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September 13, 2009—Proper 19

Lectionary Texts: Proverbs 1:20-33 or Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 19 or Psalm 116:1-9; James 3:1-12; Mark 8:27-38

Sermon Text: Mark 8:27-38

Will the Real Jesus Please Stand Up?

“Who do people say I am?”

Eight months have passed since the U.S. presidential inauguration. We're beginning to get a better picture of Barack Obama and how he will lead as our 44th president. His speeches, his decisions, his programs, the way he answers the hard questions--all point to the type of leader he embodies. We learn a lot about a person just by watching what he does and listening to what he says. It's difficult to know much more beyond this. We rarely, if ever, catch a glimpse of the interior of a person, the inner mechanics behind the man or woman.

To the crowds that followed Jesus, this was the person they witnessed--this public figure who healed many and told some great, if boggling, stories. In Mark 8:27-28, Jesus asked His disciples, “Who do people say I am?” The disciples acknowledge what was common then as it is now, that the people compared Him to the great figures of history and their time--the prophets, Elijah, or John the Baptist.

And there's the rub. Unable as they were to see beyond the public display of power, and unwilling to get close enough to discover its source, they reduced Jesus to comparisons. Afraid of His otherness, they domesticated Him, putting Him in a container they could both get their minds around as well as carry around like a good luck charm.

How often do we do the same to Jesus? Content with our cursory knowledge of the Infinite One, or unwilling to draw near for fear of what it may reveal about us, we keep Jesus right where we want Him, as a talisman against sickness and financial disaster, as a Santa figure to whom we can bring our requests for a better job, a better house, a better spouse.

Brennan Manning critiques:

The more we let go of our concepts and images, which always limit God, the bigger God grows and the more we approach the mystery of his indefinability. When we overlook the dissimilarity, we begin to speak with obnoxious familiarity about the Holy, make ludicrous comments such as “I could never imagine God doing such a thing,” calmly predict Armageddon, glibly proclaim infallible discernment of the will of God, and trivialize God, trimming the claws of the Lion of Judah.1

“Who do people say I am?” The reality is, whoever they want. The philosophers, psychologists, and skeptics are right when they say that the God most people worship is merely a social construct, a crutch propping up their own beliefs rather than challenging and shaping them. Jesus is simply their virtuous teacher. Benched by our paltry trust and belief in Him, Jesus, the star player, sits on the sidelines waiting for someone to take notice.

“Who do you say I am?”

The question is double edged. It's both, “Who do you say I am?” and “Who do you say I am?”. On one hand it implies, who do you think I am? On the other hand, it goes deeper still to the existential question, who does your gut tell you I am?

How we answer those questions frequently depends on our situation. Flush from a spiritual retreat, we're likely to proclaim Jesus the Lover of our soul. Yet faced with the terminal illness of a loved one, we might see Him as an aloof, uncaring ruler. Usually, Jesus is simply who we want Him to be at any given moment, unmoored from the pillars of Scripture and Spirit-revelation. More often than not, who we think Jesus is and who our gut tells us He is are divorced from one another. In tough times we're content to save face and give the Sunday School answer to Christ's identity when our insides are screaming at us “Charlatan!” “Impostor!”

During the time of Christ, the concept of Messiah took on largely political meaning being equated with the reemergence of the Davidic monarchy. Peter's response in 8:29, “You are the Christ” reflects the view of the Twelve that they've concluded at least that much about Jesus.

Taken in context, this story represents the gradual opening of the disciples' eyes to the reality of who Jesus is. Just prior to this account Mark sets us up with the story of Jesus healing the blind man. Twice Jesus laid His hands on the man's eyes. The first time the man only saw dimly, the second time, his eyesight was perfected. Likewise with the disciples, this first proclamation of Jesus as the Messiah is only a dim reflection of the full reality. It wasn't until after His death and resurrection that the disciples really began to apprehend it. It took the death on the cross of their strongly held beliefs to help focus their sight more clearly on who Jesus really was.

The Apostle Paul said, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully” (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Could it be that our greatest sin is not that we fail to live into the fullness of God in Jesus Christ, but simply that we don't acknowledge the rose-colored glasses with which we look upon that failure. In other words, we're not honest with God and with ourselves about who we are and who He is. We need to divest ourselves of the fortress we've constructed around our heart. As Meister Eckhart once exclaimed, “I pray that I may be quit of God, that I may find God.”

“You Are the Christ.”

Getting honest with God takes practice, it takes repetition, and it takes choosing the right friends for the journey--those who will not let us lie to them or ourselves. Time after time, Jesus chastened the crudity with which the disciples interpreted Him and His teachings. Never once did He allow them to put on the comfortable slippers and robe of sloppy and self-centered thinking. When they presumed to know His mind, He dashed their preconceptions to pieces--not out of meanness or spite, but because it had to be that way--the way of the Cross (v. 34) is too perilous for the ill-prepared.

Many new vehicles now come equipped with on board navigational systems allowing us to type in a destination and receive directions for getting there. Trouble can occur when differences arise between what the computer tells us and what our minds tell us. For instance, perhaps we're traveling to a place with which we were once very familiar but have not visited for a long time. Landmarks may change and streets get widened. A trip that was once routine now becomes foreign. The computer tells us to turn left, but because we've “been here before” and “are sure it's this way” we turn right and end up lost.

No doubt this is what the disciples experienced over and over as they followed their puzzling rabbi. Sure that they knew exactly who Jesus was and what He was all about, they allowed themselves to be blinded to His mission and reality. Each time He pointed “this way,” they knew He must mean “that way.” Jesus asked, “Who do you say I am?” “You are the Messiah, the Overthrower of Rome, the Warrior-King of Israel!” they declared as they patted themselves on the backs. Perhaps it's such blind ignorance that caused the writers of the Proverbs to lament, “They will call to me but I will not answer; they will look for me but will not find me” (1:28).

Our world loves a hero. But Jesus is no hero. A hero embodies all of our hopes and dreams--all we believe that is good about us. Instead, Jesus is a Savior. A savior critiques the status quo, rescues us from our enemies, and re-imagines the world “even as it is in heaven.” A savior rescues us from ourselves.

Are we willing to let go of our long-cherished idols of Jesus--our rock star Jesus, our magician Jesus, our political Jesus--and instead stand face to face with this Messiah who seeks to burst every misconception we have about Him? Are we willing to begin seeing Him as He really is revealed to us in Scripture without the accoutrement we've conveniently piled on Him over the years? Are we willing to begin confessing Him truly as the Messiah—on His terms?

“Who do you say I am?” The truth is, the question was never really about the disciples. It was about the One they followed. May we begin following Jesus instead of the personification of ourselves we've made Him out to be.

Notes:

1. (Manning, Ruthless Trust, p. 56).