THE POINT ON WHICH I STAND OR FALL
Posted by: bhfbc <bhfbc@...>
February 22, 2004
(evening service)
Text: Matthew 16:13-23
Because of the photos being sent back to earth by the rovers, the planet
Mars has been in the news a lot. Men and women of science are hoping that
the new images and the new technology will help answer some long-standing
questions, such as, Can the planet sustain life? Has there ever been any
life on Mars? Has there ever been any water on the planet? Even though
members of humanity might be significantly curious about Mars, the planet
does not return the curiosity. Mars doesn't care whether we believe that
it is inhabited or an icy wilderness. It doesn't care whether we think it
can support life or not. It is, after all, just an object - a planet.
In contrast, Jesus is not just an object. Although treated that way many
times, such as an object of religion or an object of mens speculation,
Jesus is a person. He is alive. He cares what we think about him. He is
deeply concerned about whether we know who he is, what he has done, and
what he is doing.
Men and women think of Jesus in many ways. For some, he is the key to the
intellectual speculations of life and faith. "Does the secret of life
really come true in this man?" For others, he is the moment of the
emotion. "I feel like the spirit of Jesus moves through me and moves me."
But no matter how we think about him, or how often we think about him,
this is sure: he is thinking about us. He is edging his way through the
crowd toward me and toward you, intent upon letting us find him.
This is what Jesus did during his ministry in this world. He was moving
among the crowds and finding those who connected with him in faith. Even
though the miracles could be seen and the teachings could be heard and
the truth made real, it took that dimension of faith in order to believe
and to know exactly who Jesus was - and is. It should come as no
surprise, then, that this discussion with his disciples is captured by
Matthew.
"Who do people say the Son of Man is?" Jesus asks his question at the
apex of his life, shortly before its curve turns steeply downward,
heading for the final end - from a human point of view - in the death
cry, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" But at the point of
this question, Jesus still stands at the height of his career. The crowd
follows him, and he creates a sensation wherever he appears. The lame
walk, the blind see, the deaf hear. These are mighty miracles, are they
not?
And so, Jesus asks even himself, "Who do they think I am? Am I simply one
who stands on this side of death? One who fits their idea of defender of
the Jews and defeater of the Gentiles? Perhaps, for them, I am the
highest-reaching human hand; the one who can stretch out and touch the
Father's hand. But they do not see me as the hand of the Father Himself.
Yet that is precisely what makes the difference. That is what I wish to
bring them. I am the Fatherly hand itself; the good hand which places
itself on the wounds of my human brothers and sisters. Even in their
touching expressions of love and their tendency to applaud me, many have
never caught a glimpse of who I am."
In this moment, I believe Jesus is very lonely. The praise of men is
merely a misunderstanding which does not do him justice. They recognize
his difference, but they still miss the point of the difference. So
turning to the ones who have been the closest to him, Jesus asks his
disciples, "Who do people say the Son of Man is?" They give the expected
answers: Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others,
Jeremiah or one of the prophets. OK, Jesus might have thought. I can
understand that. It fits. There are prophecies of the great prophets
returning to do wondrous signs, and they are some of the great prophets.
Aloud, he asks, "But what about you? Who do you say I am?"
The climax of the text occurs in Peter's reply: "You are the Christ, the
Son of the living God." Peter is driven to a confession which bends all
reason and then goes beyond it. It must have been a powerful shock to all
those who heard it. With his words, Peter says to Jesus, "You are not one
of us. You are not even a polished special edition of the human species.
You are totally different. We build dream castles and move farther from
the goal. But you come from the Father's lighted house while we sneak
around hopelessly outside. You come to meet us from the other side. At
best, perhaps, we are people who must toil 'upward still and onward,' yet
never knowing how the adventure of our life will end. But you come from
the fulfillment. We sing 'Peace is there that knows no measure,' but you
come from that peace, you are peace itself." (Helmut Thielicke, How to
Believe Again, translated by H. George Anderson, Philadelphia: Fortress
Press, 1970, pp. 42-3)
For a moment, the shroud of mystery around Jesus of Nazareth is dropped,
and he looks upon a stunned Peter with an incomprehensibly majestic gaze.
"Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by
man, but by my Father in heaven."
Now it is Peter's turn to be lonely. Moments before, Peter was a man like
everyone else. He affirmed God's providence when things suited him, and
he protested when they got in his way. He wanted to do the right things,
but his sinfulness welled up like everyone else's to cloudy the truth and
muddle the right thing. That's the way it usually is with all of us.
Peter was no different than you or me. But now, with one short sentence,
all that changes. Now he is the only one who has felt the scales drop
from his eyes. Now he sees that God's heartbeat can be touched and felt
and heard; that nothing in the world comes between God and himself. We
can see in our minds Peter's wide-eyed stare as he wonders what he has
just said, and who he has just said it about.
"And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my
church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it." To see God himself
in this figure of the man Jesus is the very purpose of the Christian
Church. We come to worship not to some foreign, unknowable apparition or
some faraway concept of a deity, but the living God made known in Jesus.
This is the goal of every believer of Christ's Church. In those moments
on that day, Peter was - and is - the rock upon which Christ's Church has
been built.
But then, just as quickly as the veil was lifted, it falls back over the
heart, and the mind once again looks only to reason to interpret the
whole truth. Just as quickly, Peter returns to his former state of
not-quite-belief and not-quite-denial. And so, when Jesus next proclaims
that "he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things at the hands of the
elders, chief priests and teachers of the law;" when he says that "he
must be killed and on the third day be raised to life," Peter sees only
through his eyes of bias and his thoughts of reasoned calculations that
"this shall never happen to you!"
"If you really are the Christ - and I believe that you are," Peter
argues, "then you can't possibly end up in the weakness of death. You
can't possibly lose popularity; you can't possibly suffer; you can't
possibly be handled that way by mere men!" And in so saying, Peter speaks
for all humanity.
If he really is the Christ, then how can Christianity be in the shape it
is in after two thousand years? How can Christ be silent while thousands
have met their horrible deaths in Dachau, Siberia, Vietnam, Cambodia,
Iraq, and the like? How can he possible remain quiet in the face of
cancer and crippled children, multiple sclerosis, and the tragedies of
aging? How can he be silent instead of stepping in? And how can he
possibly be able to step in - how shall he act like a Savior - when he
himself is crushed and ends up helpless on the cross? How indeed! "Never,
Lord!" shouts Peter. "This shall never happen to you!"
Peter envisioned his master as the usurper of the world; a new conqueror.
He would give the wheel of history a new turn and make the world a place
of righteousness and peace. For him, Jesus was a symbol of those utopias
that are dreamed of in every age. "How else," thought Peter, "can the
love of God make itself known than by helping the deprived and violated
obtain their rights, making wars cease, and driving death from the
world?"
In his reasoning, in the cloud of confusion, Peter missed the deepest
secret of God's love. For divine love does not consist in God's making
this world into a paradise. The exact opposite is true. God must
constantly give humanity up to their own hopelessness, their own pride,
their own failure. And when we are farthest from God, or - as it would
appear to us - that God is farthest from us, then the veil drops once
again and for the brief moment we stand before the Christ, the Son of the
living God.
That is exactly the point where God shows his love, for he stays with
humanity in the witches' cauldron of our misery. We find all this in the
suffering of Jesus. Here, God himself suffers with us, standing under His
own judgment; here He himself grieves over the punishment He must bring
upon us. Jesus Christ suffers all loneliness, all enmity, all
forsakenness by God, all fear of death; he shares in the suffering of all
temptations and all divine judgment upon human self-destruction. This is
the love of God, foolish Peter, this is the way it is! It does not escort
us to earth from beyond the blue with heavenly optimism; it waits for us.
The love of God walks beside us, suffering with us through whatever
terror or judgment we may visit upon ourselves. Here, in the midst of our
sorrow and anxiety, we grip the hand that will be injured along with
ours. God does not renounce his faithfulness to us by becoming weak; He
demonstrates His faithfulness to us by enduring that which He should have
never experienced.
So come the words, "Out of my sight, Satan! You are a stumbling block to
me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men."
Do not even think of standing in my way, Jesus declares. I know what I
am to do, and I know those for whom I have come. And so to you Peter, and
to my Church you represent, out of my way! My will - and mine alone -
will be done!
Here a part of the whole mystery of faith comes to light. We who suffer
in silence and trust when God does not speak, even though, humanly
speaking, He ought to; we who suffer in silence and trust when God
suffers, instead of banging our fist on the world's table; we who suffer
in silence and trust as God lets His sun rise on the evil and the good;
we who endure these mysteries and inconsistencies, content through storm
and night and horror to grip the one hand called Jesus Christ; we who
dare to believe that this hand is linked to thoughts that move far above
all these injustices of life and that at the same time it possesses the
power to bring storms and waves to a complete halt - we will be the first
to comprehend completely what it means to say, "You are the Christ, the
Son of the living God."
And having said this, we are overcome with unworthiness. Our guilt stands
out before us and points its accusing finger at us. And perhaps we frame
the same words in our hearts and mouths that Peter said elsewhere, "Lord,
depart from me, for I am a sinful man." I am not worthy to be brought
into your presence and into your peace. I can hardly bear the thought
that you would consider me worthy of your love.
The moment that we come to this, however, we will experience a miracle.
For the Lord will not leave and will not turn away; he will say,
"Precisely because you confess that you are not worthy of me, I will
declare myself to you. And precisely because you come to me bringing
nothing, with empty hands, I can be everything to you. Enter into the joy
of your Lord; now you may see face to face what you have formerly
believed from afar."
In this moment, we can believe in Jesus, because Jesus has entered our
life. In this moment, we can share with Peter the divine revelation, You
are the Christ, the Son of the living God.
Rev. Charles A. Layne, pastor, First Baptist Church, Bunker Hill, IN
________________________________________________________________
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