But who do you say that I am?
This morning’s Gospel is one of those top 40 Bible readings – familiar sentence after familiar sentence, phrases that make their way to coffee mugs and Lenten devotionals:
Get behind me, Satan!
What will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life?
Take up your cross and follow me.
Who do people say that I am?
John the Baptist, Elijah, one of the prophets.
But who do you say that I am?
You are the Messiah.
If we read these questions, and these answers, too quickly, we miss what is behind them. We miss an understanding of Jesus. We miss an understanding of ourselves.
But who do you say that I am?
Peter comes up with an answer that seems to be the right one. You are the Messiah. But then Jesus tells him and the other disciples, keep this under wraps: “He sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.”
This doesn’t make sense. And what comes after doesn’t either.
The Messiah will be rejected and killed and then rise from the dead after three days.
Peter is indignant: No, Jesus, that’s not what the Messiah is supposed to do!
Jesus is also indignant: Get behind me, Satan!
And then: “those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” Take up your cross and follow me.
This is not Peter’s definition of a Messiah. At that time, this was not anyone’s definition of a Messiah.
A Messiah isn’t rejected and murdered. A Messiah doesn’t keep his identity secret. A Messiah doesn’t ask other people to follow him to crucifixion.
A Messiah doesn’t ask his friends,
who do you say that I am?
What an interesting question. What a personal question. Was Jesus curious? Was he testing their faith? Was he testing his own?
This morning, Sunday School begins for the year, and our youngest students will be in Godly Play. Godly Play often uses “I wonder” questions, or “I wonder” statements, to explore stories from scripture.
As I read and re-read this question, I wonder if Jesus is not asking out of a need for
affirmation or proof of his disciples’ dedication – I wonder if he is asking because he cares what they see in him. It matters to him how they define their relationship with him. Because isn’t relationship partly about what we name each other, how we see each other? And especially how we see each other at the most challenging, life and death moments, such as the ones Jesus knows are coming?
Who do we say that Jesus is?
As soon as we try to answer that for ourselves, we start a conversation with him. Trying to answer that question for ourselves turns into prayer, becomes a way for us not only to know Jesus better, but to understand our own faith better, our own selves better. For Jesus was and is complicated – being god or being human is complicated enough by themselves – and Jesus was both.
Poet Kathleen Norris explores this question in her book, Journey. She captures what makes it difficult to describe Jesus, those paradoxes of divinity and humanity, eternity and mortality that make up his being – as unfathomable as the universe, and as familiar as a flower:
Who do you say that I am?
Morning and evening,
womb before dawn;
nova of blossom,
star in the apple,
word on the wind.
We can count on the poets to put into words those questions whose answers remain
mysteries. Mysteries are not bad things. Mystery is what reminds us that we do not, and do not need, to know everything. Mystery is part of the fabric of our liturgy; it is what exists where our words for God, our names for Jesus, are not enough. Mystery is part of the beauty and grace of our sacraments. Mystery is part of what makes the Eucharist, Christ’s presence at the table, profound, difficult to fully understand, but beautiful and life-giving. Mystery is what brings us to silence and prayer when we stand outside under the night sky, or listen to the never-ending sound of ocean waves on the shore.
Jesus, says poet Kathleen Norris, is
the messenger,
the one,
whatever makes us sing:…
Another poet, Mary Oliver, writes:
I want
to see Jesus,
maybe in the clouds
or on the shore,
just walking,
beautiful man
and clearly
someone else
besides.
Who do you say that I am? Jesus asks his friends. How do you see me? And they look at him and see their friend and fellow traveler, walking along the seashore – exhausted, grieving, laughing, hungry, frustrated, kind – teacher, brother, son – a person walking the roads with them.
Who do you say that I am?
Peter answered, Messiah.
And of course Jesus’ Messiah was one who would suffer, and did suffer, because we suffer, and he suffered with us. Of course Jesus’ Messiah was quiet, and didn’t seek fame or glory. Of course Jesus’ Messiah was hungry and frustrated and kind and dusty from the road. Jesus’ Messiah was and is the Son of God, but also human.
And of course Jesus’ Messiah was a Messiah who asks us to walk with him. Not necessarily to take up a literal cross, not to lose our lives in the same way he did, but to lose our old ways of living, to re-center our lives in ways that focus on our love for him and our love for others instead of our love for ourselves – to re-center our lives in relationship with Jesus, to see him, to name him.
Who do you say that I am?
How do you see Jesus? In the clouds? Along the seashore? In the morning and in the
evening? In the depth of stars at night? In the heart of a rose or the eyes of an infant? In the light through these church windows? In the breaking of the bread? In kneeling next to one another at the Eucharist, sharing communion with one another and with the saints? In the quiet of prayer? In the classroom, or the kitchen, or the funeral home? In the garden? In the hospital room? In the face of the person welcoming the refugee? In the face of the refugee?
I want to see Jesus, writes Mary Oliver.
On the hard days
I ask myself
if I ever will.
Also there are times
my body whispers to me
that I [already] have.
Amen.
Sermon preached by The Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Virginia on September 15, 2024.
