This holy week I will be sharing my retelling of Peter’s story, “The Death and Resurrection of Simon Bar-Jonah,” in five sections. Today is the first, and we will begin with the last supper.
It all began with pride. It was Passover, the night of the last supper, and we were all full of the excitement of everything that had happened that week. Jesus had turned the tables in the Temple and was outshining the religious leaders right and left. He was unstoppable! Things were coming to a head at last. Any day now, Jesus was going to rise up and claim his kingdom. We were so sure we could almost taste it.
We talked as the women brought out the food. Comforting smells of wine, roast lamb, fresh unleavened bread, olives, honey, vinegar dipping sauces, and Mary’s special Passover greens mingled in the air and carried us away. Thomas said, “Can you imagine what the feast will be like on that day?” His words sent us drifting into revelry, carrying us to a great hall on a day soon to come. The king’s table was before us, set with a coronation feast. We could smell it. Jesus was dressed in purple robes. A scepter was in his hand, and a crown was on his head. He welcomed us to the table. But where were we to sit? James and John were sure they would be on either side of him. Andrew and I would have none of that. Soon we were arguing about which place each of us would get when Jesus came into power. Who would be the greatest?
Then, all at once, everyone at the foot of the table froze. A hush swept over the room. In a moment, it was as quiet as night on a windless sea. Then I saw it. Jesus had taken off his robe and was kneeling at Philip’s feet with a washbasin and a towel. There was the sound of swishing water. Philip sat with his mouth hanging open in silent protest. All eyes were fixed on Jesus. Slowly, quietly, purposefully, Jesus washed Philip’s feet and then moved on to Judas.
When he came to me, I pulled away. “Master!” I said. “How can you wash my feet?” He smiled as he settled into position, and then looked me full in the face.
“I know you don’t understand this now, but you will later,” he said.
I pulled my knees up to my chest. “Master, you will never wash my feet!”
“Simon, if you don’t let me wash you, then you can have no part in me.”
I wavered. He held my gaze with the same gentle firmness that had drawn me to him in the beginning. He was right; I didn’t understand. But if Jesus said it, that was good enough for me. If being washed by Jesus meant I could have a part in him, whatever that meant, then I was all in.
“In that case, wash my hands and head, too!” I said. He laughed and said my feet would be enough. I laughed with him. It was one of my favorite things, laughing with Jesus. It made me feel at one with him in heart. It was almost enough to dispel my discomfort with the moment as he took my feet in his hands and with his fingers rubbed the dirt from every curve of my sole. If only I could have realized just how precious it was.
As we proceeded to the meal, telling the story of God’s victory over Egypt in delivering His people, the meaning of Passover felt richer than ever. Jesus seemed to think so, too. He spoke slowly, lingering over each element, each word, each moment. But he was much more solemn than I expected, as though the meaning he saw was different than mine. He spoke of a coming betrayal, and made much of the bread and the wine, but his statements were cryptic, and the mind clings to that which is familiar. To me the message of that Passover was already clear: Jesus would be to the Romans as Moses was to Egypt. And I would be his Aaron.
After supper, Jesus led us out from the upper room. The spring air was crisp and cold. Our steps were heavy with the sleepiness of a good meal. Jesus was still speaking, and his voice sounded urgent in a way that it almost never did. He had much to say, and we found ourselves struggling even more than usual to understand.
One point bothered me particularly: Jesus said we were all going to fall away on account of him. His words cut deep. We had given up everything to follow Jesus. How could he think so little of our love for him? Of my love for him?
I told him, “Even if all of them fall away, I never will!”
The others glared at me. I realized I probably should have put it another way. But it was true, I told myself. I was always the first to jump up and follow him, whatever he did, wherever he went. I could not speak for the others, but I knew what was in my own heart, or thought I did. Nothing in all the world could make me fall away from him, not the whole Roman army! I would stand by Jesus as Joab had stood by David. Jesus was my master, and I loved him. Should the worst come, I was ready to fight for him. I was ready to die for him. Surely I was.
But Jesus said, “Simon, this very night, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.”
A chill ran down my spine, and my stomach twisted as something within me rung with the words. I swallowed hard. No. It could not be. Definitely not. How could Jesus say such a thing? Surely this once Jesus must be wrong. Surely.
For a moment, I thought Jesus was going to respond to that. He paused, stood quiet for a moment, and put his hand on my shoulder. But then it was as though whatever he was going to say got choked out by emotion. Instead, he looked away into the distance. I tried to follow his gaze into that darkness, but he must have been staring at something I could not see, or else it was the night itself that he was looking at. When he looked back at us, something of that distance had crept into his eyes. It was as though we were still together, on the same water, but now he was looking back at us from a different boat—tethered, but preparing to drift away. I desperately wanted him to say something, but he didn’t. After a few moments he just turned, and walked on.