Shame is burned away
The first fire had been cold.
Peter stood around it in the dark, hands outstretched, trying to warm himself while fear closed in. Faces pressed close. Voices asked questions.
“Aren’t you one of His?”
Three times, Peter said “no.”
Not because he didn’t love Jesus. But because fear is louder than love when you think you’re about to lose everything.
The fire crackled while his heart broke.
And when the rooster crowed, Peter saw Jesus’ eyes — not angry, just wounded — and he ran into the night carrying a shame he didn’t know how to set down.
He didn’t just hear a rooster.
He heard the story he was now telling himself:
“I am not who I thought I was.”
“I am not who He thought I was.”
Shame does that.
It doesn’t just accuse you of a moment. It rewrites your identity.
After the resurrection, there was another fire.
This one was on a quiet beach. Morning light on the water. The smell of fish in the air. Jesus stood beside it, alive, patient, waiting on the shore.
Peter jumped ship.
He didn’t wait to be invited.
He didn’t walk calmly to shore.
He threw himself into the water because when love has been broken, it always runs.
Jesus hadn’t chosen a table. He hadn’t chosen a synagogue.
He had chosen a fire. The very place where Peter’s worst moment had happened.
Not because Jesus wanted to remind him.
But because Jesus wanted to heal him.
“Come eat,” Jesus said.
Not, “Come explain.”
Not, “Come apologize.”
Not, “Come defend yourself.”
Just, “Come.”
They sat beside the flames. The same warmth. The same smell. But this time, no fear. And then Jesus did something holy.
“Do you love Me?” He asked.
Once.
Peter answered, still careful. Still wounded.
“Do you love Me?”
Again.
Peter felt the ache rising — not because Jesus was cruel, but because Jesus was going exactly where the pain lived.
“Do you love Me?”
A third time.
And Peter understood.
This wasn’t an interrogation.
This was surgery.
Every yes was undoing a no. Every word was washing away the night.
Jesus was not reopening the wound. He was closing it.
And Peter realized something he would never forget: Jesus didn’t just forgive the moment.
He healed the memory. Jesus healed him.
The place of shame became the place of restoration. The fire that once held his fear now held his belonging.
That is how deeply Jesus saves. Not just from what you did — but from what it did to you.
Jesus does not avoid your shame. He walks into it.
He does not remind you of what you did. He reminds you of who you love.
And He does not just forgive you.
He gives you your future back.
“Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more.” — Romans 5:20
Jesus doesn’t just cover your worst moments. He redeems them.
He takes what you thought disqualified you and makes it the place He meets you.
Peter didn’t just remember his denial — his body remembered it.
The cold night.
The smoke.
The warmth of a charcoal fire while fear tightened in his chest.
So Jesus built another fire.
Not to shame him —
but to heal him.
The same smell.
The same warmth.
The same setting — but this time, safety.
Jesus wasn’t just forgiving a moment.
He was redeeming a memory.
The fire that once held Peter’s fear now held his restoration. That is how deeply Jesus heals.
That’s the gospel Peter lived by because that’s what Jesus does. And it’s the gospel we live in now.
