Who do you say that I am?
Caesarea Philippi was a Roman town in Northern Israel right on the Syrian border. There were many religions in the area. The pagan people worshiped in fourteen different temples. Herod the Great built a large temple for the Romans to worship Caesar. This place is a display of human power and might. It is here that we meet Jesus and the disciples.
Jesus has been quite busy since healing the Canaanite woman’s daughter in our reading last week. If we were to read the passages between last week’s reading and today’s, we would learn that Jesus had cured many, fed the masses, and argued with religious leaders who demanded a sign from heaven confirming his identity. And as if that were not enough, Jesus realized that even the disciples, his trusted friends, did not appear to understand him or his mission.
Jesus takes the disciples outside their comfort zone, places them against the Roman Empire’s backdrop with vast theological influences surrounding them, and drops a bombshell of a question:
” Who do people say that I am?
And who do you say that I am?”
This echoes across the hearts of the disciples into our hearts this morning.
Notice that the disciples were quick to answer the first question:
Who do people say that I am? Almost answering in competition, they popcorn their answers out: “People say you’re John the Baptist.” “No, they think you’re Elijah.” “Wait, no, some think you’re Jeremiah.” “Yes, but others say you’re one of the prophets.”
The disciples’ answers are based on the religious groups they are familiar with, and interestingly, Jesus does not affirm or deny their responses. Christ simply listens as they divulge what they believe they know based on the preferences, ideas, and expert opinions of others.
And isn’t that what we do? Our explorations of faith begin with naming what we have heard, examining what has been passed down from our various traditions, and reciting the certainties that others have handed to us.
These answers cost us very little; they are safe and good-natured, which is all well and good as they point back to history and tradition. But they lack intimacy. Naming what we have heard from others and repeating what we have inherited from our parents, our cultures, our religious beliefs, or our peers are good ways to begin our explorations. However, we cannot build our lives of faith on hearsay alone. Eventually, the question of who Jesus is needs to become personal.
After the competition settles, Jesus presses on, asking one of the most difficult questions among his friends—a question that seeks truth. One that desires no flattery, but an honest answer from the heart. It is only with those we truly love and who love us that we risk answering the question: “How have you experienced me? Who do you say that I am?”
In this moment, Jesus does not care what people have said about him, claimed him to be, or witnessed him to be; he cares how the disciples have experienced him. Christ is asking the disciples to let go of what the world has told them, look inside their hearts, and search to see how they have experienced Christ. He asks them to put away notes of tradition and creed, and reflect on the life and ministry they’ve lived together: the bread they have broken, the miles they have walked, and the burdens and joys they have carried.
Who am I to you?
When Jesus asks this, the memory of those shared miles hangs in the air. The disciples stand there staring blankly back at him, waiting for a response—any response—until they are met with heavy silence. Until the bold, reckless, and impulsive Simon Peter steps up with courage and breaks the silence with the uttering of: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!”
Simon Peter does not say how great of a moral teacher or philosopher Jesus is. Instead, he looks at Christ wearing dusty, worn-down sandals, standing in the shadow of Caesar’s massive temple, and calls Jesus the Messiah—the Anointed One. Against a wall of cold, dead stone statues dedicated to human power and military might, Simon Peter proclaims that Christ has come and Jesus is the Son of the Living God.
It is a breathtaking and dangerous answer.
And Jesus does not applaud Simon Peter for passing a theology test. Instead, Christ turns to Simon Peter and says, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.”
Christ makes clear that Simon Peter did not arrive at this truth on his own simply because he was the smartest disciple. Rather, Simon Peter’s answer was a gift of revelation. It came from intimacy with God. It came from walking the dusty roads, sharing meals, watching Jesus free the outsider, and letting his heart be transformed by love.
And the shock of this Gospel continues as Christ declares that Simon Peter now stands as Peter, the rock on which the church will be built, and that the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it.
Christ looks at this flawed, impulsive, fumbling fisherman and renames him Peter, the Rock. Jesus points to a fragile, imperfect human being and says: This is the kind of rock I build on. Not cold, imperial marble designed to crush people. Not rigid, unyielding certainty. But the living, breathing, wrestling faith of ordinary people who dare to love me.
As that promise echoes down through time, the question meets us this morning with that same starkness: Who do you say that I am?
It is a question we must answer for ourselves. We cannot answer it with the faith of our parents, Luther’s catechism, or simply by sitting in this building adhering to our ELCA tradition. Christ isn’t looking for inherited formulas or theological understanding; Jesus is asking for our hearts.
And he asks us right here, in a world that is still loudly trying to claim Christ. The world often offers a Christ that benefits those in power—those like Caesar and King Herod who build temples for their egos.
We hear those loud voices around us today: voices that loudly claim a Christ who fights for political dominance, cultural control, and earthly power. They demand that Jesus serve our human desire for authority and division. It is overwhelming and disheartening to hear those voices speak so loudly, tempting us to shrink back in silence like the disciples standing in front of Christ. In their hearts, they knew the truth, but professing that truth can be scary.
Who do you say that I am?
Answering this question can set our world free. When we answer the question from our heart—“You are the Messiah, Son of the Living God”—we confess a Christ who has not come to conquer, but one who comes to love. We confess a Christ who doesn’t desire power, but comes to serve, to heal, to break bread with the forgotten, and to free a broken world.
We know Christ as these disciples do. Jesus is the one who walks humbly, acts justly, and loves mercifully. Christ is God’s grace given to us to recognize, witness, and embody. We don’t have to shout back at a shouting world to prove who Christ is. Yelling at yelling only becomes senseless noise.
Instead, we are invited to let our lives become the answer.
When we follow the ways of Christ—the Messiah—our daily actions speak far louder than our arguments. We proclaim that we are followers of the Living God: a God who knows suffering and grief, yet continuously brings hope and new life into this world.
Search your hearts and see Christ, the Living God. We can declare Christ as the Messiah, but let our actions show it as well.
Living into our answer compels us to care and advocate for those experiencing injustice, racism, hunger, poverty, and any other adversity. We live into our answer when we love one another as Christ loves us—when we offer compassion, forgiveness, hospitality, and healing to a hurting world—when we work to bring about peace and keep hope alive.
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Who do you say that I am?
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May that question sit in our hearts this week, leading and transforming you as you walk in Christ’s ways.
Amen.