have power over one demon at a time. After he calmed the storm, we landed in the Gentile region of the Decapolis, and were greeted by a man who was possessed by a whole legion of demons. But that demonic horde could not overthrow the Lord Jesus. They begged him for mercy—and so he cast them out of the man, and permitted them to go into the herd of pigs. Jesus was cleansing the land of its impurity.
And the crowds continued to flock to him, even if it meant wandering in out of the way places. They would come in masses, and sit for days to listen to him speak. Twice he fed multitudes with nothing more than a small lunch. He fed the five thousand with five loaves and two fish, and we had 12 baskets of leftovers. Later on, he fed the four thousand with seven loaves, and we had seven baskets leftover. His compassion was as obvious as his authority.
But as we approached the end of that third year together, the winds of his ministry seemed to change. He took us away to the north, and started to ask questions. Questions like, “who do people say that I am?” We gave him, as best we could, an honest rundown of the rumors—maybe John the Baptist, maybe Elijah, maybe one of the other prophets. But when he asked for our assessment, I shouted what we all thought: “you are the Christ!” And he told us to keep this truth quiet for the time being.
It was then that he started to teach us plainly what was going to happen to him—that he would be betrayed into the hands of sinful men, that he would be crucified, and then after three days rise again. At least three times he made this expressly clear. I remember especially the first time it came up—I tried to rebuke him for saying it. I didn’t see how the Messiah could possibly be killed. I’ll never forget what he said to me: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are not setting your mind on the things of God, but on the things of man.” Those words still sting.
It was just six days later, still in that region to the north of Galilee, when he took John and James and I up on a high mountain. There we saw Jesus transfigured before our eyes, and I frankly have yet to find words to describe it. With him, at first, we saw Elijah and Moses—I don’t know how I knew it was Elijah and Moses, but friends, I knew—and I couldn’t help but start running my mouth, suggesting we build some tabernacles up there for them. But I was silenced when a cloud descended over us, and the voice of God thundered forth: “This is my beloved Son; listen to him.” If Jesus didn’t speak with authority enough, now God himself was telling us—telling me—to shut up and listen.
These last months of Jesus’ life were full of some of his strangest teaching. He said it was easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for the rich to enter heaven. He told us we had to be like little children if we wanted to enter his kingdom. He told us that the way to greatness in his kingdom is to be a servant of everyone.
And then came the week of his suffering. The tension hung in the air. He rode into town on a donkey, clearly calling attention to Zechariah’s prophecy of a coming king. But he wasn’t acting like the king we expected. When we had dinner in Bethany, Mary came in and poured her most treasured possession—her jar of spikenard—all over his head and feet. He said this had to do with his burial. There he went, talking about death again. I didn’t correct him this time—I didn’t really want to be called Satan again.
Finally, it was Thursday night. We gathered in the upper room to celebrate the Passover together. There at the table, Jesus continued to speak strangely. He told us the bread was not simply bread. It was his body—a body which was broken for us. What could that mean? And the cup of blessing—he called it his blood of the covenant, poured out for many. The wine was his blood? His blood was poured out? It was connected to God’s covenant? We were used to Jesus speaking cryptically, but this seemed over the top, even for him.
We were still confused when he said it was time to go for a walk. So we sang a hymn, and then headed to the Mount of Olives. On the way there, he delivered a blow which none of us saw coming—he told us: “You will all fall away.” He quoted the words from Zechariah’s scroll about the striking of the Shepherd and the scattering of the sheep. But I couldn’t stand to be so insulted, regardless of what Scripture he was going to quote. I told him even if everyone else fell away, there was no way that I would. Did he not remember all the times when he had offended the crowds, and we stayed? Did he not remember all the rumors we had heard about the Pharisees and Sadducees wanting him dead—and did he not see us still here with him? How could he accuse us of unfaithfulness? But when I protested, he looked at me specifically and told me that before the rooster crowed twice, I would denied him three times.
I couldn’t believe my ears. I protested again—I was willing to go with him to death! How could I ever deny my precious Lord?
Then we came to the garden. He asked for James and John and I to walk on with him. To be near him and to pray.
But it had been such a long week. We wanted to stay up and pray. But every time he withdrew, we fell asleep. I felt so bad. So small. He obviously was distraught about something, and I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.
The last time he woke us up, there was a sound in the garden. A crowd was coming. Torches, clubs, swords. And there at the front—what? could it really be?—there was Judas. And as he kissed Jesus on the cheek—oh that dog—men stepped forward to lay hands on Jesus. I grabbed my sword and swung at Malchus, but I’m no soldier: instead of killing him I cut off his ear. But Jesus stopped me, and healed the man’s ear—right then and there. And as he spoke, giving himself into their custody, we were all overcome by fear. I dropped my sword. And we fled. We ran away. We scattered. We fell away, just like he said. Why had I doubted the authority of those words?
But I wasn’t going to let that be the end of the story. Once I was out of the garden, and got some space, I gained a little clarity. I’ll follow them, I thought to myself. So I followed at a distance as they went to the houses of Annas, and then Caiaphas. Outside of the High Priest’s home, in the courtyard, there was a charcoal fire burning. I walked up to warm myself in the cool spring night.
Then a little servant girl came up to me: “You were with the Nazarene, Jesus.” “I don’t know what you mean.” Best to play dumb, I thought. I went over by the gate, hoping to avoid any more uncomfortable conversations. And a rooster crowed.
The little girl caught sight of me again, though, and started saying to the people around that I had been with Jesus. I denied it again. What could I say? How could I let them know I had spent three years traveling with a man now facing death?
A little while later a man said “I know that accent, you’re Galilean—you’re definitely one of his followers!”
I lost my cool, and started to curse and swear up and down that I did not know this Jesus. And when I finally shut my trap enough to hear again, there in the pale dark of dawn, the rooster crowed. And I remembered what Jesus had said: “before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” Why had I doubted the authority of these words?
Friends, what could I do? I had betrayed my Lord. I had failed Jesus as a follower. I had failed him as a friend. I had fallen away. And as I thought, I remembered his words when we first told us he would be arrested and killed:
Mark 8:34-38, And calling the crowd to him with his disciples, he said to them, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. 35 For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and the gospel’s will save it. 36 For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul? 37 For what can a man give in return for his soul? 38 For whoever is ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him will the Son of Man also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”
When I thought about it, I broke down and wept.
I had been ashamed of Jesus—would he be ashamed of me? That’s what I deserved.
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I’ve often thought about that night. My failure was greater than all the other disciples save one. Of course, you know the story of Judas as well as you know mine. I’ve often wondered, why did our stories end differently? Of course, in some sense we can never know. The Lord doesn’t tell us everything that happens in our own stories, let alone the stories of others. But when I consider how Judas’ life ended, and what happened that night, I am struck by one difference: We were both sorry for what we had done—but his sorrow drove him further away from Jesus, and mine led me back to him.
My friend Paul wrote about this in his second letter to the church at Corinth:
For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death. [2 Corinthians 7:10]
That was literally the difference between my story and Judas’. His sorrow led him to death—he would not humble himself before Jesus to ask for forgiveness and new life. But, by the grace of God, the Lord used my sorrow to bring me to repentance for my sinful failure. And when your sorrow over sin leads you to Jesus, then that sorrow is God’s tool to bring life to your soul. Godly sorrow leads to salvation without regret.
Friends, your life is different from mine. But as my friend Juna likes to say, “I know something that is true”: you also have occasion for sorrow over sin. To be sad because you have failed Jesus, and dishonored him.
Maybe that is an unclear feeling to you. You feel bad and don’t know why. If you have not yet recognized Jesus as the Lord, then it starts there. Recognize his authority—and then repent of your whole life of disobedience. Repent of your sins, and be baptized! Submit to his authority, and be saved! Publicly identify with him in confession of faith and baptism in water!
And if you are already his follower, then hear this: he knows there will be times when you will cower in fear rather than boldly declaring your allegiance to him. And you need to know in those moments that you are not the first, and you will not be the last. You ought to mourn over those failures. It is right to weep over such failures. You should even feel shame when you fail to honor Jesus as Lord. But do not stay in that place of shame, do not wallow in your failure, do not wallow in your sorrow. Let your grief turn into repentance. Turn around, and head back to Jesus. Humble yourself under his merciful and mighty hand, and ask for him to forgive you. And to increase your boldness and faithfulness. And praise him for the riches of his grace.
Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls. [1 Peter 1:8-9]
I flooded my bed with tears that day. I had failed Jesus. But friends—he’s never failed me. So when you fail, don’t run. Go back to him, seventy times seven. He’s already paid for your sin, and he will welcome you back with his nail-pierced hands.
