Many years ago, I had the privilege of exploring the “Scavi,” the ancient Roman necropolis upon which St. Peter’s Basilica was built. It is as impressive as you might imagine, transporting one back to the tombs of people who lived and died more than 2000 years before, most of them from noble families who could afford elaborately decorated mausoleums and sarcophagi. A good tour guide brings the dead back to life, so to speak, in describing the stories associated with particular individuals and families, and providing a window into those times long past.
While I knew that Peter’s remains are located under the main altar of the Basilica, somehow I was unprepared for my experience when our group was led into the space just a few feet from the place his remains are entombed. In fact, I had to move to the back of the group as scene after scene came to mind from my 30 years using Ignatian contemplation, scenes in particular of encounters between Peter and Jesus. As you may know, Ignatian contemplation involves placing ourselves into the Gospel scene, paying close attention to what is unfolding between the persons, and in particular, to Jesus’ gestures, expressions, and their effect on the other person. In the case of Peter, almost inevitably, these scenes involve the way Jesus treats Peter so compassionately, even if sometimes very firmly, as a work in progress. And then there is Peter, dismayed and confused, embarrassed or ashamed, humbled to the point of falling to his knees and wanting to push Jesus away as if his mercy was too much.
What was so moving to me at that moment near the tomb was this profound sense of connection with Peter, his spontaneous and often clumsy way of expressing his great devotion to Jesus, his intense desire to follow wherever Jesus would lead, and his very imperfect follow-through. In particular, it was this scene of Peter and the Risen Jesus by the sea that stirred me to tears.
This passage from the Gospel of John 21: 1-19 is so full of symbolic expressions and significance: the return to his beginnings as Peter launches his boat to fish through the night; the way the other disciples follow his lead, yet without the Lord with them, their expedition is a failure; the way Peter does not initially recognize Jesus, and might have even resisted his encouragement to try again on the other side of the boat; the miraculous catch of fish and the net that doesn’t break; Peter jumping into the water, clothed and then dragging the boat forward toward the shore in the direction of Jesus and the meal he has provided for them; and the inviting eucharistic scene of the fire where fish are roasting and bread is warming… During this final preparation for the Conclave, how providential that these potential successors to Peter have all this to contemplate this week…
But perhaps most important for them and for us is what happens after breakfast as Jesus takes Peter aside and in this most remarkable moment, gently invites him to a healing reparation of his denials and infidelity. Jesus begins with some humor, “Peter, do you love me more than the others,” reminding Peter of his constant competition with John, James, and the rest of the disciples as to who was greatest. But then with each inquiry, and Peter’s increasingly plaintive and insistent response, Jesus reminds Peter to put others before himself: “feed my sheep. Feed my lambs.”
Always a work in progress, it takes time for it to dawn on Peter what this triple inquiry from Jesus is really about. We can only imagine what it must have opened up inside his heart to finally allow himself to be led, in this honest and tender exchange, to admit his weak and inadequate faithfulness, to be relieved of the weight of his shame and guilt. No shame, no guilt of his could withstand the gentle force of Jesus’ compassionate love for him, his desire to heal, console, and repair his friend. The relational space between them is fully restored as Peter is freed to move forward, friend and disciple again.
We know from the Acts of the Apostles that it was just shortly after this encounter at the seaside that Peter began to take up his voice with a courage and confidence that was no longer inspired by his bravado. His courage came from a new foundation. Even though he had to acknowledge it was leading him onto paths he did not want to go, and that his fears and weaknesses had not disappeared, this new foundation for his courage was unshakeable. It was given to him the moment he accepted the Risen Jesus’ compassion for him, and received the same promise that the Father had made to Jesus himself. Suffering and death would not be the end. His faithful discipleship would not only leave a legacy for the Church to follow, but he too would receive the gift of Life.
What does this mean for the men preparing for the Conclave this week? What does it mean for us? We, like Peter, are “works in progress,” imperfect, sometimes impetuous in our boldness, yet also tripped up by fears and overcaution for ourselves. We too want to be close to Jesus, but install our own barriers to distance ourselves from the ultimate demands of following him. We, like Peter, are living in uncertain times that require great courage, the willingness to risk on behalf of others and a good that is greater than ourselves. If we are honest about it, if the foundations of our courage are as inadequate as Peter’s, then we too must accept more profoundly the compassion, healing, and repair that Jesus offers to us.
Let us pray for this courage founded on Christ’s compassion, for belief in the Life that does not end, and for the Cardinal’s faith and courage to transcend their fears as they enter the conclave this week.
With you on this Easter road,
