"When we deny the story, it defines us.  When we own the story, we can write a brave new ending."
-Brene Brown

Scripture for reflection

"Simon Peter and another disciple followed Jesus. That other disciple was known to the Chief Priest, and so he went in with Jesus to the Chief Priest’s courtyard. Peter had to stay outside. Then the other disciple went out, spoke to the doorkeeper, and got Peter in.

The young woman who was the doorkeeper said to Peter, “Aren’t you one of this man’s disciples?”

He said, “No, I’m not.”

The servants and police had made a fire because of the cold and were huddled there warming themselves. Peter stood with them, trying to get warm.

Annas interrogated Jesus regarding his disciples and his teaching. Jesus answered, “I’ve spoken openly in public. I’ve taught regularly in meeting places and the Temple, where the Jews all come together. Everything has been out in the open. I’ve said nothing in secret. So why are you treating me like a traitor? Question those who have been listening to me. They know well what I have said. My teachings have all been aboveboard.”

When he said this, one of the policemen standing there slapped Jesus across the face, saying, “How dare you speak to the Chief Priest like that!”

Jesus replied, “If I’ve said something wrong, prove it. But if I’ve spoken the plain truth, why this slapping around?”

Then Annas sent him, still tied up, to the Chief Priest Caiaphas.

Meanwhile, Simon Peter was back at the fire, still trying to get warm. The others there said to him, “Aren’t you one of his disciples?”

He denied it, “Not me.”

One of the Chief Priest’s servants, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, said, “Didn’t I see you in the garden with him?”

Again, Peter denied it. Just then a rooster crowed."
-John 18:15-27 (The Message)

"When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, 'Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.' Jesus said to him, 'Feed my lambs.'  A second time he said to him, 'Simon son of John, do you love me?' He said to him, 'Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.' Jesus said to him, 'Take care of my sheep.'  He said to him the third time, 'Simon son of John, do you love me?' Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, 'Do you love me?' And he said to him, 'Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.' Jesus said to him, 'Feed my sheep.'"
-John 21: 10-17

"If we go around bragging, “We have no sin,” then we are fooling ourselves and are strangers to the truth."
-1 John 1:8

Meditation: The Courtyard

There are events that divide our lives into befores and afters. 

These can be hopeful, the graduation, the engagement, the child, the acceptance letter, or harmful, the diagnosis, the affair, the divorce, the unimaginable loss.  These experiences crack us open to pain, to hope, and the present moment, like little else.

Peter is in one of these moments of wrestling and rumbling with some bad news.  Not one, not two, but three times, Jesus says he will deny him.  This number on ears formed by Jewish tradition would recognize the symbolism.  Three- a number of wholeness, completeness, shalom, being broken.   His response?  "Even if I die with you, I will never disown you."

As a therapist, I am curious about Peter's response here, how he held so tightly to a script that said, never, I could never do this.  We would do well to pay attention to our never/not statements.  Common denial sentiments we hear in our culture are:

I would never cheat on you.
I could never leave you.
I will never (insert addiction here) again.
I'm not racist.
I'm not like that.

Peter is desperately eager and quick to please.  His reactiveness is relatable, emblematic of our fear of being proved wrong, of being found out.  Psychotherapist Laura Anderson writes, "When we are in a space of extreme stress or activation, our brain automatically looks for cues to support our internal story...which means we literally do not see or hear evidence to the contrary."  

Peter had a classic stress response, one that wants to self-protect and self-preserve, but one that cuts us off from the free flow of grace, curiosity, mystery, possibility.  Our work, like his, is to move from the reactive to the receptive, from the defensive to the open. 

Peter, so certain that he was incapable of denying Christ, did the thing that he did not want to do, as Paul said, and betrayed him. We are like him.  When we deny people's stories and experiences because it doesn't fit our narrative, we deny ourselves, and risk dismissing the Spirit of God at work in them.

Emotionally healthy people know these tendencies, the fickleness of the human condition.  They are never too attached to the idea that they are right about everything.  The heart strays, which is to say: "I am capable of this, but I choose to refrain."

The people who are most successful in recovery are those who know they are capable of relapse.  Relapse is a part of the journey after all, always an option, not an impossibility.  But possibility and probability are not synonymous.  I've heard folks who live sober say there isn't a day that goes by they don't think about it.  And I think that's the bravest, most honest way of living.  We deny ourselves if we aren't attuned to our own misgivings, our own humanity.

The realization that I am capable, that I am culpable, fallible as I am, allows me to withhold my righteous finger-pointing (however, this should never be used to eschew taking ownership or gaslight the injured party). People who know their own wanderlust, can stay open when presented with information they would otherwise push back on.  People who are trying to protect their image, masquerading to save face, jump to the defensive, like Peter in this passage.

Betrayal exists in many forms, but perhaps one of the most life-altering is infidelity.  If you had told me I would be walking alongside folks in my family and friendships alike after they crossed this line, I may not have believed you.  That could never happen in my circles.

And it does.  Some stay, and some split, but always there is re-building.

When staying together is not an option, when the pain runs too deep, the fissure is too big, one person who may be unwilling, you may bleed out, but miraculously, retain yourself.  The work becomes being gentle with your own soul, patient with the slow and swerving, messy process of healing, forgiving yourself what you couldn't save, learning to love yourself again.  This is just as worthy.  

Esther Perel, a leading expert and psychotherapist in infidelity, says that if a couple re-builds together, then the adulterer must hold vigil for the relationship, become the keeper of the boundaries, bringing up the affair so the wounded party does not have to.  In the months after my friend's marriage crumbled in her hands, I sat across from her, and in the aftermath, she said, "This marriage is over. But we're going to try building a second one together." 

Rupture, traumatic as it is, when accompanied by repair, leads to deeper trust, stronger connection, truer intimacy.  There is a deepening that follows disaster, like a bone setting after breaking, painful though promising.  The crux is to create a space safe enough where this healing can happen.  As Henri Nouwen beautifully articulates, “Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy.  Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place."

Jesus creates such a space.  He makes breakfast, and welcomes Peter back in.  By asking him three times if he loves him, he had Peter hold vigil of the relationship, protect the boundaries, suture the fracture, the onus on him.  The first friendship was over.  The second just beginning.  And in the spirit of shalom- three times, the relationship made new.

On this rock, we build too.

Call to action

Over the holidays, Global Immersion Project sent out 12 days of Christmas: peacemaking edition, to better identify interrupted relationships, recognize conflict, and pursue peace.  After a year of living through a global pandemic, glaring racial injustices, a divisive election season, these exercises grounded me in reflection of taking ownership of conflicts in my family and community, and moving toward rather than away.  Can you think of a relationship, whether in your family, friendships, or workplace that has experienced tension and strain?  What tools might you use toward repairing?  Convincing is alluring but is rarely effective, instead I'm learning to be okay with: I could be wrong about this.  We can have different ideas about this.  And of course setting limits to protect anyone being de-humanized, including yourself.

Maybe this is a good time to take inventory of your relational landscapes and make sure the boundaries you have in place are holding, are working.  Maybe we need to grieve losses of growing apart from those we really care about.  Maybe we ask questions and get curious.  Maybe we name the tension, maybe we listen, we stay with when it gets hard.  Whatever it is, I pray you gather the strength to move toward the rupture, knowing that restoration transforms us and makes the connection stronger.  May you know in your bones that contending for a relationship is not about winning, or proving rightness, but healing harms, one gutsy stitch at a time.

Prayer of penitence

From the impulse to resist belovedness, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to cling to defensiveness, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to white-knuckle certainty, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to dishonor boundaries, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to push my rightness, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to be silent when I should speak, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to speak when I should listen, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to lie and deny myself, have mercy, O God.
From the impulse to warm myself by the fire of your Love, and deny you.
In your mercy, new each morning, restore us, O God, we pray,
Amen.