"I Have Prayed For You" Part III

Finding Our Place at the Fire

Then they seized him, led him away, and brought him into the high priest’s house. Meanwhile Peter was following at a distance. They lit a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, and Peter sat among them. When a servant saw him sitting in the light, and looked closely at him, she said, “This man was with him too.” But he denied it: “Woman, I don’t know him.” After a little while, someone else saw him and said, “You’re one of them too.” “Man, I am not!” Peter said. About an hour later, another kept insisting, “This man was certainly with him, since he’s also a Galilean.” But Peter said, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Immediately, while he was still speaking, a rooster crowed. Then the Lord turned and looked at Peter. So Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said to him, “Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly. (Luke 22:54–62)

Luke is drawing us into the drama as it unfolds in Gethsemane. As the Last Adam he enters into that place of anguished intercession, allowing the full weight of our weak and dilatory will to be absorbed by his untainted human will, and begins to taste death for every human being of the entire human race, past present and future. This is Theandros, the God-Man, allowing the full weight of the effects of our alienation, isolation, and estrangement from God due to sin and death to penetrate his consciousness, to the point where his blood pressure is so elevated that the capillaries at the surface of his skin burst open and he sweats drops of blood. He suffers willingly for the entire human race, and at the crucial point of what St. Maximus refers to as our gnomic will, in its weak and hesitant nature, incapable of fully surrendering to the will of the Father^[1].

Yet make no mistake: Jesus' human will is not flawed as ours is. There is no trace of sin or shadow of corruption within the Incarnate Son's human will. St. Maximus carefully distinguishes between our fallen, hesitant "gnomic will," which wrestles uncertainly between choices, and Jesus' pure, sinless "natural will," which he calls "natural" because it aligns perfectly and effortlessly with the divine intention; exactly as human will was originally created by God to function before sin entered human experience^[2]. Jesus allows himself to enter our human dread of death, redeeming even our capacity to choose freely and lovingly the Father's good and perfect will (Hebrews 2:14–15).

In that heart-rending anguish, Mark's Gospel brings us to a striking moment: the only occasion in all of Scripture where Jesus cries out "Abba, Father" (Mark 14:36). This cry bursts forth precisely at the point of greatest suffering, as Jesus yields himself fully to embrace God's magnificent, yet costly purpose. When the Apostle Paul echoes that cry of "Abba, Father" through the Spirit within us (Romans 8:15; Galatians 4:6), he too ties it inseparably to our participation in suffering. We come to share in Christ's intimate relationship with the Father by following Him through experiences that mark both our human journey and the demanding but liberating path of true discipleship.

It is no accident that after three extended seasons of travail and intercession, the God-Man who “stands in the gap” (Ezekiel 22:30), our High Priest and Intercessor, “rises” from prayer, according to Luke (Luke 22:45). Significantly, the Greek verb Luke employs here—ἀναστάς (anastas)—is the very word used elsewhere in Scripture for “resurrection.” Luke is deliberate: even as the shadow of death deepens around Jesus, this subtle choice of wording points prophetically beyond Gethsemane, offering a luminous glimpse of hope. Here, in this moment saturated with anguish and surrender, is a foretaste of the ultimate triumph: Jesus rises from prayer, prefiguring his victory over death itself.

He stands among shadows, yet fully in command, though his enemies remain unaware of it. Encircled by chief priests, elders, and temple officers, their presence heavy and charged with sinister intent (Luke 22:52–54), Jesus silently embodies Psalm 118:27: “Bind the festival sacrifice with cords to the horns of the altar.” Each cord wrapped around his wrists quietly testifies to a deeper surrender, unfolding a hidden mystery of redemption. Judas, who had already allowed darkness to overtake his heart, now approaches and kisses Jesus—an intimate gesture perversely inverted into an act of betrayal. The sign of devotion becomes a cruel irony, underscoring that betrayal often comes cloaked in gestures of trust and affection.

Yet even here, Christ remains utterly calm, the quintessential non-anxious presence. He willingly gives himself into their hands, embracing the binding as the sacrificial Lamb, victoriously laying down his life. This is no fearful surrender; it is the powerful act of the triumphant Son, who, though betrayed, remains sovereign, quietly guiding each moment toward redemption.

Meanwhile, Peter, who only hours before declared unwavering loyalty—even unto death (Luke 22:33)—now cautiously follows “at a distance” (Luke 22:54). The Greek phrase Luke uses here (μακρόθεν) emphasizes not merely geographical separation but signals Peter’s spiritual and emotional withdrawal^[3]. Even now, Peter’s heart is waxing cold, the once-burning fire of devotion for his Savior smothered by fear and self-preservation. His physical distance symbolizes his internal drift into isolation and alienation.

In the cool night air, Peter finds himself in a courtyard among soldiers, servants, and bystanders who gather around a charcoal fire. Luke carefully notes, “they lit the fire and sat down together, and Peter sat among them” (Luke 22:55). There is no mention of other disciples. Here, Peter sits among strangers, distancing himself from those who once broke bread intimately with Jesus. His choice of company betrays his disorientation; where proximity and table fellowship once revealed his devotion, now his physical location mirrors his spiritual state—exiled and isolated^[4]. This charcoal fire is profoundly symbolic, appearing only one other time in the New Testament, at Peter's restoration (John 21). Thus, even the very fire by which Peter seeks warmth silently foreshadows the eventual grace of restoration.

As Peter warms himself by this foreign fire, its glow offers temporary comfort but fails to touch the deeper coldness within his heart. Each small compromise Peter has made now accumulates into something darker. Parker Palmer describes such dividedness poignantly:

“With depression—you’re not just lost in the dark, you become the dark. Nobody fully understands what it is about... My depressions had a lot to do with the struggle I was having over finding a path in life... It was very hard for me to put the pieces together in a coherent whole and construct out of that a sense of self.”^[5]

Peter, too, faces this dividedness, caught between loyalty and fear, intimacy and denial.

As Peter wrestles internally by this foreign fire, its symbolic glow penetrates deeper than physical warmth alone can reach. Parker Palmer’s description of internal dividedness poignantly captures Peter’s struggle between fidelity and fear, intimacy and estrangement. Yet precisely here, illuminated by the steady and purposeful burning of charcoal, Peter’s internal conflict is laid bare. Luke’s careful use of primal imagery is not accidental, inviting readers to discern in this charcoal fire a penetrating symbolism: this fire does not merely provide temporary warmth, but exposes Peter to himself, holding him in sustained illumination, and compelling him to confront truths he would rather avoid.

At first glance, this may appear to be a simple moment of recognition—yet beneath its surface lies an intricate interplay of meanings. Peter sits illuminated not by artificial lamps crafted by human ingenuity, but by the primal glow of charcoal firelight. Why charcoal? Charcoal, unlike ordinary wood, sustains a longer, hotter burn. Graphite or charcoal as fuel represents a more refined, purposeful source of illumination. Wood and friction produce fleeting sparks and momentary warmth, but charcoal holds heat, and with heat, consistent illumination emerges. Charcoal thus becomes a symbol of sustained exposure, a steady revelation of what may prefer to stay hidden in darkness. Only twice in the New Testament does the word for charcoal fire (ἀνθρακιά) appear—here, at Peter’s denial, and later at Peter’s restoration (John 21:9). The fire Peter now warms himself by is thus laden with symbolic significance. François Bovon points out that Luke intentionally sets scenes in particular light to expose hidden spiritual conditions; here, the primal firelight reveals not only Peter’s physical features but his compromised state^[6].

Yet even more fundamentally, fire itself—this primal source of heat and light—is not simply a product of human effort. It can be sparked, nurtured, and fed by humanity, yet fire’s essential nature belongs to the created order. From an existential perspective, fire reminds us that humanity can harness elemental forces, but we cannot truly originate them. We rely always upon something given. Consider the sun itself: one massive sphere of combustion, illuminating all beneath its gaze. That primal, natural light exists independent of humanity’s achievements, yet it defines everything we see. In Scripture, natural light—firelight, sunlight—is deeply linked to divine revelation. Psalmists repeatedly appeal to God’s “light of thy countenance” (e.g., Psalm 4:6; 44:3; 89:15). The Hebrew notion of "countenance" (פָּנֶה, paneh - face) relates intimately to presence and relational disclosure. Ronald Rolheiser insightfully observes that genuine illumination—true spiritual "seeing"—is inseparable from being exposed before a divine presence whose truth reveals us in ways we may resist^[7]. Light thus represents revelation, exposure, truthfulness, and accountability.

So here, in this simple encounter, Peter is profoundly exposed. He sees himself reflected dimly—in water as a fisherman or perhaps faintly mirrored in polished bronze—but does Peter truly know how he appears to another, especially someone socially beneath notice? Hans-Georg Gadamer insists each person, even unknowingly, is “addressed” by a situation, by an encounter, and each responds according to how they are situated in life^[8]. Peter sees himself as an insider now sitting incognito among strangers. The servant girl, by contrast, sees Peter clearly from her vantage point as a marginalized slave. Owned and without autonomy in Roman society, she inhabits the precarious margins, continually aware of social hierarchies and her tenuous place within them^[9]. Marginalized individuals, as Gadamer notes, often perceive truths others might overlook because their precarious social position demands vigilance—an acute awareness of others’ identities and potential threats^[10].

This servant girl, then, perceives Peter differently than he perceives himself. She sees through any facade of casual anonymity precisely because her entire life has taught her to notice subtle signs that others might ignore. Existentially, she has no social protection, no privilege to overlook potential threats or anomalies. Peter’s face, illuminated by charcoal firelight, betrays traces of his recent experiences: fear, confusion, anxiety, and unspoken attachment to the arrested Jesus. He has, perhaps unconsciously, intruded into a space where he does not belong—a gathering around a charcoal fire lit by servants and soldiers who participated, directly or indirectly, in Jesus’ arrest. The servant girl’s voice rises not merely to reveal Peter but also to protect her fragile position, asserting agency in a world where she otherwise has none. Her identification of Peter as an outsider aligns him with those considered dangerous, disruptive, or subversive, thus equalizing the vulnerability of her marginalized existence with his potentially criminal status.^[11]

Ontologically, Peter now experiences a shift from subject to object, from observer to the observed. Epistemologically, this moment reveals that our self-perception is always incomplete—dependent upon how others perceive us, particularly in the revealing glare of primal, elemental illumination. Phenomenologically, the servant girl’s voice disrupts Peter’s tenuous sense of security, forcing him into a painful self-awareness he sought to avoid. He is confronted not simply by the accusation, but by the inescapable reality of his compromised identity, an identity illuminated by fire, revealed by eyes more penetrating than his own. Parker Palmer eloquently reminds us that self-deception often becomes impossible precisely at the moment we feel utterly seen:

"There is an original core of self that knows how to persist in hard times… it’s unafraid of the dark, it loves life and light, and it tells us the truth about ourselves and how we get lost and might find our way home".^[12]

Peter’s moment of illumination, though painful, may offer precisely this possibility—an existential wake-up call to his authentic identity.

In short, the servant girl’s recognition of Peter illuminated by firelight is far more than a fleeting glance or casual identification. It exposes layers of social perception, psychological displacement, existential alienation, and spiritual revelation. Here at this charcoal fire, the convergence of primal illumination and human observation strips away pretense, leaving Peter—and perhaps us—vulnerable yet invited into a deeper, more truthful self-awareness.

This moment carries yet another subtle dimension often overlooked: the voice of recognition arises specifically from a woman. Archetypally, the feminine symbolizes receptivity, intuition, and perceptivity—the capacity to see beneath appearances. In Jungian psychology, the feminine archetype often embodies a wisdom that penetrates superficial layers, able to discern truths that the masculine principle, focused on external strength or overt power, frequently misses or actively ignores.^[13]

This servant girl, marginalized and largely invisible within patriarchal Roman society, ironically embodies this deeper feminine perceptiveness. Her voice is not authoritative or forceful in the traditional masculine sense; rather, it emerges quietly yet persistently, from a place of intuitive recognition. She sees not merely Peter’s external features but discerns something essential about his identity—something Peter himself seeks to suppress. Her intuitive insight exposes him at a vulnerable level, piercing through the defenses constructed by fear and denial.

From an existential perspective, this feminine voice challenges Peter to confront aspects of himself he has avoided—his weakness, fear, and capacity for betrayal. Symbolically, the feminine archetype often serves as a catalyst for inner transformation, confronting the masculine ego with truths it prefers to remain hidden or unacknowledged^[14]. Thus, this seemingly powerless servant girl becomes a profound mirror, revealing Peter’s internal fragmentation, his divided self, and his compromised integrity.

In this encounter by firelight, we witness the archetypal feminine as the bearer of uncomfortable yet necessary truths. She represents not merely external accusation but inner awareness, intuition pressing into the unconscious, illuminating darkness, and inviting—however painfully—a reckoning that holds within it the seeds of eventual healing and reintegration. Her voice initiates a relentless process, pushing Peter further into the vulnerability of exposure. Luke masterfully builds tension through repetition and escalation, shifting from the singular intuitive perception of a servant girl into a chorus of confrontations, each intensifying Peter’s internal anguish and forcing him deeper into the stark realization of his compromised loyalty.

Luke’s narrative heightens the tension as accusations begin to mount. Three times Peter is confronted about his relationship with Jesus, each accusation escalating in urgency and intensity. These repeated questions force Peter further into the open, exposing his inner turmoil, and ultimately compel him to vehemently deny any association with the very Master he once vowed never to forsake^[15].

Finally, after Peter’s emphatic denial, the rooster crows—piercing the night, startling him into agonizing clarity. Yet Luke alone adds a haunting detail: at that very instant, “the Lord turned and looked at Peter” (Luke 22:61). This piercing gaze from Jesus underscores His intimate presence even amidst personal suffering. It reveals a Savior who fully sees Peter’s painful sifting, confronting him gently but powerfully at his moment of greatest failure^[16].

In that heavy darkness, by the glow of the dying charcoal fire, the rooster’s crow became something far more revelatory for Peter. It wasn't just the familiar sound signaling dawn; it was the unmistakable echo of Jesus' prophetic voice: "Before the cock crows, you will deny me..." The simple crow now stripped away every comforting self-deception, confronting Peter undeniably with the stark reality of his own heart. It was a sound that compelled him toward honest recognition of himself—a moment of self-confrontation he could no longer escape.

Overwhelmed by grief, Peter rushes from the courtyard and weeps bitterly (πικρῶς), a term suggesting not mere regret but a searing, soul-deep sorrow.^[17] Peter’s slow drift of the heart—from confident loyalty, to misplaced aggression, to cautious withdrawal, and finally to outright denial—reflects the human pattern of trying to manage vulnerability and fear alone^[18]. Ronald Rolheiser’s insight captures this poignantly: "

“We tend to think energy is ours, and it is not. We think we can control it, and we cannot. There is a madness in us that comes from God unless we relate it precisely to its divine source".^[19]

Peter’s erratic behavior, from violence to cowardice, reflects exactly this loss of spiritual grounding.

Yet, as Parker Palmer notes, it is precisely at the edge of despair and self-recognition where transformation begins, albeit unconsciously:

"If we are willing to move through the gravitas of honest self-examination toward compassionate self-acceptance, the rewards are great. When we say, ‘I am all of the above, my shadow as well as my light,’ we become more at ease in our own skins, more accepting of others who are no more or less broken-whole than we are."^[20]

What that implies is that Jesus’ gaze is not condemnation, but an invitation to self-awareness, humility, and ultimately restoration.

Hans-Georg Gadamer helps us appreciate how deeply personal the narrative remains, not simply recounting events but engaging us existentially. The text “addresses” us as readers, calling us into a meaningful dialogue that demands application to our own experience^[21]. Peter’s moment of denial thus becomes our question, prompting us to ask ourselves:

“Where am I denying the love I profess?

Where have I warmed myself at fires that offer false comfort?”

In this vivid narrative, we are compelled to face ourselves—our fears, denials, and shadows—just as Peter was forced into confrontation by the rooster’s crow. And in that vulnerable honesty, we discover the comforting truth: even at our lowest moments, when our own betrayals are painfully clear, Christ remains near—seeing us fully yet loving us still.

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^[1] Ian A. McFarland, “The Theology of the Will,” in The Oxford Handbook of Maximus the Confessor, ed. Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil, First Edition (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 521.

^[2] Ibid.

^[3] Joseph A. Fitzmyer (2008): The Gospel according to Luke X–XXIV, Anchor Yale Bible, Vol. 28A, 1463–65.

François Bovon (2012): Luke 3: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 19:28–24:53, Hermeneia, 229–34.

Joel B. Green (1997): The Gospel of Luke, The New International Commentary on the New Testament, 786–89.

^[4] Ibid., Green 1997, 786; Bovon 2012, 229–30.

^[5] https://www.servicespace.org/blog/view.php?id=27101

^[6] Ibid., Bovon 2012, 229–30

^[7] Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: The Search For A Christian Spirituality, New York: Image Books, 1999, pp. 22-31.

^[8] Gadamer, Hans-Georg. Truth and Method. Translated by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. London: Bloomsbury, 2013, pp. 385-386.

^[9] Ibid. Fitzmyer 2008, 1464–65; Green 1997, 786–87.

^[10] Ibid. Gadamer 2013, 340–41.

^[11] Green 1997, 787.

^[12] Parker J. Palmer. On the Brink of Everything: Grace, Gravity, & Getting Old. Oakland, CA: Berrett-Koehler, 2022, p.124.

^[13] C.G. Jung., Collected Works, Volume 9:2, Princeton University Press, 1979, §§20–22.

^[14] Ibid., Jung, Collected Works, Vol. 9.2, §41.

^[15] Fitzmyer 2008, 1464–65; Green 1997, 787–88.

^[16] Bovon 2012, 233–34; Green 1997, 789; Fitzmyer 2008, 1465.

^[17] Fitzmyer 2008, 1465; Bovon 2012, 234.

^[18] Bovon 2012, 234; Green 1997, 787–88.

^[19] Rolheiser, The Holy Longing, 22–31.

^[20] Palmer, On the Brink of Everything, 175.

^[21] Gadamer, Truth and Method, 147, 340–341.