This week begins the sacred remembrance of Christ’s suffering as He walks the road to Golgotha. Each year, I trace those final steps again—through the pages of Scripture, along the shadowed path of sorrow that leads to the Cross.

And today, one verse stopped me in my trek:

“Then took they him, and led him, and brought him into the high priest’s house. And Peter followed afar off.” – (Luke 22:54)

Nothing in Scripture is wasted. That phrase—“Peter followed afar off”—felt less like a line in the story and more like a mirror held to my heart.

It speaks of a disciple in tension.
When devotion holds on, but distance creeps in.
When passion hasn’t died—but it’s dimmed.

Peter hadn’t stopped loving Jesus. His love was real—honest and raw. He was the first to say, “Thou art the Christ.” He meant it when he said, “Lord, I am ready to go with thee, both into prison, and to death” (Luke 22:33). But even committed love can hesitate when fear shows up.

That night, fear hung thick in the air. The garden had become a battleground. The arrest came like a storm. The One who had stilled waves and healed the broken now stood silent and bound.

Peter, who had once drawn his sword to defend Jesus, now found himself uncertain—his courage thinning in the cold. So he did what many of us do.

He didn’t stop believing. He just stopped standing close.
He stayed far enough to see Jesus… but not close enough to be seen with Him.

He followed afar off.

Not because he had turned away. But because he wasn’t sure how to stay near. It’s the distance of fear. Of self-preservation. The kind that says, “I still believe,” but doesn’t want to be noticed.

And I read that and think—I’ve been there. Maybe you have, too.

We still follow, but with quieter hearts. Still call Him Lord, but from a safer distance. Close enough to care—but far enough not to be called out.

And then, just before the rooster crows, comes the moment that stills the soul:

“And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter.” – (Luke 22:61)

Not a word. Just a glance.

Across a courtyard flickering with firelight and failure, Jesus looked at him. What did Peter see?

Not anger. Not contempt. Certainly not surprise.

Jesus could have called him out. Could have said, “I told you so.” Could have exposed him in front of everyone. But He didn’t.

No scolding. No spotlight. Just a look—full of mercy. And that was enough to undo him.

Peter fled—not to escape the crowd, but to escape the weight of that moment (Luke 22:62). The weight of his words. His denial. And most of all, the sight of his Lord—wounded, and still loving him.

That’s what makes grace so disarming.

It speaks loudest in silence.
It pierces deepest with kindness.
It meets us not where we’ve stood tall, but where we’ve fallen.

That glance didn’t end Peter. It brought him back. It didn’t shame him. It softened him. Because Jesus wasn’t finished with Peter.

And He’s not finished with you.

If you find yourself following—but a few steps back—take heart. You’re not cast aside. You’re not forgotten.

He still sees you.
Still wants you near.

Not perfect. Just present.

Even now.