Peter Didn't Just Betray Jesus

This is the latest installment of the Through the Eyes of Series. In this piece we will be covering the Apostle John’s perspective, involving him following Peter and Jesus in John 21 and reflecting on Peter’s betrayal. Questions the author wrestled through- Why did Jesus ask about lambs and sheep? What did that have to do with Peter’s betrayal? Why is John following at a distance? Is there something different of Peter’s betrayal in the gospel of John compared to the other gospels?

In memory of Josh Bosse.

“Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart,
and the pleasantness of a friend springs from heartfelt advice.”
— Proverbs 27:9

Go and Ply Your Father’s Trade
When we first stepped onto the cold stone shoreline, Simon’s nets were already full. When we were learning to speak, Simon was in Bet Sefer, memorizing Torah. When we were told, “Go and ply your father’s trade and pray that your children may do what you could not,” Simon had already been fishing for years.

At eight, I was no longer allowed to continue my education. Sent to my father’s boat, I was told that with my limited understanding of Torah, I had no hope of becoming a talmid. I was the first of my age to be told.

No longer did we learn of prophets thrown from boats to calm storms—we were learning to navigate our own. We salted fish while scribes explained why Lot’s wife was turned to salt—a salt that only deepened the wound.

When I struggled with the cold, easily torn nets, I saw Simon turn in his boat, smiling back at me, laughter spilling from him.

“Cousin,” he called, “how’s your first day on the water?”

I rolled my eyes. Simon may have joked, but he had longed to continue studying too. He had been one of the last in his class to be told he could not continue his Torah education. And still, he smiled. Still, he breathed in the fresh air.

Our days began before the sun rose and ended long after it set. Some days, the nets were full; sometimes empty—sardines, tilapia. Nets had to be mended daily. Boats checked often for leaks. At the time, I struggled to see any of it as sacred.

It was common to be sent home to ply your father’s trade. But every young boy yearned for three words from a rabbi.

Come, Follow Me.

I learned from my father each day on his boat. I spoke with Peter, who had his own boat with his brother Andrew. We talked of Torah, girls, politics—crying out for the kingdom to come.

Peter—the only married one among us—spoke with authority. His answers on the Torah were brilliant. We all thought he could have been a talmid for a rabbi. Andrew still sought teachers, but Peter remained a fisherman, carrying the quiet shame we all bore.

Then one day, like any other, we went out to fish. The sea was alive, teeming with hundreds of boats straining for their quotas. But a man came at a different pace—dark hair, olive skin freckled by the sun, warm brown eyes that melted your defenses and freed your heart.

He came to Simon and said, “Come, follow me.”

I remember Simon’s eyes: shock, terror, awe.

We were filled with joy. Within five minutes, I was called too—along with my brother and Simon’s brother. We looked to Simon. Simon was given a new name: Peter.

My father wept. This is where our journey began.

Son of Man
Jesus spoke of a kingdom we had been too afraid to hope for. He touched those no one else would. He called us brothers—healing the brokenhearted, bringing light to those in darkness, sheltering the homeless.

We would give everything to him. He loved us. And he loved Peter.

Over the next three years, Peter carried many responsibilities. He spoke first, acted first, and stood closest. With it came honor—and blame. This was not new to him.

In the last weeks of those three years, something pressed in. Jesus spoke more often of death—of uprisings, betrayal, leaving. Words that made little sense then but would not leave us.

“Will you really lay down your life for me…?”

Then came the last night—no longer boats and fish, but torches and swords.

After Jesus was taken from the garden, I followed. I recognized the men who seized him—distant family of mine—and I knew where they were going. Even with tension between us, I knew they would let me into the temple, even at the cost of my life. The guards, the women, the high priests—they all knew me and my association with the man they intended to kill.

Peter came with me. At least I was not alone. Since childhood, I had always seen him steps ahead—a constant rock. The best of us. Jesus chose him for a reason. For every mistake, Peter learned and changed. His heart was steady, bent toward righteousness and mercy. We may not have been the brightest, but Jesus knew we could be like him.

We entered the temple ready to die. Just hours earlier, Peter had been ready to kill in the garden while many fled.

We came to the door. I knew the woman who guarded it, and she let us pass. Inside, the weight of the place pressed down—quiet, sorrowful, heavy with fear. My eyes took in the stillness, the hushed murmurs, the tension hanging like smoke. Then the woman turned to Peter and asked, cautiously, if he too was a disciple, as I was.

“I am not.”

My heart fell. I thought I must have misheard. I left Peter by the fire and went farther in, desperate to see if Jesus was all right.

When I returned, the question came again. This time, I did not doubt his answer.

This was the one thing Peter could never do. He had always stood beside me. I had never learned how to stand alone.

Then he said it again:

“I am not.”

In that moment, Peter left Jesus. And he left me. He never looked me in the eyes again that night.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

I think that is why he went back to fishing.

Feed My Sheep
After Jesus’s resurrection, we walked along the sands of the sea where he had first called us. I followed Peter and Jesus at a careful distance. Peter’s shoulders were tight, his hands restless, and I felt the echo of that old weight settle over me. When Jesus asked Peter if he loved him, the question hung in the air, pressing against my own heart.

Peter answered yes. Again, he affirmed it—yes.

Jesus spoke of Peter's death and the kind of death he would face. Peter turned to me and asked, “What about him?” I knew it was the first time he looked at me not as a brother following behind—but as one he was meant to guard.

He still loved me. I still loved him.

And this time, we both knew what it would cost.

Author's note:
Peter and John were brought before the Sanhedrin in Acts 4, and Peter spoke boldly, full of the Holy Spirit. In the very place where he had once denied Jesus—and where he had feared for his life—he now stood alongside John, proclaiming the name of Jesus without hesitation.