Readings: Is 50:5-9a;
Ps 116; Ja 2:14-18; Mk 8-27-35
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“Who do you say
that I am?”
An interesting question
Jesus asks the apostles. Only Peter answers, but he gets it right, doesn’t he? With a little nudging from the Holy Spirit.
“You are the Christ” [Mk 8:29], he responds. That’s right -- You’re
the Messiah, the one who will set us free. Of course, Peter’s understanding is
very different from that of Jesus. This becomes apparent just a few moments
later when Peter gets it wrong. He gets it so wrong that Jesus calls him a
Satan. I guess that’s about as wrong as you can get.
Poor Peter. He’s
beginning to understand who Jesus is. We see this in
Matthew’s Gospel where this same scene is described. Here Peter answers Jesus
by saying,
“You are the Messiah,
the Son of the living God.” [Mt 16:16]
For Peter, Jesus is the
promised one, the king who will reign over Israel and bring freedom to His people.
But Peter’s idea of a king and freedom are human concepts. And there’s the
irony. Peter’s beginning to understand, but for all the wrong reasons. In truth,
he hasn’t a clue…at least not yet.
Peter and the others never dreamed
that the words of Isaiah, words we just heard proclaimed here, could apply to
the Messiah, and still less to Jesus:
"I
made no resistance, neither did I turn away. I offered my back to those who
struck me, my cheeks to those who tore at my beard; I did not cover my face
against insult and spittle." [Is
50:6]
Isaiah’s Suffering Servant isn’t the Messiah they envisioned, nor is He the God they worship. It was a slow, painful process for the disciples to change their thinking, something that wasn’t fully realized until after the resurrection, until Pentecost.
And
brothers and sisters, we, too, must sometimes go through the same process. That’s
one of the more
interesting aspects of this exchange between Jesus and Peter: It’s still going
on today. Jesus still asks us who do we say He is…and just like Peter,
far too many, don’t have a clue.
Many so-called
Christians stopped believing in Jesus’ divinity long ago. I mean, really, how
can any educated person today believe that this itinerant 1st
century Jewish preacher was actually God? A powerful teacher, perhaps…a man of
strong character…a wise philosopher…all of these things…but the Son of God?
Others will say, okay,
maybe he was a prophet…Or a great moral leader…Or a revolutionary hero…Or
simply a good man who, like many other good men, died before his time…Or
perhaps he was simply a fool…Yes, indeed, these
answers, and others like them, are all out there.
But for most of us, for us
Christians, at least when things are going well in our lives, Jesus’ question
is easy to answer: He’s the Messiah, the Son of the living God.
When you saw your newborn child or
grandchild for the first time…Thank you, Lord; Oh, yes, Jesus is the Messiah,
the Son of the living God.
When a loved one is cured of that
life-threatening disease…Thank you, Lord…Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the
living God.
When an adult child returns to the
Faith. Thank you, Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God.
Oh, we know the answer when things
are going well, in the midst of success and happiness and the good things of
life.
But then, there are other days,
aren’t there? Days when that question nags and challenges — even taunts us for
a response: But who do you say
that I am? When others ask about Jesus, what do you say to them?
“I don’t know!”, we want to cry. “I
wish I knew. I wish I could say for certain…”
So often, that question comes to us, not from one of the good places, with nice landscaping, and good food, and valet parking, and room service.
Sometimes it comes from the deserts of our lives,
from the dark woods choked with thorns and brambles. Then it just doesn’t sound
very pleasant, does it? No, it sounds sharp, so sharp it can wound. Yes, God’s
question, “Who do you say that I am?” comes just as often from places of
uncertainty, from places of pain and conflict.
And that’s when we want to scream
an answer: “I thought I knew who you
were, but not today, not after this…” Not when we’re lost in those
wilderness places, places where the border between hope and folly, between life
and death, between trust and despair – places where those distinctions are so
blurred the words become almost meaningless to us.
A few weeks ago, I conducted a
committal service for a family at the National Cemetery in Bushnell. The
husband and father, seemingly in wonderful health, had died suddenly of a heart
attack while he and his wife were visiting their children. One moment he was
laughing and playing with the grandchildren and the next moment he was gone.
They were devastated – all of them – and each struggled to answer Jesus’
question: But who do you say that
I am? And do you know something?
So did I.
For it
was one of those days when the answer we want to give, the witness we want
to be, the words we long to say – the healing words, the comforting words, the
reconciling words, the words of faith and hope – stick deep in the back of our
throats, or remain stubbornly silent, too elusive, too fragile, too uncertain
to be spoken aloud.
And yet that question, “Who do you say that I am?” continues to
echo down through the ages from the hills of Galilee. It lingers in the air of
a refugee camp in the Sudan. It shouts from a hospital bed in Leesburg, or a
half-way house in the Bronx or nursing home in Palm Beach. It calls to us from
a tunnel in Gaza, from an empty kibbutz in Israel, from a burned-out village in
Nigeria, or a soup kitchen in Wildwood. From a neighborhood across the
globe to one just around the corner and down the street.
Who do you say that I am?
The question arises when good men
and women die, when families grieve, when hearts are broken when trust is
betrayed. When it’s not a beautiful day in The Villages, who do we
say Christ is? Is He still the Messiah, the son of the living God?
After Jesus asked that question, he
turned to the crowd and told them:
“Whoever
wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow
me. For whoever wishes to save his life
will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and that of the gospel
will save it” [Mk 8:34-35].
For that grieving family standing
at the graveside, for the woman just diagnosed with cancer, for the man who
unexpectedly loses his job…these words of Jesus are hard words to hear. For so
many, isn’t life itself burden enough?
But in truth, only the cross can bear the full weight of human suffering. Only the cross contains the promise that death is not the final word. Only the cross offers real hope in the midst of the world’s despair. Just watch the news, folks, and see the chaos and hatred.
Do we accept and believe this truth even when our world
is crumbling and the path ahead seems so uncertain? Not if our lives reflect a
double standard. How can we be Christians and yet have the same values as the
rest of society? We can’t.
Sisters and brothers, we are
surrounded by a Godless culture, a culture of death. As Jesus prayed to the
Father:
I gave them your word, and the world hated them, because they do not belong to the world any more than I belong to the world [Jn 17:14].
Do we belong to the world, or do we
belong to Jesus Christ?
How can we be Christians if our
primary concerns are with material plenty, professional success, great careers
for our children and grandchildren? Oh, it’s a full-time job just
"saving" our lives, just locking in our security, isn’t it?.
But then Jesus tells us that to be
really free, we must let it go, stop clinging. He tells us to give and not to grab, to
share and not to hoard, to choose life at every stage, from conception until
natural death. To see others as brothers and sisters, not as rivals and
competitors. He tells us to love others, to reach out to them, not to guard
against them.
Who do you say that I am? he asks us, every day.
In the end, though, the question
doesn’t call for an answer in words; no, it demands a decision; it demands
action. Words are easy, aren’t they? Recall what James told us in our 2nd
reading.
"Go in peace…Oh, and if you have no bread, well, don’t worry,
God will provide.”
"Sorry, I can't help you now, I’m on my way to Mass."
"Oh, yes, I can imagine how difficult it must be to be
homeless. I'll pray for you."
No, Jesus doesn’t want just words;
He wants a decision, a decision to pick up our cross, to help others carry theirs,
and to follow Him together…for He’s the only one who knows the way…the way
home.
God love you.
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