Simon Peter, having a sword.

It was the night when shadows whispered of betrayal, and torches illuminated veiled intentions. The peaceful Garden of Gethsemane, customarily a place of quiet contemplation, was a scene of unrest, a mixture of peace and chaos.

Amidst the tales of Jesus’ signs, wonders, miracles, acts of grace, kindness, mercy, and deliverance, the narrative takes a sudden detour, and quite unexpectedly, we read, “Simon Peter, having a sword.” It does make one ponder. It’s as though the jarring narrative subtly interjected, “And then Simon, wielding a machete.” Our impetuous Peter, always quick on the draw, always the first to speak or act — but a swordsman? Hardly.

Jesus and his disciples had just reclined together at the Passover table, partaking in the traditions of old, binding them in friendship, as brothers and prophecy. In the very evening that Jesus, in his characteristic humility, washed the feet of his disciples, imparting to them a lesson of servanthood, why then did Peter arm himself with a blade? Was this a rushed, manic attempt at heroics? A misguided effort to protect his Rabbi?

The situation escalates quickly. You might be able to relate, sometimes this is how temptation leaps out at you! In a swift motion, perhaps driven by fear or devotion, Peter slices off the ear of Malchus, the servant of the High Priest. This wasn’t the skilled swipe of a swordsman but rather the frantic reaction of a fisherman in unfamiliar waters.

But here’s the conundrum: Jesus does not chide Peter nor asks him to offer apologies. Instead, in Matthew 26:52  He says, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.” The compassionate Saviour reaches out, touching Malchus’ ear and healing him.

It’s a paradoxical moment that is almost beyond words.  The very hands that crafted galaxies now mend a torn earlobe in a garden. Suddenly, like the smoke of an extinguished candle, our minds can think of Eden, but only for a nano-second. The lesson isn’t lost on us. Peter, with his actions, might have been saying, “I’m ready to fight for the Kingdom!” But Jesus, in his response, was showing, “My Kingdom is not advanced by the might of swords but by acts of love and mercy.”

Our own narratives often mirror Peter’s. We can sometimes find ourselves with our own proverbial swords, ready to defend our faith, our rights, our understanding of righteousness. And at times, in our fervour, we might inadvertently hurt those we intend to help, especially with those of different faith.

Jesus’ handling of the situation is a profound reminder of grace. Instead of reprimands, He offers healing. Instead of isolation, He chooses inclusion. That’s the grace we stand in need of.

The grace that doesn’t magnify our mistakes but covers them. It’s a grace that says, “I see your flaws, your impulsiveness, your misplaced zeal, and yet I choose to work through you.”

As followers, then, our lives ought to be a reflection of this profound grace. Not pointing fingers or waving swords, but extending hands of healing, understanding, and unity.

The Kingdom of Heaven is not established through aggression but through acts of love, mercy, and justice. So, as we navigate the challenges of our own narratives, may our lives bear the hallmark of divine grace — a grace we’ve received and one we’re called to extend.

Isn’t it wondrous that the story of a hastily wielded sword in a quiet garden leads us to a place of reflection, of grace, and of profound gratitude? And in the midst of our own missteps, we’re reminded of a Saviour’s grace that heals, restores, and redeems.