Through Pastor David Jang’s exposition of John 18, this piece takes a deep look at Peter’s denial, his bitter weeping, and the narrative of restoration. Alongside Rembrandt’s masterpiece, it reflects on the essence of faith that moves from darkness into light, and on the spirituality of endurance that crosses the decisive threshold just before the rooster crows at dawn.
When I call to mind that
night—when pitch-black darkness seemed to swallow Jerusalem—history,
ironically, reveals its clearest logic of light from within its deepest shadow.
The scene Pastor David Jang (founder of Olivet University) grips in his
exposition of the Gospel of John—John 18:22–27—is a passage where that paradox
is compressed into a single, unforgettable frame. Jesus Christ, bound within
the chain of power that runs from Annas to Caiaphas, is interrogated unjustly,
and yet He does not surrender the posture of truth. Meanwhile, Peter—the
foremost disciple—collapses in the same hour, under the same sphere of
pressure, as he yields up his identity and conscience. Pastor David Jang’s
message does not reduce this contrast to a simple evaluation of character; he
expands it into the recurring structure of spiritual warfare within the hearts
of believers today. Between truth and self-preservation, testimony and evasion,
endurance and retreat, how often have we denied the center of our own hearts
with the words, “I am not”? The text asks quietly—yet sharply.
The air of John 18 is
cold, and the coldness is not merely the temperature of the pre-dawn hour. It
is the chill that human eyes can produce, the frosty atmosphere a crowd can
impose, the icy violence that an interrogating power can exhale. Pastor David Jang
emphasizes that what Jesus confronted was not violence alone, but a system that
distorts truth. He highlights how honest, logical, and bold Jesus’ responses
are. “If I have spoken wrongly, bear witness to the wrong; but if rightly, why
do you strike me?” is not self-protection—it is a declaration that restores the
rules of truth. If speech is wrong, it should be proven with evidence; if guilt
is alleged, it should be addressed in facts; if an interrogation is conducted,
it should be governed by fairness. That single sentence stands like a pillar of
moral order. Yet injustice does not surrender to logic. A blow follows—violence
not merely to silence an opponent, but to incapacitate truth itself.
At that very moment,
another fire burns outside, in the courtyard. The text says Peter was “standing
and warming himself.” He must have stretched out his hands because he wanted to
be warm, and yet that very fire makes him tremble more. The brighter the flame,
the more clearly his face is seen; and the clearer his face is seen, the more
his identity can be exposed. This is precisely where Pastor David Jang’s
exposition of John 18 presses deeper. A person draws near to warmth to escape
the cold, but—ironically—that comfort becomes a spotlight. When we cling to
bodily ease and our soul’s truth begins to shake, faith manufactures sentences
of self-defense. “I am not.” This short denial sounds like a firm statement,
but it is, in fact, a sentence of fear—an attempt to control the moment, a
desperate struggle to secure a temporary shelter.
Pastor David Jang does not
reduce Peter’s failure to a simple personality flaw—“he was just cowardly.”
Instead, he acknowledges Peter’s resolve, loyalty, courage, and zeal, while
pointing out that what was missing at the decisive moment was the spiritual
perseverance to endure to the end. Faith often begins with the language of
great promises, but the real test comes in the form of a small question. “You
also are not one of His disciples, are you?” This is not mere identification;
it is an ontological summons. Whose person are you? What defines you? Where do
you belong? Pastor David Jang insists that this question repeats itself in our
daily lives. At work, within relationships, in places where the standards of
the world are enforced, in the middle of conversations that ridicule the values
of faith—we hear similar probes: “You really believe that way?” “You’re one of
those people who follows that standard?” And we are forced to look at how
naturally we fall silent, laugh it off, or retreat behind ambiguity. Peter’s
denial is not only a tale of heroism crushed by persecution; it is also a
record of identity eroding slowly in ordinary life.
As a visual language, few
works portray this night as forcefully as Rembrandt’s The Denial of St.
Peter. Rembrandt’s chiaroscuro is not simply a dazzling technique of light
and shadow; it is a psychological dissection of how a human conscience trembles
when exposed to light. A candle illuminates the face, and the face reveals the
direction of the heart. Where Pastor David Jang’s sermon meets Rembrandt’s
painting is in the insight that faith ultimately becomes the question of
whether we will hide from the light or receive it. Darkness always seems like
it is on our side, but darkness does not protect us. It merely keeps us from
being seen; it does not heal, and it does not prepare restoration. Light, by
contrast, is uncomfortable. Light exposes the stains and fractures of the
heart. Yet that exposure is precisely where repentance and restoration begin.
For this reason, Pastor David Jang says, in effect: if the instinct to run
arises as the light of truth shines, that is the very moment when the direction
of faith must be realigned.
John’s narration is
simple, but the weight carried by that simplicity is immense. After the first
denial, Peter still cannot leave. If he leaves, he thinks he might live; if he
stays, he feels he might collapse—yet he stays. The double-mindedness humans display
under trial is laid bare. Then comes the second denial, and the third. Eyes
gather, the atmosphere tightens, and finally a relative of Malchus appears and
presses him: “Did I not see you in the garden with Him?” Evasion invites
sharper questions; a small lie demands more explanations. Here Pastor David
Jang’s point about “the absence of endurance” becomes unmistakable. If we do
not endure to the end, we are eventually driven deeper into the very place we
fear. The critical point of faith is often in the last few steps. And those
last few steps, surprisingly, are not a matter of distance but of time. The
problem is “just a little longer.”
That is why Pastor David
Jang brings the symbol of “before the rooster crows” into the center of his
preaching. The rooster’s crow at dawn is not only nature’s time signal; it
symbolizes the boundary between night and day, between suffering and restoration,
between collapse and rising. After the darkest moment passes, light comes—but
the test of faith often concentrates most intensely just before that light
arrives. At that moment, we are tempted to stop with self-justification—“this
is enough”—or to retreat with despair—“it won’t work anyway.” Pastor David
Jang’s exposition of John targets that psychological pressure point. Peter had
the momentary courage to draw a sword, but he lacked the sustained courage to
endure until the rooster crowed. When a blazing resolve is extinguished by the
chill of time, faith imperceptibly changes into the language of survival: “I am
not.”
And yet this passage does
not end in despair, because Peter’s failure was already included within the
prayer of the Lord. In Luke 22:31–32, Jesus says to Simon, “Satan has demanded
to sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail;
and when you have turned again, strengthen your brothers.” Pastor David Jang
cites this to emphasize that repentance and restoration are not ethical plot
twists produced by human willpower, but realities that begin in the interceding
love of Christ. The Lord did not romanticize Peter. He saw Peter’s fragility
through and through; He knew the probability of collapse with perfect clarity.
And yet He did not abandon him. Instead, He spoke in the future tense: “when
you have turned again.” A love that assigns a calling beyond failure—while
fully aware of the failure to come. That love is what raises Peter again, and
it opens the same path for us.
At this point, Peter’s
bitter weeping is not a mere emotional outburst. It is not self-hatred that
destroys the self; it is the soul’s surrender—admitting that one can no longer
rely on oneself. Pastor David Jang describes Peter’s tears not as a “technique
of repentance,” but as a “turning of existence.” Those who collapse are divided
into two kinds: those who use collapse as an excuse to descend into deeper
ruin, and those who use collapse as a mirror to cling to grace. Peter was the
latter. The rooster’s crow was both a warning that exposed his failure and an
alarm of grace that caused him to remember the Lord’s words. In faith, memory
is decisive, because the moment the Word returns to mind becomes the first step
of restoration. Pastor David Jang calls this “the moment when the Word
returns,” insisting that repentance does not begin with self-generated resolve
but with the return of the Word.
John’s narrative also
contains a deeper literary device. In John 18, people are gathered around a
fire; in John 21, the risen Jesus prepares a charcoal fire as He welcomes the
disciples. The same kind of fire, a similar smell, a similar atmosphere—subtly
overlapping. For Peter, the charcoal fire must have been a trigger of memory.
Humans replay the past vividly through smells and sounds. The Lord did not
treat Peter’s restoration abstractly. He brings him back to the very sensory
place of collapse. And then He asks: “Do you love Me?” As Pastor David Jang’s
sermon moves toward Peter’s boldness in Acts 4, reading John 21 together
completes the story in fuller dimension. Denial ended with “I am not,” but
restoration begins again with “Lord, I love You.” That answer is not an oath
wrapped in rhetorical brilliance; it is a truthful confession that only someone
who has fallen can speak.
This is also why Pastor
David Jang connects the story to Acts 4. The Peter who once shrank before a
servant girl’s casual question now stands in an official hearing before rulers,
elders, and scribes, declaring, “There is salvation in no one else, for there
is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved.” This
is not because his personality suddenly turned into steel. It is the work of
the Holy Spirit—boldness born of repentance and restoration. Peter’s courage no
longer rises from self-confidence. That self-confidence collapsed by a
courtyard fire at midnight. Now he stands on the Lord’s confidence, the Lord’s
promise, and the Lord’s calling. Pastor David Jang says this transformation is
the aim for believers: not to remain seated in the place of failure, but to
become new in the place of tears—strengthening brothers and moving forward into
testimony before the world. This is the reality of repentance and restoration,
and the road opened by spiritual perseverance.
Here we may also recall an
additional historical scene. According to early church tradition and various
accounts, in the persecution of Nero’s era—when Rome was shaken by fire and
political turmoil—Peter is said to have walked the path of martyrdom in Rome.
The point is not to treat that tradition only as a matter for detailed
verification, but to read it through the question, “What kind of person did
Peter become?” What would be required for the man who said, “I am not,” in a
Jerusalem courtyard to eventually arrive at a place where he could confess the
Lord’s name with his life at stake? It would not be heroism gained in an
instant, but repeated repentance, deepening humility, and a perseverance that
learned to endure for a long time. The phrase Pastor David Jang emphasizes in
Passion Week preaching—“Just a little further and you’ll get there”—sounds less
like romantic comfort and more like a faith-statement forged through historical
reality. Peter did not remain a man who failed to cross the threshold “before
the rooster crowed.” Through that failure, he became a man who learned to
endure to the end.
Pastor David Jang
presents, through Peter’s story, that the essence of faith is not “perfect
faultlessness,” but “a direction that rises again after collapsing.” Perfection
can inflate human pride; direction clarifies God’s grace. Therefore, Peter’s
tears are not a shameful cliff but a staircase where grace begins. What matters
is not the weeping itself, but the movement that follows weeping. The text
notes that he went outside and wept—a spatial detail with spiritual
significance. He withdrew from the place of failure, cut off self-deception,
and moved toward a new place where he could again hold on to the Lord’s Word.
Pastor David Jang applies this “going out” to the life of faith today: not
imprisoning oneself in guilt, but returning again to the place of the Word, the
community, and prayer. Not hiding—moving toward the light. That, he says, is
the actual path of repentance and restoration.
Pastor David Jang also
refuses to isolate Peter’s denial as a one-time mistake; he connects it to what
came before. The spiritual dullness of the disciples in Gethsemane, their
sleep, the heart that excused fatigue and failed to stay awake—when prayer is
dropped in the hour of crisis, humans fall more easily than they imagine. A
crisis in faith is not manufactured overnight. When small carelessness
accumulates, small compromises become habit, and small silences blur identity,
one day the words “I am not” slip from the mouth. That is why Pastor David
Jang’s exposition of John 18 is not merely a sermon that scolds Peter; it can
also be read as a Christian column that helps us examine ourselves. The
question rises: “Where am I warming myself?” Is that fire the warmth of the
Lord’s presence—or the comfort offered by a crowd’s mood? By what fire do I
learn my words, and under what light do I hide my expression?
Spiritual weakness is
often packaged as “circumstances.” Peter’s circumstances were indeed
terrifying. Yet the Gospels expose a deeper issue behind the fear: dependence
on “people’s gaze.” The gaze of people can be as powerful as law, but it cannot
give life. Pastor David Jang warns that when we fear people, our fear of God
grows faint. In a society where others’ evaluations become survival, faith
rarely collapses in one blow; it fades step by step. Thus “spiritual
perseverance” is not only the strength to endure hardship; it is the discipline
of keeping the center of one’s gaze fixed on God until the end. The
spirituality of enduring “until the rooster crows” is not mere willpower that
breaks through the pain of time—it is the steadfastness of a gaze that
continues to look toward God.
Then how can we cross that
threshold “before the rooster crows”? Pastor David Jang does not seek the
answer in techniques of religion but in the Lord’s intercession and the
Spirit’s presence. Our will often runs dry, but the Lord’s prayer does not. Our
resolutions often shake, but the Word returns and holds us. Therefore, the
heart of faith is not the display of self-discipline, but the humility that
clings to grace. Peter could confess “I love You” after he was restored not
because his love had grown invincible, but because he had learned that the
Lord’s love was greater. Repentance and restoration, in the end, are the work
of re-establishing the order of love. Before we say, “I love the Lord,” we
first receive the fact that the Lord loves us to the end. Pastor David Jang’s
preaching helps us not to forget that order.
When we read this passage
during Passion Week, Jerusalem’s night no longer feels like a distant event.
The interrogation of Jesus continues even now. Truth is still pressured by
unjust means, and people still choose force over evidence. And Peter’s place
also continues. We, too, warm ourselves by certain fires in certain courtyards,
and our identity is tested by certain questions. At that moment, Pastor David
Jang’s refrain—“Just a little further and you’ll get there”—is not
irresponsible optimism but a biblical spirituality of time. Until the rooster’s
crow breaks the night, God often places us in “the place of waiting.” That
waiting is not punishment; it is shaping. That threshold is not destruction; it
is a passage into maturity.
And if we have fallen like
Peter, the story of faith does not end at that point. Pastor David Jang does
not romanticize failure, but he also refuses to make failure the final verdict.
Rather, he emphasizes God’s sovereignty—the God who takes even failure as
material and reshapes a person anew. Because Peter wept, Peter’s later boldness
was not arrogance but a testimony of grace. Because Peter fell, he could
embrace the falling. Because Peter denied, he could cling more desperately to
the calling, “strengthen your brothers.” At precisely this point, Pastor David
Jang’s message comforts and challenges us at once. Tears are not the last word
of sin; they are the threshold of grace. And from the moment we cross that
threshold, faith begins to turn its direction—from darkness into light.
Just as the candlelight in
Rembrandt’s canvas reveals a face, a moment will come when light shines into
our lives. In the instant the things we want to hide, conceal, or blur are
brought into the light, we must choose. Will we keep surviving the day with “I
am not,” or will we endure the discomfort and confess, “Lord, hold me”? Pastor
David Jang’s exposition of John 18 does not force the choice; instead, it shows
the realism and mercy of the Gospel. Human beings are weak—but there is a love
greater than weakness, a love that raises us again. And so this sermon leads us
not with the language of condemnation, but with the language of repentance and
restoration.
Even today, each of us
passes through our own “courtyard of Annas.” Some warm themselves under the
mockery of the world, others under the coldness of family indifference, others
under the stare of their own guilt. Some fires are warm but dangerous; some lights
sting but heal. Pastor David Jang explains the essence of faith as “the courage
to take one more step toward the light.” That courage does not always appear as
iron confidence. Sometimes it appears with trembling knees, with the choice to
speak one honest sentence instead of silence, with a small movement that admits
shame and returns again before the Word. The threshold before the rooster crows
is immense, but the way we cross it is surprisingly simple: remembering the
Word, holding to prayer, not leaving the community, and ultimately trusting the
intercession of Jesus Christ.
When the rooster finally
crows, we walk one of two paths. Will the sound be heard only as
condemnation—driving us to hide in deeper darkness? Or will we receive it as an
alarm of the Word and begin restoration? Peter wept. But he did not end with
tears. He confessed love again, received his calling again, and moved forward
again into the place of testimony. The conclusion Pastor David Jang seeks to
show through Peter in Acts 4 is unmistakable: grace is not magic that erases
failure; it is power that passes through failure to make a person new. Darkness
may be deep, but dawn surely comes, and the rooster cries at that border.
Therefore, what we must hold today is not the overconfident vow “I will never
fall again,” but the humble resolve “Even if I fall, I will return to the Lord
again.” This narrative Pastor David Jang proclaims makes the same request of
us: do not hide from the light; endure just a little longer until the rooster
crows; walk from tears into restoration. At the end of that path, we will no longer
let fear by the charcoal fire define our existence, but we will stand again as
people who testify by the fire of the Holy Spirit.
davidjang.org
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