Who Do You Say I Am? (Mark 8:27–9:8) Rev. Abigail Henderson February 15, 2015 So as many of you know, my partner Will teaches English as a Second Language to middle school students. Will’s students come from all over the world, including several Asian countries. And since learning a new language isn’t just about vocabulary and grammar-­‐-­‐it’s about culture and history, too-­‐-­‐Will also teaches a course in Western history and civilization. So this is the context for an amazing exchange that took place one day last year. Will was attempting to explain the Protestant Reformation to group of mostly Chinese and Korean students. The textbook, for beginners, wasn’t providing much help. Here’s a sample line: “Martin Luther sometimes did not agree with the Roman Catholic Church, so the Roman Catholic Church was very angry with Martin Luther.” So Will found himself trying to explain more clearly the division between the Catholic and Protestant churches. “Here’s the thing,” he said, “Even though Catholics and the Protestants are sort of different, they both believe in Jesus.” There was a pause. A Chinese girl who had been nodding the entire lecture looked up from her diligent note-­‐taking and raised her hand. “Teacher, what’s a Jesus?” Now, I have to say, that’s a really good question! The answer might seem terribly obvious but I’m not so sure it is. It isn’t obvious now, and get this-­‐-­‐it wasn’t obvious long ago either. The identity and meaning of Jesus has been a matter of debate since the earliest incarnations of the church. We see that debate reflected in Mark’s Gospel. As Jesus walks from town to town, healing and performing miracles, people are constantly asking: Who is this man? How did he get this power? Isn’t he just a carpenter’s son from Nazareth? Some think he’s the prophet Elijah. Some think he’s John the Baptist. Some think he’s just a crazy street preacher. The Gospel of Mark has its own answer: the Gospel of Mark proposes that Jesus is none other than the long-­‐
awaited Messiah. The Promised One, the Savior, the Liberator who will lead God’s people to freedom. That’s Mark’s thesis statement, if you will. Every story Mark tells us about Jesus is intended as evidence toward that basic argument. But what does that mean? What did it mean for the disciples, then? What does it mean for us, now? © 2014 First United Church of Christ
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Let’s start with the disciples. As I prepared for this sermon, I looked up my old divinity school notes from courses on the New Testament. I was reminded that Biblical scholars have a phrase for describing Jesus’ closest followers in the Gospel of Mark: They call them the “stupid disciples.” It sounds harsh, but it’s a literary device that Mark uses: the stupid disciples never “get” anything right away. They are constantly misinterpreting Jesus’ teachings. Peter-­‐-­‐
the so-­‐called “Rock of the Church”-­‐-­‐is particularly guilty of this. So they need extra explanation. Jesus must clarify things for them-­‐-­‐and for us-­‐-­‐over and over again. And Jesus clarifies something really important here: In order to fulfill his role as Messiah, Jesus makes it clear to the disciples that he must suffer terribly and die. And anyone who follows him is going to suffer also. The disciples have a really hard time getting their heads around this. And who can blame them? Their leader and their friend is calmly informing them that he will leave them in the most terrible way possible. And he is also informing them that they, too, are not safe; that all who follow him and love God will eventually “taste death.” How does that sound to you? Is that something you would sign up for? “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” These are the stark terms of following Jesus, as outlined in Mark, the sparest of Gospels. Mark doesn’t fool around with poetic language or dramatic storytelling. No, Mark gets straight to the point: God does not and will not provide us with a detour around suffering. In order to save your life, you have to lose it. Think of how that must have sounded to those first followers. They don’t have the benefit of hindsight. They don’t know this story like we do, 2,000 years later. They haven’t celebrated Easter every year, with its triumph and trumpets and timpani. We have heard, over and over again, that Jesus is tortured on the cross like any enemy of the Roman Empire, but that three days later he rises up and overcomes death. We know that part; it’s written in our hearts. Or is it? I’m not sure we really know the story of resurrection all that well. I suspect we have more in common with the stupid disciples. I think it’s awfully hard to believe in the reality of resurrection. To really believe in it. So I sympathize with the disciples; I even identify with Peter, with his eagerness to shut down or ignore Jesus’ talk about suffering and death and bad news. Think of a time that you have received very bad news. Or been the bearer of it. I remember the summer, several years ago, when my sister Rachel shared that she was no longer pursuing treatment for brain cancer. That she had likely weeks or months to live. Even though I’d been anticipating the announcement, my stomach and lungs clenched up. My heart and my mind resisted taking it in. Some part of me just couldn’t believe that it was true, that she was dying, that her death would be slow and hard. Part of me still doesn’t believe it, even though she’s been gone over six years. Mostly, though, I accept her absence; I’ve integrated it into my daily life. My grief is no longer an open wound, but a bruise -­‐ tender to the touch, but bearable. © 2014 First United Church of Christ
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I dream about Rachel now and then, and I want to share that a dream about her the other night. It wasn’t a very exciting dream. I was standing in a house, and she came in through the front door. That’s it. Nothing flashy. Unlike other dreams I’ve had, she didn’t say anything or really do anything notable. She just opened the door and walked through it. I think, maybe, she was just starting to laugh. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but let me tell you: for the very first time since Rachel died, I felt like I was with her. Like she was really there, that I was in the presence of her full unrepeatable self. I can’t explain why this dream was so powerful, or what made it different from other dreams. But somehow, in some way, for one brief moment, Rachel and I were together, in the same place. And then I woke up. And felt such deep love for my sister, but also such sadness at the stark reality of her absence. I can’t dismiss this dream as a vivid memory or an intense psychological experience. Sure, it was probably both of those things, but my faith transforms it into something more. My faith cannot help but interpret my experiences in the light of our tradition, our Gospel, our Good News. And so, tentatively, I take Rachel’s presence in my dream as a sign and symbol of hope. I hope that Rachel is not lost; that my relationship with her, in all its beauty and complexity, is not lost; that death does not have final word on this or any matter. I think following Jesus means dreaming resurrection dreams and telling resurrection stories, like this one. But our text today reminds that we can’t rush resurrection. We can’t be like Peter, rebuking one another or ourselves for dwelling in pain. Because pain is part of the deal, whether we admit it or not. I think Jesus embodies that truth; I think that’s who he is. He shows us that up on the mountain, when his willingness to face injustice and oppression and suffering transforms him-­‐-­‐and, we hope, transforms us. On Ash Wednesday, the Season of Epiphany gives way to the Season of Lent. Lent is a time to face Bad News, to dwell in it, even if it hurts. Lent is a time to avoid rushing ahead to the end of the story because, truthfully, none of us know it yet. We can only hope. I pray that during this season, you hear Jesus’ voice in your ears, asking you, “Who do you say I am?” May you respond to that question with your own stories, and your own dreams. Amen. © 2014 First United Church of Christ
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