13th Sunday after Pentecost

We need to start with a little history, today. Why? Because of where this story takes place: Caesarea Philippi. Just like in real estate, location, location, location… Situated about 25 to 30 miles north of the Sea of Galilee, Caesarea Philippi was near a trade route that connected Tyre in the West to Damascus in the Northeast. A nearby cave housed a spring that fed one of the sources of the Jordan River. Signs of power and authority were on display everywhere. A couple of decades before Jesus’ birth, Herod the Great had built a temple there in honor of the cult of Caesar Augustus. By the time Jesus and his disciples visited the region, Caesarea Philippi had been given over to Herod’s son, Philip the tetrarch, who established the city as the administrative center of his government. By the time the Gospel of Matthew was written, people were likely aware that the Roman commander who led the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 had returned with his troops to Caesarea Philippi in celebration of their victory.

In other words, this was a place that oozed the unctuous nature of politics as usual. It was a place that worshiped Caesar Augustus. It was a place filled with political patronage and a reveling in all things worldly. The name of the town itself pointed to the “I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine” give-and-take of the kingdoms of this world. Translated to a twenty-first century context, this would be a place that would be crawling with highly paid lobbyists in $1,000 suits earning $700 an hour to shill for the AARP or the National Rifle Association or any number of high-powered single-interest groups that work the system for influence and manipulation. So, it’s no coincidence that this is where that Jesus asks his famous question, “Who do people say that I am?”

Asking that particular question there, in the shadow of power politics and all that goes along with it, transforms it from an idle question of curiosity into a loaded question bristling with implications. It would have been one thing for Jesus to ask this in some quiet village in Galilee, but it’s quite another matter to ask it in Caesar-ville. So, Jesus’ question— “Who do you say that I am?”—hangs in the air at the intersection of economic trade, religion, and the power of the Empire. It’s not just a question about Jesus’ identity, as if getting the titles right would earn somebody an “A” on the messiah quiz. It’s a question about allegiance. In what or in whom will the followers of Jesus place their trust? Will it be in the privileges deriving from access to opportunity and wealth? In the worship of a prevailing culture’s latest idols? In allegiance to the dominant power of earthly rulers? Or will they trust, instead, in the One whose life, death, and resurrection reveal the mercy and justice of the living God?

When Peter gives his confession that Jesus is the Christ, there’s more than a touch of revolutionary zeal in what he says. There in King Philip’s city dedicated to Caesar Augustus, Peter’s saying that Jesus is the Christ was a shot across the Roman political bow. Jesus is, of course, keenly aware that his goals were not political pomp and circumstance, or earthly splendor and glory. His warning to the disciples in verse 20 to keep his identity a secret did not stem from some fear that they’d be arrested for sedition. Jesus simply did not want to get swept up in a political campaign in which he did not want to be a candidate for secular office.

Still, it’s good for Jesus to know that his disciples can get this right. And Peter’s getting it right results in a huge set of promises from Jesus. But this isn’t all about Peter. Jesus is establishing his entire Church as the place of forgiveness. And at the core of that Church lies the confession that Jesus is “the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” That confession is the rock upon which the church is built, not Peter.

What this story makes clear is that whatever power the Church has to forgive sins or point out sins, it all stems from one thing alone: knowing who Jesus really is. If Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God, as Peter said, then no matter how modest the church may look, no matter how imperfect the church is, what we have at the core of it all is a power that outstrips the political powers that be in this world. We have a protecting force, a gracious forgiving force that no one in the universe will ever be able to stop.

So, how do we keep the faith? And weather what for many is an economic crisis? And stay hopeful (or even just sane) amid such a toxic political culture? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never experienced such a protracted amount of time when it feels like our country is being pulled apart at the seams. I know that we all wrestle with these questions.

These questions have pushed me to read this passage a little differently this year. The larger story and scene that takes place at Caesarea Philippi actually covers two weeks of readings in the church. And if you’ve preached on this text the number of times that I have, you can’t help but to read this week’s passage in light of the week to come where, in the blink of an eye, Peter goes from being the star-pupil to being called “Satan” by Jesus. So, let’s celebrate Peter’s insight, but also recognize how limited it is. It’s limited by his misunderstanding of true strength and power, that is God’s strength and power. Peter, like most (if not all) of us and the world generally, defines power in terms of strength and might and the ability to exert our will over others. When Peter says “messiah,” he’s thinking of a warrior king, like King David. But Jesus’ cross turns our conceptions of power on their head and demonstrates the true power of sacrificial love.

So, yes, let’s acknowledge the truth of Peter’s epiphany and celebrate his confession. Let’s recognize his accomplishment. Except… except it’s not his accomplishment. Not really. “…flesh and blood has not revealed this to you”, says Jesus, “but my Father in heaven.” Revelation, it turns out, comes from God.  And only from God. Always. And here’s the thing: the same is true of faith.

All of which changes our approach to the questions I asked just a little bit ago. (How do we keep the faith, weather the economy, and stay hopeful (or even just sane) amid such a toxic political culture?) It’s not that they aren’t real or genuine or appropriate questions. They absolutely are. But we don’t have to take final responsibility for answering them, or at least not for procuring the faith, hope, and courage that we may feel are in short supply. Because the faith we seek, the confidence we long for, the courage we hope to find and to share – those are gifts from God. And… God loves to bestow those kinds of gifts.

And here’s why that makes a difference. After acknowledging the challenges and weariness and stress that we are feeling… After lamenting the divisions that plague us… And after wondering how we will get through all this and keep faith. After all this, we are reminded that God, creator of the heavens and the earth, the One who brings life from death and creates from nothing… this God is still at work. God is still at work sustaining us in faith, creating in us hope, stirring us to acts of courageous generosity.

“Flesh and blood have not revealed this to you,” Jesus says to us as well as Peter, but rather “by my Father in heaven.” God is still at work. God keeps showing up in a variety of ways to create faith, hope, and love during challenging and unprecedented times. In the acts of generosity and kindness that carry out each and every day. In our efforts to find common ground with one another and to overcome division with the love of Jesus. In the imperfect but vital work for greater racial equity and justice in which we are engaged. In the willingness to challenge ourselves in our faith and call to ministry, as we seek to embody God’s love and grace in ever new ways.

God is still at work. And despite everything that’s going on in our world right now, God is with us, sustaining us in faith, equipping us to meet the needs of our neighbor, renewing us in hope and courage, and preparing to work through us for the sake of the world God loves so much.

God is still at work. And we need to keep that in mind, as we go about living our newly redefined lives. As we come to understand who Jesus is, we begin to realize that embodying Peter’s confession is next to impossible. And it is, unless we also acknowledge that we are never alone. Christ walks the way before us and alongside us. Christ is our constant companion. Just as he did with Peter, Christ continues to come to us, to dwell with the church, pulling, prodding, guiding, nudging, calling, and being with us.

“Who do you say that I am?” This is the heart of the matter for us as the church. How we answer this question, with our lips and with our lives, defines the shape of our life together. We make this confession, not by heroic acts of will, but by grace, by a transforming relationship with the God who has come to us in the flesh, who walked the way before us, and who joins us on the road. This confession is not our possession. It’s not the result of our cleverness or the fruit of our brilliant deduction. It’s a blessing to be able to say, and even more to live, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It’s a gracious and costly gift. It has the power to determine everything about us, because it demands all our heart, mind, body, and soul. It leads to the cross and to giving ourselves sacrificially for God and for neighbor. But it is also the way that leads to life.

AMEN