Every morning as I leave our apartment, I hear the sound of a rooster crowing. I’m not really sure where it comes from, but it always sounds so clear, cutting across the crisp morning air, making the city feel a little less like a city.
The crow should probably cause me to wonder who the heck owns a rooster in Atlanta or why the heck I’m up so early; but instead, all I can think about is betrayal. All I can think about is Peter. All I can think about is me.
The crow reminds me that my morning determination to be faithful is sadly fickle. The morning alarm sends a sinking feeling in my stomach, reminding me that at some point today, I’m going to deny my association with Jesus of Nazareth. Maybe I’ll deny him because it’s convenient or maybe because I’m afraid. Maybe I’ll deny him with my words or maybe just by the way I live. But just as sure as that rooster will crow each morning is the proclivity of my heart to wander, the eagerness of my feet to stumble down the path of Peter.
And yet, this revelation doesn’t surprise Jesus. Jesus isn’t insecure. He doesn’t need my faithfulness; in fact, he’s drawn to my faithlessness. His closest friends have always been fickle, broken, in desperate need.
I wonder if later in life, whenever Peter heard a rooster’s crow cut through the morning air, he wasn’t filled with shame at the memory of his betrayal or fear that he might repeat his crime, but instead with comfort at the memory of Jesus’ friendship, even so.
