In the opening scene of the recent film, Wake Up Dead Man, two priests debate. The first priest says, "We need fighters today... to fight the world.... A priest is a shepherd. The world is a wolf." The other priest responds: “I don't believe that, Father, respectfully. You start fighting wolves, before you know it, everyone you don't understand is a wolf... Christ came to heal the world, not to fight it.”

Those words shot through me when I saw the film in November, and they linger with me still, simultaneously encouraging and implicating me. I am encouraged because I profoundly agree with the second priest. I long to see the church take a posture of healing. The church needs fighters? That’s a lie I’ve heard my entire life.

As I mentally scan my memories, numerous scenes come to mind, but one in particular sticks out. I’m sitting in the auditorium of the Texas megachurch I grew up in and eventually worked for, listening to an old, famous-in-certain-circles preacher rant about the upcoming 2012 presidential election. He hunches over, voice thick with emotion, eyes glaring into the congregation, pointing his trembling finger, pontificating about the threat of our shared enemy. He is careful enough to not name them directly, but we all know he refers to Democrats when he declares “THEY… ARE… COMING FOR YOU.”

Yes, I know this is a bit of a caricature. An angry preacher? In a Texan megachurch, no less? It reads like a cliche, and while it really happened, perhaps this preacher is too easy a target. The more difficult “target” to reckon with is the constant stream of combative Christianity that ran, not only through my former church friends and family, but also through me. Yes, I rolled my eyes at the angry preacher, but on paper, I mostly agreed–I just wished he wouldn’t be so obnoxious about it. The church, in my opinion back then, needed fighters.

Prior to the crucifixion, Jesus tells the authorities, “My kingdom does not belong to this world. If my kingdom belonged to this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over… my kingdom is not from here.”⁠ It’s a strong statement, and a curious one, because someone did fight at his arrest: Peter.

Earlier, when Judas arrives with soldiers and religious police to arrest Jesus,⁠ Peter draws a sword and attacks the high priest’s slave, cutting off his ear. Jesus rebukes Peter, telling him to put his sword away.⁠ One can hardly imagine a more justifiable scenario for violence than the one in the Garden of Gethsemane: defending a blameless victim from religious and political persecution. Still, Jesus will have none of it. Jesus heals Peter’s victim⁠. 

Christ came to heal the world, not to fight it. These words implicate me because, while I want to tell you I’m with Jesus here, I sympathize with Peter. To Christ’s “Put your sword back into its sheath,” I want to reply, “Are you serious? Aren’t you paying attention? Do you not see the threats at hand?”

While I know, historically, that we are not dealing with anything truly new, I still can’t shake the feeling that the “stream” of combative Christianity I grew up with, participated in, and worked so hard to leave, is now a cultural flood, threatening everything in its path, all while the twin sirens of anger and despair try to hypnotize me with their sick song, beckoning me beneath the waves.

Most of the time, I listen to anger. The people who believe the church needs fighters? I want to fight them. Ironic? Yes. Absurd? Utterly. My thoughts toward them are violent and inhumane, and I want Jesus to agree with me. The problem is, despite any pleading or sword-swinging from Peter or myself, Jesus won’t cooperate. Peter and I are stuck with a very human dilemma: what do we do when it feels like “the bad guys” are winning? Can we protect goodness without betraying it? 

As algorithms, industries, pundits, and politicians fuel the fires of hate and tribalism, responding in kind feels like the most natural thing in the world. Maybe we think violence and dehumanization are tools we must embrace and inevitably use. Maybe we believe these tools should be shunned… except for exceptional cases, which we, of course, are uniquely capable of recognizing. Regardless, we take up the sword and start swinging, but in the process, deny everything we hope to save. Please understand, I am not critiquing prophetic resistance. I am writing about retaliation, about mimicking the enemy to defeat the enemy. If we choose to fight fire with fire, everything around us still burns.

While the authorities question Jesus, Peter undergoes his own interrogation in the high priest’s courtyard. By the light of a charcoal fire, Peter is asked three times about his association with Jesus. He denies Jesus each time. Whether Peter realizes it or not, he merely confesses with his words what he already proved when he struck Malchus: He is not following Jesus. If my kingdom belonged to this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over. While Peter denies Jesus with his words in the courtyard, his denial in the garden is perhaps more offensive. His words deny association with Jesus, but his actions deny the foundation of Jesus’ kingdom.

Of course, while Peter denies Jesus, Jesus simultaneously disowns and redeems Peter. On the cross, Jesus rejects Peter’s (and humanity’s) retributive violence while providing a better path forward for his struggling disciple. Christ on the cross reverberates through time, echoing into the past as a denial of Peter’s violence and into the future as an affirmation of his eventual Christ-likeness.

Near the end of John’s Gospel, after the resurrection, Jesus cooks a fish breakfast for Peter and a few other disciples. In a moment, he will interact with Peter alone. He has steadily re-inserted himself into Peter’s orbit, making it clear that while he could not endorse Peter’s violence, he will not abandon Peter himself. His breakfast invitation affirms that Peter is welcome.

Theologian N.T. Wright points out that Jesus’ charcoal fire would give off a distinct aroma, evoking for Peter the painful memories of his failure by the light of the charcoal fire that burned in the high priest’s courtyard.⁠ Peter’s wound is exposed so it can be healed.

Peter takes in the scent of burning charcoal and is once more questioned, three times, about his association with Jesus: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter replies, “You know that I love you,” and Jesus tells him to “tend my sheep.” He retraces his steps through his denials in the courtyard, but Jesus takes things further. He helps Peter face his denial in the garden, when he cut off Malchus’ ear. Jesus lays out Peter’s future: he will not be a fighter; instead, he will be bound and led against his will, signaling “the kind of death by which he would glorify God.”⁠ Rather than rule through violence and domination, Jesus suffered unto death. He invites Peter to do the same: “Follow me (John 21:19).” Peter has spoken a better word. Scripture and church tradition tell us he will now live a better way.

His journey breaks open beautiful possibilities for me and anyone else who wants to follow Jesus but wrestles with the urge to dehumanize. Many of us, like the Peter of Good Friday, have wielded the sword before. Maybe we wield it now. When we raise our metaphorical fists in anger, perhaps our true opponents are our past selves. We deny Jesus with our actions, and He denies our actions in return. We must learn the lesson Peter learned. We must hear Christ’s call to put our swords away.

While Peter’s failure speaks to our current moment, we can allow his rebirth to speak to our future if we dare to listen. The antichrist-ianity of this present moment can lead us to despair. We should see the damage and acknowledge our complicity, but to succumb to its weight is to live like a version of Peter who never accepts Jesus’ invitation to breakfast on the shore. We must remember that while Jesus denies our past actions, he does not deny us. Yes, retaliation is not the way, but neither is a permanent inertia that removes us from the world’s suffering so we can wring our hands in shame.

We can circle the drain of regret and anxiety all we want, but Jesus is cooking breakfast, and he is ready to help us make peace with our enemies, starting with ourselves. Unclench your fists to receive divine hospitality. Breathe in the scent of the charcoal fire. “Christ came to heal the world, not to fight it,” and that includes you and me.