Erbarme dich, mein Gott - Johann Sebastian Bach

Music Mondays

Detail of Las lágrimas de san Pedro (1580) El Greco

Welcome back to Music Monday!

Some failures break the world open. Others break us open.

This week, as Holy Week unfolds, we return to one of the quietest and most devastating moments in the Gospel: the moment Peter fails to live up to his words. It’s a moment not of martyrdom or miracle, but of human collapse. And it is in that moment that Johann Sebastian Bach plants the emotional heart of Erbarme dich, mein Gott.

Today’s piece is a haunting aria that gives voice not to Christ, but to a lamenting Peter. It is not a song of triumph, but of grief. Not a declaration of faith, but a cry for mercy.

It is also one of the most sacred pieces of music I’ve ever heard.

Let's dive in.

A Sermon in Song

Johann Sebastian Bach was the Thomaskantor of Leipzig. His official job description was to oversee the musical programme of the town's churches. But he aimed for something higher. He saw himself as a theologian of sound, a composer of musical sermons meant to educate on the good, the true, and the beautiful.

The St. Matthew Passion is perhaps among the greatest expressions of this calling. Drawing from chapters 26 and 27 of the Gospel of Matthew, it takes the audience from the Last Supper through the Crucifixion to Jesus's burial in the cave.

The composition is monumental; not only does it last nearly three hours, it also has two of everything: two orchestras, two full choirs. But what distinguishes the St. Matthew Passion is not its scale, it's the intimacy of its emotions.

Bach saw the Passion not as a sequence of events to be observed, but as an emotional journey to be experienced. He invites the listener to yoke themselves under the cross and feel the story from within.

And Erbarme dich, mein Gott fits right in there.

The aria takes place immediately after the apostle Peter's third denial of Jesus. Instead of rushing the action forward towards the climax, Bach effectively pauses time to do a deep dive into the disciple's anguish. He puts us inside Peter's soul, giving us the opportunity to inhabit his brokenness and experience the depth of his regret.

This is part of Bach's musical sermon, an invitation to confront our own failures, to reflect on the wounds we carry and the ones we’ve caused. Erbarme dich, mein Gott is a turning point in the Passion, a point where the narrative turns inward and the music becomes a vessel for repentance.

But before we consider Bach's lesson, let us start where all good sermons do: with a story from the Bible.

The Rooster and the Rock

The action of Erbarme dich, mein Gott begins in the early hours of Friday, between what we now call Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. The action takes place in the courtyard of Jerusalem's high priests. Jesus had been taken there in the dead of night to stand trial for the blasphemy of claiming to be the Son of God.

Despite the late hour, the place is crowded. Scribes, merchants, temple servants, and even sleepy children clutching their mothers’ robes have all come to catch a glimpse of the man they call the Messiah. Some have come to admonish, to throw rocks at Jesus, calling for extreme punishment. Others are on his side, watching the sham trial with dwindling hope for a just outcome.

Peter is there too, hanging back behind the mob. His trembling hands grasp the hilt of his sword. A smear of blood streaks his right wrist, remnants from the garden of Gethsemane.

Jesus had been there not even an hour earlier. He had been praying with a few of his disciples when Judas arrived. The traitor barged in, escorted by a group of temple guards and Roman soldiers. He had sold Jesus out to the authorities for a handful of coins, and now he was there to make good on the deal.

Upon seeing Jesus seized by the guards, Peter drew his sword and sprang into action. He fought off a few men and even managed to slice off the ear of a servant of the high priest. He would have kept fighting, had Jesus not ordered him to stand down. And Peter always did what Jesus told him.

While the other disciples scattered and fled, Peter remained. He followed at a distance as Jesus was dragged into the courtyard. He wanted to intervene, to strike, to save him. But he couldn’t. Not as one man, not against a whole detachment.

So he hangs back, observing from the shadows. As the trial unfolds, scenes from his life come crashing through his mind like waves against the rocky shore of the Sea of Galilee, the place where he first encountered Jesus.

Before receiving the name Peter, there was only Simon, a humble fisherman trying to make ends meet.

It had been almost three years since Simon and his brother Andrew were casting their nets into the water. The two had been toiling for hours under the scorching sun with nothing to show for it. They were just about to give up when a soft-spoken stranger appeared, telling them to try one more time.

Perhaps taken by the man's calm authority, perhaps because they had nothing to lose, they complied. To their shock, the once-empty net filled to bursting. It had gotten so heavy that it nearly capsized the boat as they hauled it in.

The stranger introduced himself: Jesus of Nazareth. Then came the invitation: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” It was as if their whole lives had led to that moment. Everything fell into place. They said yes. No hesitation. No questions.

From that moment on, they were disciples.

Back in the courtyard, Peter senses eyes on him. He scans his surroundings and notices a young servant girl close by. She's studying his face. “Weren’t you one of the followers of this Jesus of Galilee?” she asks.

Peter glances around to see if anyone else heard her question. No one. He scoffs, brushes her off, says he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He denies ever seeing the man before that night.

Peter shuffles away from the girl’s gaze. He slips behind a colonnade off to the side and strains to hear the proceedings more clearly. The trial heats up. Between the crowd’s jeers, he catches fragments: sorcery, demons, false miracles.

These accusations weigh heavily on Peter. He had seen it all with his own eyes. He had been at the wedding in Cana, when a vat of water was turned into the sweetest of wines. He had witnessed five loaves and two fish become a feast for five thousand. He had seen the sick healed, the blind regain sight, the crippled walk. He had even been in the very room when Jesus brought a sick girl back from the dead.

But Peter wasn’t just a bystander to miracles. He had lived one himself. He stepped out onto the stormy Galilean Sea and walked on water toward Jesus. For a moment, the impossible became real. And when doubt overtook him and he began to sink, it was Christ’s gentle hands that pulled him back.

From behind the colonnade, Peter wants to shout. He wants to bear witness to the truth about Jesus, to make everyone see what he already knows. But he bites his lip.

The servant girl reemerges. This time, she doesn’t ask any questions. She points at Peter and yells, “This man was with Jesus of Nazareth!” She repeats it, over and over.

Some people turn toward Peter. A few join in the girl’s accusations. The crowd is swelling, voices rising. Peter pleads with them, swearing on his life, on his mother’s grave, on the Almighty Himself. And then, with panic in his voice, he denies again: he has never seen the man now on trial just feet away.

That's when Peter remembers another promise. One he had made earlier that very night.

Just a few hours before, Jesus and the twelve had sat around a supper table. They broke bread, passed around a wineskin, and enjoyed each other's company, as usual.

But that night was not meant to be usual.

Jesus interrupted the meal and, with a somber expression, warned them of what was about to take place: the betrayal, the arrest, the torture and humiliation, the crucifixion…

The disciples stood in disbelief. They couldn’t accept that such a fate could befall their divine master, and they vowed to stop it. But Jesus set them straight. He told them that by the end of the night, every one of them would flee and scatter to the four winds.

Peter raised his voice in protest. “Not me,” he promised. Maybe the others would fall away, but not him. He was loyal. He loved Jesus too much, and would never leave his side.

That was when Jesus turned to him and said, “Especially you, Peter. Before the cock crows tonight, you will have denied me three times.” Peter did not respond.

We’re back in the courtyard.

A uniformed man marches up to Peter. “Didn’t I just see you in the garden?” he asks.

Peter backs away. The guard steps forward and seizes his hand. Then he sees it: the crimson streak. “It was you!” he accuses. “You cut off Malchus’s ear!”

Fight or flight kicks in. Like a wild beast backed into a corner, Peter thumps his chest. He yells and curses at his accuser. And for the third time, he denies being a disciple of Jesus.

As the words leave Peter’s lips, time seems to slow. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours. A muffled kind of silence descends upon the courtyard.

Images of a bright, sunny day begin to form in Peter’s mind.

It was a joyful day, not so long ago. The disciples sat around their teacher. Jesus had just asked them who they thought he was. The puzzled silence was broken by Simon. “You are the Son of God,” he answered.

Jesus smiled and stepped closer. “From now on you shall be called Peter”—meaning rock—“and upon this rock I will build my church.”

That moment changed Peter’s life. He had been given more than a new name; he had been given a calling. A purpose. A mission. To be that rock. To help build that church. To lead the disciples. Peter carried those responsibilities like a mantle. And he had been diligent. He had always stood by his master.

Until that night.

The silence is interrupted by an ominous sound. It starts low and faint, then grows louder, and louder. And Louder. An icy wave of guilt washes over Peter as he realizes what it is: the morning call of a rooster.

Jesus was right! The self-righteous Peter, the loyal Peter, the I'm-never-gonna-betray-you Peter, had failed to keep his promise.

Peter feels compelled to look toward Jesus. He is unsurprised to find Christ’s eyes gazing back at him through the crowd. It’s not an angry gaze. It’s not I told you so. It’s a gaze filled with pain and love, with compassion, from someone who understands exactly the dark night now engulfing Peter’s heart.

Peter averts his eyes and time starts to regain speed.

More men in uniform push through the crowd, heading toward Peter. They’re getting close. Peter has no other choice. He flees, and bitter tears fall in his wake, warm with shame, heavy with the weight of his regret.

Cue Erbarme dich, mein Gott.

An Aria for the Broken

The aria is a wound made audible. It rises slowly, painfully, like a wail pressing against your chest. It doesn’t preach or explain. It simply aches.

The music begins with a cutting violin solo. Sharp, aching, relentless. It carries the recurring line that gives voice to Peter’s guilt. A melody both tender and restless, painful and hopeful, like tears caught in the creases of Peter’s calloused fisherman hands.

And then there are the words. No dialogue. No plot. Just a snapshot of raw, unadulterated lament:

Erbarme dich, mein Gott, | Have mercy, my God,
um meiner Zähren willen; | for the sake of my tears;
schaue hier, Herz und Auge | look here, heart and eyes
weint vor dir bitterlich. | weep before you bitterly.

There is no explanation, no bargaining. Only tears. The kind that come when you realize you’ve failed, and there’s no way to take it back. The words are directed at God, but they are also spoken inwardly, as if Peter is asking forgiveness not just from heaven, but from himself.

I included the original German for a reason. The words are simple, direct, and easy to follow. Listening with the lyrics in hand—especially the phrase Erbarme dich, mein Gott—uncovers a deeper understanding of what Bach has accomplished with this aria.

The words are straight out of Peter’s conscience, but to the audience’s puzzlement, the voice delivering them is not his own. They aren’t sung by a burly baritone, someone who might haul netfuls of fish from the sea. No. They’re sung by a frail, high-pitched alto, a voice often associated with female singers.

So why is Peter’s lament sung by a woman?

Perhaps because by giving voice to Peter’s grief through an alto, Bach lifts the lament from the particular to the universal. The sorrow is no longer just Peter’s; it becomes mine, and yours as well. The tenderness. The vulnerability. The gaping wound. They’re familiar to every human soul who has ever wept after hurting someone they love, after doing something they wish, with all their heart, they could undo. But cannot.

That universality makes Erbarme dich, mein Gott sacred. It turns regret into something shared, collective, even liturgical. It tells us: we are not alone. In Peter’s weeping, we hear the sound of every soul that has ever broken under the weight of failure and regret.

Perhaps the deepest lesson of the aria, and of Bach’s musical sermon as a whole, is this: true healing begins with repentance. Bach understood that the spiritual life requires surrender. That before redemption, there must first be admission. That for grace to enter, the soul must first crack open.

Erbarme dich, mein Gott is a musical confession: a cry not to explain or excuse, but simply to be seen, and, God willing, to be forgiven. And it is in that asking—“have mercy, my God, for the sake of my tears”—that something fundamental begins to change.

But that change is not external. Peter cannot undo his three denials, just as we cannot undo the things we most regret. The change is internal. It begins only when we dwell in the ache, when we stand in the courtyard of our own failures and allow ourselves to feel the full weight of our remorse. Because only the heart that weeps knows its need for mercy.

By inviting us to sit beside Peter, to share in his sorrow, Bach shows us how to heal. When we stop trying to be the strong one and finally let the tears fall, redemption becomes possible, not as a reward for perfection, but as a gift for the humbled.

And, if our prayers are answered, as grace.

Walking with Peter

Bach leaves no room for distance. He doesn’t let us remain spectators. Instead, he gently reminds us: this could be you. And so, as the music swells and we sit beside the weeping Peter, Bach invites us to ask ourselves:

• What do you lament?

I’ll go first. For me, it was nine years lost to active addiction.

Yes, I lost nearly a decade to marijuana. Every day followed the same loop: rise, smoke, work, smoke again, collapse. Then I’d wake up and do it all over again. Every day. Rinse and repeat.

From the outside, you’d never know. I kept a good job, climbed the ladder, even earned praise. But that was the mask. Inside, I drifted through my days in a haze of smoke and self-deception.

My family, partners, and closest friends saw through it. They noticed the cracks and watched me lie, break promises, use them, discard them, offer hollow apologies. They felt me drift, pull away. They may not have understood the full extent of what I was doing, but they sensed something was very wrong.

Deep down, I knew the pain I was causing. I saw it in their eyes: the disappointment, the quiet hurt on the faces of people I once brought joy to. And still, I kept going.

I didn’t fully understand. I thought I was only accountable to myself. I thought I was the hero of my own story. Little did I know, I was the villain in someone else’s.

But the truth is, the person I hurt most was myself. I buried my spirit under a haze of smoke and denial. I wasted precious years. I stunted my growth. I dulled my senses and strangled the life out of my own potential. I didn’t fully grasp, not really, that the damage I was causing wasn’t just to others; it was also to me.

I am so, so sorry to everyone I hurt. I wish I could take it all back. I wish they could find it in their hearts, someday, to forgive me. And I hope, in time, I can do the same to myself. But there’s no undoing those years, no way to go back and make different choices.

And yet, Erbarme dich, mein Gott teaches me that this weeping is not the end of the story; it’s the beginning of healing. That redemption comes through the acceptance of our brokenness, the practice of honesty, and the courage to lament what we cannot change.

The Sound of Redemption

Peter’s story doesn’t end in the courtyard.

Yes, he denied Christ. Three times. Publicly. Shamefully. But that wasn't the end of his journey. In the Gospel of John (21:15–19), the risen Jesus meets Peter again by the sea. And there, in a quiet and tender moment, Jesus gives him the chance to redeem himself. Three simple questions followed by three simple answers:

Do you love me? / Yes, Lord.
Do you love me? / Yes, Lord.
Do you love me? / Yes, Lord.

Three affirmations to replace the three denials.

And from that place of failure turned faithfulness, Peter rises. He becomes the rock Jesus once named him to be. He goes on to Rome and lays the foundations of Christ’s Church, an institution that has endured for two thousand years.

He is a saint, not because he never fell but because he did fall and got back up. He kept going, becoming a better, holier man. He was forgiven, and he lived the rest of his life in response to that grace.

And me? I can’t say my arc is finished yet.

Like Peter, I’ve stood in the courtyard of my own failure, bitter tears dripping down my calloused hands. And like him, I’ve dropped to my knees and begged for forgiveness, both before a priest and before the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

I have been forgiven, my ledger in Heaven has been wiped clean. But here on earth, there are still amends to be made. The wounds I caused, the relationships I fractured, the people I hurt all demand repair. And so, the arc of my redemption remains a work in progress.

Some of the damage can be mended with words. To most, I’ve apologized. But for others, it’s not so easy. Some are gone; others I’ve lost contact with and will likely never see again. For them, repair must take a different form. No letters. No words. Only the life I live now can speak for me.

And that includes making peace with the one I let down the most: myself.

I’ll never find redemption unless I face the man I used to be. Unless I learn to trust him again. That work begins here: with honesty, with integrity, with a life rebuilt from the ground up.

Because in the end, I can't undo the past. The only real amends I can offer are to live differently now, to become a better man. So that’s how I seek redemption: not by erasing what has been, but by refusing to repeat it.

So I’ve quit the habit. I’ve been completely sober for nearly fifteen years. I’ve worked on myself. And every day, I strive to be the best husband, father, son, brother, neighbour, coworker—the best human being—I can be. I know I will never be perfect. But I can be honest. I can be present. I can keep going.

Your turn:

• How will you remedy your regret?

Start by listening to Erbarme dich, mein Gott. Let the sorrow of the song move you, not into despair, but into motion. Let it be the sound of your own soul cracking open. Get on your knees. Weep. Ask for mercy. Then, get up. Walk forward. Begin again. Make amends. Live differently. Live better.

That’s redemption. That’s the invitation of the music. And it’s waiting for you to answer.

Cheers,

Man in Plaid (who can’t go back, but won’t go back either)

Next Up…

What happens when a legendary voice cracks, forgets the words, and stumbles through a classic? When the applause comes too soon, and the singer can’t quite pronounce the next line? Come listen in on a performance gone wrong and discover something unexpectedly beautiful: a masterclass not in perfection, but in grace.

Find out next week.

Until then—Crank it up and Dive in!