There must have been some small part of Peter that was relieved on Holy Saturday.
He was devastated. Of course he was. But he also knew what he’d done. He remembered the innocent question of the maidservant and how he’d fallen all over himself to deny Jesus, not once but three times. He remembered Jesus’ prediction of just such an occurrence, remembered his arrogant boasting that he would never do such a thing. “I will lay down my life for you!” he’d cried, using the language that Jesus had used for the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep.
Peter must have shuddered to think of it. But that wasn’t the worst part.
After he’d boasted and blustered, after he’d fallen asleep, after he’d gone flailing about with a sword, after he’d fled, after—God help him—he’d denied the Master, the one he’d promised his life to. After all that, Jesus had looked at him. As the cock crowed, Jesus’ gaze had crossed the courtyard to Peter, shaking by that charcoal fire.
