Wonderful that on this Round Up Sunday,
the day everything really feels like it’s getting-going around the parish—Church School, Youth Group, Choir, and the great picnic afterwards, as we catch up with each other after this summer—we move along in St. Mark and come to the critical moment in that gospel as well. The place where things all come together. Where it really gets going.
It’s a convergence, a gathering together, and then a new beginning, a fresh start. I’m not sure if Jesus and his disciples are eating St. Andrew’s classic chuck-wagon chicken and chili in the 8th chapter of Mark. But I do picture them sitting down together and maybe having lunch along the road somewhere, and then after lunch a conversation.
And Jesus went out, and his disciples, into the towns of Caesarea Philippi: and by the way he asked his disciples, saying unto them, Whom do men say that I am? And they answered, John the Baptist; but some say, Elias; and others, One of the prophets.
Looking for analogies, types, reaching for an answer. Something true about each one. Jesus like the Baptist, out of whose movement he and his own followers had come, a startling challenge to the settled and compromised authorities of court and temple—church and state. Like Elijah, a man of power, an intimate with the Father. Like the prophets, a voice calling Israel back to its first principles as a nation and a people in its Covenant Relationship with God.
And he saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
On the spot now: not a classroom exercise or news analysis. Not something at arm’s-length, but up close and personal.
And Peter answereth and saith unto him, Thou art the Christ.
It’s that moment of recognition. Everybody just catching their breath. You could hear a pin drop. What did he just say? The awareness that has been growing gradually. And the meaning of it all still very much wrapped in mystery. Yet suddenly also crystal clear. Peter has a way of doing this, apparently. Blurting out whatever is at the top of his head, without always thinking carefully about the consequences. My grandmother used to say, “measure twice, cut once.” But that isn’t Peter. And here: Thou art the Christ. Right to the heart of things.
It has so much to do with who Jesus is. Messiah. A vast and complex and multi-layered theme in the scriptures and heritage of Israel and in the expectation of the modern age. Who he is. But also with who they are. What they are about. Maybe that’s what Peter hadn’t quite thought through. The implications when you stand up to be counted.
Maybe that’s why the others were less willing to put it into words and say it out loud. It’s one thing to be following an interesting and challenging teacher. A prophet, a holy man. One thing to be a part of an important social and political movement. That’s about commitment, for sure—but commitment with some limits. Keeping options open—something in reserve. A fairly easy exit strategy.
Then you get to this: Thou art the Christ. In for a penny, in for a pound. Fish or cut bait. Like standing at the end of the board on the high dive—and you just go. No turning back.
It’s the end of the beginning. And also, as we hear, the beginning of the end. These words are spoken, the first Christian creed. And already in the bright sunshine of this late summer afternoon on the road outside Caesarea Philippi, there is the shadow of the Cross. The critical moment. The turning point. The Day of Decision. The Church is born. Who we are today began right there in that moment. Nothing would be the same for them ever again.
And for us it’s all fresh and new this morning. Whether this is our first Sunday at St. Andrew’s (and welcome to you!), or whether we’ve been around forever. For Susy and me, this is our 16th Round Up. And every one of them such a great time for food and friendship and fun and all the good energy of parish life rounding the corner into a new season.
But this is all about why we’re here. Because in it all, through it all, we would live in our commitment to him. The one who is new every morning. A transformation of life in Christ, nurtured in word and song and sacrament, day after day, two steps forward, one back—and sometimes one step forward and then two back. There’s this English word and idea of “muddling along.” The good days and the hard days. Enthusiasm and hesitation. The strength of conviction and the creative moment of question and doubt. All the unique stories here in this congregations, temperaments, opinions, life experiences, study, spiritual reflection. As I always say, to get to St. Andrew’s, you need to follow the signs to the Zoo. So many rich perspectives. “Every breed of cat.”
But all together, like the 12 that afternoon all those years ago at Caesarea Philippi. We are who we are, Jesus, because you are who you are. A splash of water at the font. The heavenly taste of bread and wine at the altar. The words of life spoken and sung and prayed all around us and in us and through us. With love for the world.
What the future has for us, it’s always hard to say. Our eyesight, our vision not always that good. We’ve had those moments of fuzziness before and we will again. And we pray so fervently that you will cut us some slack, as we would do our best to cut some slack for others.
That your patience and your generosity would fill our hearts and our lives. That we would attend to your word, receive the sacramental gift of your living presence. That we would above all else be known as a patient and kind and generous people who love you and who love the world you have made, the places and the people you have given us to live with.
But in any case Jesus, growing as we are able to grow from day to day--from here on out, our story, and your story, that will be one story. We don’t need to go anywhere else. Where else is there to go? Who else is there. You are the one. We’re together here, Jesus. And we’re together with you.
Walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God.
Bruce Robison
1 comment:
What a lovely sermon, thanks for this!
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