This rock (Revolution of Jesus, Part 3)

Silent.

After all that has happened, this is the worst. The finality of this silence. The earth has simply swallowed up your hope. Everything you thought you were living for is now sealed in stone. Dead.

And nothing matters now but that look.

After all your bold words about following Jesus to the ends of the earth. You couldn't even own Him to a simple servant girl. You lied. Three times. You denied the one thing that you have ever been sure of. All those years of following Him. All your hopes. You were going to lead the way.

"I don't know Him." The grief of those words crushes your heart. I failed Him. I hurt Him. And I can never take it back.

The world has closed silent around those last words, and you must carry the knowledge of His eyes on you, burning into your heart.

Maybe you thought He couldn't hear you? That He wouldn't know?

But then He turned, and His eyes found you, and they brimmed with the sorrow of your denial. They pierced you with the knowledge of your failure.

But the sorrow in those eyes was all for you. The knowledge was for the burden you now bear.

You can still feel His hands holding your feet, staying your sword. You can hear His voice filled with agony, asking you to pray with Him.

And really, what have you done but fail this Lord again and again, with Your bumbling words, your impulsive zeal? And what did He ever do but gently say, "Not this way. Follow Me."

The truth is that revolutions always ultimately fail. You may rise up and act, you may work for a worthy goal, and you may even succeed for a time in throwing off the old and bringing in the new. But  in the end we cannot escape ourselves. We always wreck everything in spite of our best intentions.

We all stand in the loud silence of our sorrow and sob, "What have I done?"

We all must look aghast at who we really are and stop pretending.

You may even know beyond doubt that Jesus defeated death. You may have heard the angels, seen the grave clothes lying empty. But for you--your revolution has failed.

You failed Him.

You failed yourself.

And so you return to what you know. To life before the revolution. Even though you swore you would never go back. Even though you work all night and catch nothing--another failure. This is what you know. This is who you are.

And then you hear a familiar voice telling you to do something familiarly ridiculous, like, "Throw your net out again." Even though you already threw it hundreds of times and came up empty.

And as you haul in the net that is already breaking under the strain of so many fish, your mind flashes back to another moment exactly like this one, the moment your life truly began. The moment hope was born.

It is the Lord.

And you know it's silly to hope after all you have done, but you cannot help it--you leap into the water and splutter and splash gracelessly to the shore where you fall at His feet.

He raises you up. He feeds you. Just like all the other times, when you think He should be arming you for battle, He feeds you.

He looks into your eyes, and His own are filled with the sorrow of your suffering.

"Do you love Me?"

Three times. Once for every denial.

And  you choke out your love for Him and this time your words are not bold and fiery and confident. They are broken.

This is the rock He will build on. This broken thing, who understands shame. And failure. And regret.

Because really, how can you understand hope unless you have been hopeless? How can you tell the world of the grace He offers unless you have first known despair?

"Feed My sheep."


This is a revolution of hope. A revolution that will save us from ourselves. A revolution that never stops, because we we never stop denying Him, and He never stops restoring.

Because what we really need--what all of us need--is not the overthrow of kings or armies. Not the accumulation of things. Not the success that still leaves us empty.

We are hungry. We need to be fed.