The Rock Returns

They say your past doesn’t define you.

Maybe.

But it never fully lets go either.

The stink of fish,

rope-burned hands—

that’s where I started.

Me,

my brother,

 the nets—

working-class lads

 just trying to make it through.

Then he turned up.

Not with a sermon.

Just with a presence.

“Follow me,”

he said.

And I did.

God help me,

I did.

I followed Jesus for three years.

My life back then had meaning,

dignity,

purpose.

I was on a mission.

He saw more in me than I saw in myself.

My name’s Peter—but he called me the Rock.

Said he’d build his Church on me.

Me!

A fisherman with a

temper and a tendency to speak before thinking.

But I believed him.

I wanted to be that Rock.

I tried.

And we saw things.

I watched a dead girl rise.

Watched a storm obey his voice.

Bread multiply in my hands.

Demons flee.

Eyes open.

Hearts burn.

I saw the kingdom crack into this broken world—

and for a moment,

I thought I understood it.

But the weight of it all…

the joy,

the mission,

the crowds,

the whispers of

kingdom revolution...

I said I’d never leave him.

Swore it.

Said I’d die for him.

But when it counted,

 I crumbled.

Three times they asked,

and three times I lied.

I said I didn’t even know him.

And then—

the rooster.

I can still hear it.

Like a nail in my soul.

Rock?

No. Just rubble.

A sandcastle when the tide comes in.

He died, and then he rose again.

You see—death couldn’t hold him.

But I’d let him down.

So I went back.

Back to the only thing I understood.

Fishing.

Trying to forget failure.

Trying to outrun shame.

Then came the morning.

Grey light. Empty nets.

And a voice from the shore:

“Cast your nets on the other side.”

We did.

And I knew.

It was him.

Fire crackling.

 Bread warming.

The last time I stood by a fire,

I betrayed my Lord.

Yet here he is.

He meets me in the shared meal.

He didn’t say, “I told you so.”

Didn’t ask why I’d run.

Just this:

“Do you love me?”

Three times.

Cutting through the guilt.

Breaking something in me.

Healing something too.

“Feed my sheep,” he said.

He still called me Rock.

Not because I was strong,

but because he is.

He knew I’d fall.

And still, he called me.

Still, he trusted me.

Still, he fed me.

The Church was never meant to be

built on perfection—

just on grace.

On people who fail

and are still called.

People like me.

People like you.

So now,

I follow again.

Not because I’m worthy.

But because he met me—

on the beach,

in my failure,

and gave me back my name.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025