Read: Luke 22:54-62
Then they seized him [Jesus] and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house, and Peter was following at a distance. And when they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat down among them.
Then a servant girl, seeing him as he sat in the light and looking closely at him, said, “This man also was with him.”
But he denied it, saying, “Woman, I do not know him.”
And a little later someone else saw him and said, “You also are one of them.” But Peter said, “Man, I am not.”
And after an interval of about an hour still another insisted, saying, “Certainly this man also was with him, for he too is a Galilean.” But Peter said, “Man, I do not know what you are talking about.”
And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowed. And the Lord turned and looked at Peter. And Peter remembered the saying of the Lord, how he had said to him, “Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.” And he went out and wept bitterly.
Peter was completely confident Jesus was the Messiah. The Christ. The Son of the Living God. No doubt. No hesitation. When Jesus had asked them months before who they thought He was, Peter had answered with unshakable conviction, and Jesus had blessed him for it, calling him a rock.
But tonight had been anything but solid. It had been long, confusing. It had started like any other Passover—celebration, wine, laughter. Their third Passover with Jesus. The closing hymn had wobbled a bit, as it always did after four cups of wine, and more than a few smiles were exchanged.
Then Jesus started saying strange things again—something about betrayal and them all falling away. But Peter had learned to take Jesus’s riddles in stride. He would never fall away. He couldn’t.
The walk to the garden was peaceful, the night warm. The scent of olive trees filled the air. Peter’s hand rested on the sword he carried—his sword—heavy against his side. He was ready. He had promised Jesus he would die for Him. No one was going to take his Rabbi.
And then the commotion.
Torches. Shadows moving fast. Metal glinting in the moonlight.
Temple guards. Not robbers, not troublemakers—officials. And Judas… Judas? Kissing Jesus like he was greeting an old friend.
Peter’s pulse roared in his ears. Rage overtook him. He lashed out, steel flashing, his blade striking flesh. A cry of pain. He had done it! He had fought! But before he could strike again, Jesus stopped him. Stopped him! And then Jesus healed the man Peter had just wounded.
And then they took Him. Tied Him up like a common criminal. Dragged Him away without a fight.
Peter ran. He ran because there were too many of them, and because—maybe, just maybe—if they chased him, Jesus could escape in the chaos. But they weren’t chasing him. They had the one they wanted.
Panting, Peter ducked behind a pile of firewood, watching them haul Jesus toward the high priest’s house. The courtyard gate stood open. Servants and soldiers moved in and out. He could slip inside. He had to know what was happening.
So he followed.
Inside, a fire crackled. Peter rubbed his hands together over the coals, feigning nonchalance. He had perfected the art of blending in—he was just another weary traveler, another face in the crowd. He listened as they talked about Jesus like He was some common criminal.
Then—a voice. A servant girl. Looking right at him.
“This man was with Him.”
The blood drained from Peter’s face. Her. She had been in the garden. She had seen him.
“No,” Peter snapped, his voice sharp and low. “I don’t know Him.”
She narrowed her eyes, but she backed away.
Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe and to think. It wasn’t really a lie was it? She had barely seen him. And what did knowing Jesus even mean? It wasn’t like he was one of the criminals standing trial.
The fire burned warm against his hands, but a cold sweat ran down his spine.
A guard sat beside him, stretching his arms with a groan. “What a mess,” the man muttered. “We should’ve grabbed all of His followers.” He turned his head lazily. His eyes landed on Peter. “Wait a minute…”
Peter kept his face blank. Calm. Controlled.
“You’re one of them,” the man said.
Peter barely blinked. “Man, I am not.”
Silence. A long pause.
Then the guard shrugged. Why would one of Jesus’s followers be stupid enough to come here?
The fire snapped, sending up sparks. Peter exhaled slowly.
The conversations around him blurred into noise. Accusations, laughter. The crowd mocked Jesus, twisting His words, sneering at the man they had bound. A Sadducee’s son scoffed about Jesus talking nonsense—something about marriage not existing in the afterlife.
Peter clenched his fists. They were wrong. They were all wrong. He had seen Jesus’s power. Peter had walked on water even if it was only for a moment.
Jesus would get out of this. He had to.
The sky had begun to lighten when the talk turned to fishing. Someone boasted about catching fish with a single hook, and Peter, without thinking, snorted. “Nets are the only way to make a living.”
A man’s head snapped toward him.
“That accent,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Galilean. You were with Him.” He turned to the others. “Why else would he be here?”
Peter’s stomach clenched. His mouth went dry. His heart pounded so hard he thought they might hear it.
They knew. They all knew.
A rush of fear began burning and searing through him. His face flushed, hot and red. Words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
And then—just to make sure they believed him—he swore. He cursed.
“I’ll be damned (I’ll have no part in the Kingdom of God) if I know who you’re talking about!”
The words hung in the air, jagged and raw. The crowd fell silent.
And then from inside…a movement.
Jesus turned. His bruised, bloodied face lifted. And in the flickering firelight, His eyes met Peter’s.
A rooster crowed.
The sound split the silence, sharp as a sword.
Peter’s breath caught. His chest tightened. The words Jesus had spoken just hours before crashed down on him like a tidal wave.
“Before the rooster crows today, you will deny Me three times.”
Peter stumbled backward. The fire blurred. The faces swam. His own voice echoed in his head, “I don’t know Him. I don’t know Him.”
He did. He did know Him.
His hand flew to his face as his vision clouded with tears. He turned and shoved through the crowd, staggering toward the gate and choking on his shame.
He had been so sure. So certain. He had fought for Jesus, sworn he would die for Him. But when it mattered most—when Jesus was alone, beaten, bound—he had chosen safety.
All his confidence and all his boldness had led him to this moment of absolute failure.
He had spent the night among the haters of Jesus. And in the end, a bit of their poisonous hatred had become his own.
Peter had entered that evening confident, strong in the love of Christ and trusting His Man to bring about His kingdom. He was secure in the fact Jesus was going to win. And Peter knew the truth; he could explain it. He had seen the miracles; he himself knew what it felt like to walk on water. He knew he could endure anything.
But it had all fallen apart when pushed by just one unimportant servant girl and one comment about his country-boy accent. If it could happen to him—bold, strong, confident Peter — then it could happen to anyone.
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Drama assembled from online sources, and inspired by quotes taken from the work of Melchior Neukirch (1540-1597), a playwright of the German Reformation.
