I, Peter.

Maybe it’s because of my seemingly perpetual status of singleness, but I have a love – a special appreciation, perhaps – for hearing people in love talk about their partner when they aren’t around. Sometimes it’s annoying, true. But mostly I love it, especially when I can feel it’s genuine. I’m sure you’ve experienced something like that before.

I’m not talking about the kind of heady, overly-blissful delusions many young dating couples find themselves lost in. I’m talking about marriages 25 years deep, rich with all the scars of a war veteran. I mean marriages just barely hitting the 3-year mark, thick with all the tension and difficulty of finances, insecurities, and in-laws. My sister and her husband are one such couple.

Hearing my sister talk about her husband, one might be tempted to think she’s being insincere or maybe even darkly sarcastic. But her authenticity is palpable, and hers are no empty words. She says “I love you” as one who’s been wounded and healed. And given the chance, she would talk about him – his good, bad, and ugly – with more love than you thought possible.

I love hearing people who love people.

People who love people talk about them. And it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re romantic.

Like the old man whose granddaughter, he would swear, has gifted the world in grace merely by her presence here. Or the little boy who knows that his dad, of all dads, can hit a baseball clear into outer space. Or the admiring daughter whose single mom, strong and selfless, works 80-hour weeks just to make the bills this month. Give any of them an opportunity to talk about the people that matter most to them, and it’s likely to inspire a bit of healthy jealousy in us. They love these people.

I find it hard to know that many Christians don’t like to talk about Jesus much. In some situations, if they manage to avoid talking about him and I was not so successful, I am made to feel sorry for bringing him up. Often, I’m on the other end, more than a little embarrassed to mention him. This week alone, I felt my own embarrassment of him. Twice. And it’s only Tuesday.

Pulling into the parking lot of Blockbuster, I was listening to The Almost’s “Dirty And Left Out” – specifically the part where Aaron Gillespie sings out, “Jesus, Jesus / There’s something about your name / Master, Savior / Jesus!” As I pulled in, I noticed someone I went to high school with but hadn’t seen in some time, suddenly felt self-conscious, and turned the music off. On another occasion, I sat in a Starbucks and was turning through the pages of the newest issue of RELEVANT Magazine. One page contained an ad for a new book that read in large text, “Jesus was weird.” I was careful not to linger on the page longer than I had to; someone might see.

I can’t help but think of Peter, whose self-proclaimed love for Jesus dissolved into shame around a fire. And as much as I’d like to make excuses for Peter (mostly because I’d be making excuses for myself), I wonder at Peter’s love for Jesus. Peter’s shame and Peter’s love were not unrelated. At least Jesus didn’t seem to think so. Pulling Peter aside in John 21, Jesus asks him three times, careful to parallel Peter’s denial: “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?”

“Peter was grieved, because he asked him a third time.” (21:17)

From moment to moment I confess I am more like Peter than Jesus and mostly just assume my love for him. But in my most honest moments, I find him asking me the same: “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?” And I grieve.

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