In the Greek tragedy Oedipus Rex, the title character – separated from his biological
parents at birth – murders his father on the road to Thebes and later marries
his own mother Jocasta. In Shakespeare’s
The Taming of the Shrew a destitute tinker
is been duped into believing he’s actually a lord, and he watches a play in which major characters – Hortensio
and Lucentio and Tranio – disguise themselves to win some maidens fair . . . in
North by Northwest, Cary Grant’s
character is mistaken for a non-existent government agent, and he’s abducted
and victimized and chased across the country by federal agents and criminal
masterminds. Finally, he actually has to
take on the identity of the non-existent
George Kaplan to get out of his pickle.
What do these plots have in common? They’re driven by the theme of mistaken
identity. Oedipus might not have killed his daddy or married his mama if he
had recognized them as such; in The Taming of the Shrew, a story of
disguise is wrapped in a narrative of
mistaken identity; and in North By
Northwest, Cary Grant shouldn’t even have gotten up that morning – everything that happens to him hinges on that
first misidentification by those first bad guys. Mistaken identity has been important in the
narrative arts – dramatic or otherwise – for thousands of years, and it’s
important to our story today. Only here,
although the people have mistaken
ideas about Jesus’ ID is, the disciples know exactly who Jesus is. . . or do they?
Let’s take a look at the set-up – and note
here our reading begins before the lectionary– Jesus asks the disciples a
question – the million-dollar question – on the way to Caesarea Philippi: “Who do people say that I am?” And their answer is a list of all the
identities that the people – the
folks in the fields, the synagogues, the marketplaces – all the identities the
crowds have assigned to him. And they
come up with a list: “Some say John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still
others, one of the prophets.” And
what’s interesting about this list is that Mark has spent more than a little effort showing his readers – both
his original ones, 35 years or so after the crucifixion and us today, two-thousand years later – Mark’s been at some
pains to show us that Jesus is in many ways like those guys . . . he preaches a similar message to John’s – repent,
for the kingdom of heaven has drawn near. He makes a little bit of food into a whole lot, like Elijah . . . he heals the sick
like Elisha . . . in fact, Mark has tried to show that Jesus is
in the prophetic tradition that began
with Moses, continued through Amos
and Elijah and Isaiah and ended – according to Mark, anyway – with one John the Baptist. And so, if you were one of the people, you
might be forgiven for thinking Jesus is a prophet reborn – he acts just like
them.
But then Jesus asks the disciples: “Who do you think I am?” And good
old Peter – who Mark uses as a representative, as a stand-in for the twelve – good old Peter chimes in: “You are the Messiah.” And immediately, Jesus tells them not to tell
anyone, in an example of the so-called messianic secret that here
serves to create two classes of individuals . . . the people – run-of-the-mill bystander who may have heard Jesus preach
or heard about his activity or seen a
miracle or two, and the in-crowd, the initiates, who know who Jesus is . . . or at least they think they do. The next
scene makes you wonder . . .
Jesus begins to teach them that the Son of Man – note that he doesn’t call himself “Messiah,”—must undergo great suffering, he
must be rejected by the elders and
chief priests and scribes – all the religious authorities who control Judaism –
he must be rejected by them and killed, and after three days rise again. And he says all these things “quite openly,”
and Peter – again meant to represent all the disciples – Peter takes him aside and
rebukes him . . . and the Greek word we
translate as “rebuke” is a word of command, the same word Jesus uses to command the winds to be silent, and so Peter is using
this sharply hierarchical word, this word that masters uses with slaves or
kings use with subjects, he’s using it with Jesus,
whose reaction is to say “Get behind
me, Satan,” and we usually take it as if Jesus is, well, angry, but if you read it carefully,
you can see that it’s strangely . . . deliberate . . . before he speaks, he
looks carefully at all the disciples,
as if to say “Even though I’m calling out Peter, it applies to you all . . .”
But still, it seems harsh, and all we
can say is . . . whew! Those are mighty
strong words, and Peter reacted . . . how?
did he look behind him to see if the devil was back there? Did he put his hand on his chest with an
innocent look and say who me? Maybe he knew the minute he rebuked his
master that he shouldn’t have . . . but Satan?
Seems like an awful nasty thing to
say to somebody who’s just talking back to the boss . . . but here’s Jesus’
explanation: he says Peter’s is “setting
his mind not on divine things, but on
things that are human,” things of the
world . . . and everybody knows that Satan is the ruler of the world, albeit
only temporarily . . .
But what did Jesus mean by it? In what way was
Peter putting his mind on earthly things rather than those of the divine? Well . . . let’s recap. He asks them who people say he is, and they
think he’s John or maybe Elijah or one of the other prophets, but the disciples
– in the person of Peter – know – or think
they know – the truth . . . that he’s the Messiah. And then Jesus launches into a description of
what’s going to actually happen to
him, and it’s only then that Peter
rebukes him and Jesus calls him Satan . . . Peter calls him Messiah, Jesus
tells them how he’s going to end up, Peter rebukes him . . . the sequence
should tell us something . . . maybe
it has to do with this title Messiah
or at least Peter’s conception of it
. . .
The word Messiah comes from the Hebrew mashach,
which means to anoint. At their
coronation, Israel’s kings were anointed with oil, and the name Messiah means
simply “anointed one.” But to understand
what Peter meant by it, we have to
know that in the several centuries leading up to Jesus’ birth, Jewish
expectations and anticipation for an anointed Messiah were building to a slow
boil. This person would be a king of the
Davidic line, of the “everlasting” house of David, and he would restore that
line. In the book of Daniel, this figure
is referred to as an “anointed prince,” in Hebrew a “Messiah Nagid.” In the first century B.C. Psalms of Solomon, there’s the
description of a “righteous king, taught by God” who will be the “anointed of
the Lord.” And so Peter’s – and the
other disciples’ – view of the Messiah was likely a triumphal figure, who would
restore the House of David. A
warrior-king who would kick a little Roman behind and take names.
And Peter’s all excited and gushes out his
answer – “you are the Messiah!” – and
then you can almost hear the screeching brakes when Jesus tells them how he
will be tortured and executed . . . Peter’s eyes widen, and he looks around to
see who might be listening – did he have to say these things in front of God
and everybody? So maybe Peter and the others can be
forgiven – I’m sure Jesus forgave him
– for taking him aside and saying “Ix-nay on the ucifixion-cray.”
As Jesus points out, Peter’s is thinking
in human, binary categories, that divide the world into us versus not-us. And in that
dualistic conception, the anointed one would certainly be on Israel’s side, against people who were not-Israel.
That translated into their Messiah being a military genius, a
warrior who would put Israel back on top, who’d show those Romans and their
Herod toadies who was boss . . . that is thinking in “human” ways, that might
makes right, that you walk softly and carry a big stick . . . that’s how
countries with the biggest armies
operate, if they’re not careful . . . they
get to dictate to others how big an
army or what weapons they can or can’t have . . . they get to dictate what kind of government they can or can’t have, or at
least they think they can . . . The
way human societies operate, might generally makes right, the first shall
always be first, and most of the time, the last always stays last.
But not if you follow the path Jesus
followed . . . if you want to become a follower of Jesus, you must deny yourself, take up your cross and follow him. Deny
yourself. Take up your cross. And follow Jesus where? Well, when Jesus took up his cross, he went to Calvary
. . . and there he was mocked and spit-on and hung-up to dry. Those who want to save their life will lose
it . . . and those who lose their life for Jesus’ sake will save it. How against the ways of the world is that?
In 313, Constantine legalized Christianity
in the Roman Empire . . . and in doing so, he undoubtedly saved our faith . . .
but it was at a price . . . He recognized that many of the features of
Christianity could be usefully employed to keep his far-flung empire in
line. Things like the emerging hierarchy
of Bishops and Priests and the insistence of some within the faith that God loved only them could be fused with
Roman ideals to keep ‘em down on the farm.
But even then it was
recognized that certain things – like conquering hapless countries by force –
appeared to be incompatible with Christ’s teachings. This resulted in some amusing attempts to
justify their actions, like Roman soldiers holding their sword arms out of the water at their baptism.
Nevertheless, in short order Christianity
had been made over – with the complicity of many in the Church hierarchy – as
something compatible with Roman aims . . . many in the Empire mistook Jesus’
identity as someone for whom Roman rule of conquered countries was just
hunky-dory. Constantine – and emperors
after him – had taken Jesus and repackaged him in the mold of the world . . .
Jesus the warrior, Jesus the conqueror, Jesus the Messiah with whom Peter would
have no beef. But they aren’t the only
ones who do this, of course, we’re all guilty of a little Christ-molding, a
little making of-him a God in our own
image, from time to time . . . the trick is to see it when we do it, and see through
it when others do . . .
It’s Lent, and at Lent we’re encouraged to be especially clear-eyed, especially honest,
about ourselves and our place in the drama of God’s salvation history . . . and
today I ask you to examine your hearts and try to discern where we mis-identify Christ. Where we
mold him in our own image, or in the
image of our society, our nation – where we use him to justify our own personal agendas or our own country’s
projects, rather than those of God. We might say “Christ would want us to enjoy ourselves,” or he said the poor would always be with us, or
he’s a lover of freedom and democracy and free-market capitalism . . . and all
these things may be true, but when we use them to justify our own selfish
actions – our hoarding of stuff, our
indifference to the poor and the
inequities of our economic system – we
have created a God in our own image.
Brothers and sisters, Jesus said “if any
want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me.” And at Lent, it behooves us to contemplate
what that might look like in our own lives, and in the life of our community of
faith. It’s not an easy task, it can
seem like a lot of work, and maybe even down-right dangerous to boot. But you know what? Jesus assures us in the same breath in which
he admonishes . . . those who want to save their life – those who want to hoard
their stuff, live isolated lives, as if they are the only ones on earth – will
lose it, but those who lose their life for his
sake, will save it, they’ll have an abundant, fulfilling life . . . and that’s the holy paradox folks, what Paul called the
foolishness of the cross . . . save your life, lose it, lose your life . . . save it.
These are the words of eternal
life. Amen.
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