Holy Brit

God I do know you, but sometimes I wish I didn't. Sometimes I want, like Peter, to sit in the courtyard and hide my face. I want to party late on Saturday and read every last word of the paper on Sunday. I want to say no more to the silliness and hurtfulness which you seem to allow. When someone asks why to an impossible question I want an answer - because I know you have one.

But then if I walk away, just say no more - leave me alone - it is safer and easier on my own - something nags me - perhaps like the first strains of morning - that filtering light which reminded Peter of his sin. Even when those little threads are so worn and narrow that I feel like I have really left and run away from you - they are there - you are holding on - you are waiting for my rebelliousness and fear to subside.

There may be a moment - there may just be that every day picking up and carrying on which you seem to expect - that sigh, that realization that I exist in you and in your image for a reason and no matter what happens to me - there is always something else - you are always there.

Did Peter feel that touch of love as he fell to his knees in penitence - or did he just feel empty - gutted - wretched? Did Peter see those skids of color across the dark sky which the rooster demanded to be morning? Did he? Or did he spend that day, that dreadful day in a darkness of knowing he had abandoned you - in a darkness without the hope of new life as he watched you die.

Peter then, went with you to hell - to a hell deeper in his mind that any other - that hell of being turned from God - that hell of being unforgiven and alone. Peter, on that more glorious day, rejoiced more, loved more, gave more.

And I Lord, I amble along, trying. Trying not to get angry when I feel mistreated. Trying not to be ashamed of your name. Trying to always say "yes, I know him," because you know me so well. But sometimes, when the dawn breaks I need your hand of forgiveness.