Let It Go… But Run Toward Jesus, Not an Ice Castle

As a father of two daughters, I’ve seen more Disney films than I ever thought I would — or wanted to. And while they may be visually impressive and occasionally charming, there are a number of things I find rather frustrating about them. Chief among these is their uncanny ability to lodge a single song so firmly into your mind that it plays on repeat for days on end.

Frozen is a prime offender in this regard. You’ve almost certainly heard “Let It Go” — perhaps unwillingly, perhaps repeatedly, perhaps even at full volume from the back seat of the car. But beyond the musical earworms, Frozen is an interesting film. It centres on Elsa, a young princess with magical powers that enable her to summon snow and ice. The trouble is, she cannot control these powers — they are volatile and deeply connected to her emotions. The more emotional she becomes, the more likely her powers are to spiral out of control.

In classic Disney fashion, her parents die early in the story (as they so often do), and Elsa spends years in isolation, trying to hide her abilities from the world. When the time comes for her to be crowned queen, things inevitably unravel. Her powers are revealed, and she flees to the mountains in a moment of panic and shame. There, she builds an elaborate ice palace and vows to live freely and alone, away from the judgment and expectations of others.

It’s at this point that the now-infamous song is sung:

The wind is howling like this swirling storm insideCouldn't keep it in, heaven knows I've triedDon't let them in, don't let them seeWell, now they knowLet it go, let it goCan't hold it back anymoreLet it go, let it goI don't care what they're going to sayLet the storm rage on...

Disney has a long history of tapping into the cultural mood of the moment, and Frozen is no exception. Many have noted — quite rightly — that Elsa’s powers function as a metaphor for the inner turmoil we all carry: emotions, thoughts, experiences we suppress or keep hidden, yet which profoundly shape who we are. There’s a clear resonance with the modern emphasis on authenticity, self-expression, and emotional honesty.

And, to be fair, it’s not all wrong. There’s value in recognising that we each carry things beneath the surface. But from a Christian perspective, I believe our Gospel reading this week offers a healthier, more hopeful way of processing what’s inside — one that goes beyond merely “letting it go.”

Like Elsa, Peter has a storm swirling inside him. In the space of a week, he’s watched Jesus — his friend, teacher, and Lord — welcomed with palm branches, arrested in a garden, crucified on a cross, and now, perhaps, raised from the dead. And layered over all that is the deep, aching knowledge that in Jesus’ darkest moment, Peter denied even knowing him — not once, but three times.

I wonder if verse 7 of our reading is Peter’s “Elsa moment”:

Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!”When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea.

Just like Elsa, Peter reacts instinctively. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t process. He certainly doesn’t perform a risk assessment. He grabs his clothes and throws himself into the water. But while Elsa runs away to hide, Peter runs (or swims) straight toward Jesus.

That’s the key difference.

In our culture, there’s a strong narrative that says healing comes from within — that we just need to look deeper, try harder, practise mindfulness, or buy the right self-help book. And to be clear, there’s nothing inherently wrong with those things. A good book might offer insight. Mindfulness can encourage attentiveness and stillness, which Christians have practised for centuries under other names.

But none of these things can fix us on their own. Because ultimately, we weren’t designed to be self-sufficient. The help we need most comes from beyond us — from the One who knows us better than we know ourselves.

And Peter gets that. He doesn’t try to sort himself out before facing Jesus. He just goes.

When he gets to shore, Jesus doesn’t launch into a rebuke or call him out. He puts breakfast on. The disciples had been fishing all night. They were hungry. Jesus meets their physical needs first. Only then does he address Peter’s spiritual and emotional ones.

That tells us something profound. Jesus doesn’t see us as a bundle of problems or a checklist of emotional dysfunctions. He sees the whole person. Body and soul. Hunger and heartache. Fear and fatigue. And he cares about it all.

Only after breakfast does Jesus gently return to Peter’s denial. Three times Peter had denied him. So three times Jesus gives him the opportunity to affirm his love:

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”“Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.”“Feed my lambs.”

Forgiveness leads to restoration, and restoration leads to purpose. Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter; he trusts him. He commissions him. The man who failed so publicly is now entrusted with the care of the early church.

And that’s where the real hope lies. Because it tells us that we are more than our worst moments. Our guilt, our shame, our fear — none of it defines us in Jesus’ eyes. He sees more, and he offers more.

So yes — like Elsa, we might need to let some things go. But the way to do that is not to retreat into our own self-made ice castles. It’s to run — or swim — straight toward the one who makes us breakfast, forgives our failures, and still has a purpose for our lives.