A photo of New York City before the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.
This sermon was preached on the 16th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19B) at All Saints Church, Birmingham. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following:
Proverbs 1:20-33
Psalm 19
James 3:1-12
Mark 8:27-38
Who are you? No, I’m not quoting a classic The Who song. I really wanna know. (sung:) Who are you? Okay, now I am singing The Who. I do want to know though.
Let me ask this question like the Gospel for today did, “Who do you say that you are?” What about other people? That’s an interesting thought. What if I were to poll the five people closest to you—who would they say that you are? Would those two descriptions match up? Who you say you are and who others say you are? These questions revolve around the concept of identity—one’s personality or distinguishing characteristics that are formed by genetics and experience, nature and nurture, successes and failures. While discovering our identity is of crucial importance to healthy human development, within our church community there is another side to this identity coin.
Determining our true identity invites us into wondering about our vocation. Vocation differs from an occupation or simply a job—vocation’s root is the Latin word vocare, which means to call or invoke, and has everything to do with hearing what God’s voice is calling us to do and who God is calling us to be. So, vocation has everything to do with figuring out our real identity.
For many of us our identity was shaped by something that happened twenty years ago yesterday. The terrorist attacks that transpired on September 11, 2001, invoked within the United State of America a noble unity and a pure patriotism. We cared for our fellow Americans in beautiful ways that I had never seen in my life. Slowly through the years though, our good desires of safety, security, and comfort morphed into cynicism, distrust, and isolation. A chasm ripped open between us as neighbors. Two decades on, I wonder how will these wounds heal and what impact does that event still have on our identity and our calling?
When I began college, two years after 9/11, my dean of students seemed obsessed with vocation—and helping students to discern their identity better. He often said, “There are three questions of vocation worth pursuing over and over again—‘Who am I?’ ‘What are my gifts and talents?’ and ‘What is my place in the world?’” These questions revolve around identity. But, with all due respect to my dean, there is one element which is missing from these inquiries. We need something more, especially in light of our divisive world.
To figure out who we are—our identity—we must also figure out who Christ is. To determine how to repair the chasms that exist we must know who Jesus was and is. Our calling, our purpose, and our identity take their roots in the life of Christ Jesus. So, before we can answer for ourselves, “Who am I? What are my gifts and talents? and What is my place in the world?” we would be wise to answer, Who is Jesus? Why does that answer matter? and How is our world different as a result? The first question—Who is Jesus?—helpfully gets answered in today’s Gospel lesson.
“Who do people say that I am?” Jesus asked his disciples as they journeyed into the Gentile city of Caesarea Philippi. Halfway through the Gospel according to Mark Jesus wanted to know his effect on the crowds, the scribes, and the Pharisees. The disciples quickly listed off three figures: John the Baptist, Elijah, and a nameless prophet. Let’s look closer at these:
Jesus’ connection to John the Baptist made sense, as they both preached of repentance and the coming of God’s Kingdom. Elijah was a mighty prophet of the Hebrew People; Jesus could be seen as the second coming of this great teacher. Jesus being likened to another prophet appeared logical as both Jesus and the prophets prepared the way for God’s people to turn back to God. While these are all nice answers, none of them hits the nail on the head. They were not Jesus’ true identity.
And, apart from the narrator in Mark giving us Jesus’ real nature—the Son of God—in the first verse of the entire Gospel story, we have not heard who Jesus was until what happened next.
Jesus asked his disciples, “But who do you say that I am?” And, for the first time we hear someone in the Gospel call Jesus, “The Messiah” that is the Christ. The anointed one who came to heal and to save—not just the people of Israel—but all nations. In last week’s Gospel lesson Jesus healed the daughter of a Gentile woman, a Syrophoenician woman—sure it was after the woman adeptly checked Jesus’ cultural boundaries. But, then he brought sight to a blind man in the Greek area of the Decapolis. And today, we see him traveling in the Roman stronghold of Caesarea Philippi. He was the Messiah of all—not just the People of Israel—not only those who would walk in the Christian way, but everyone!
Who was Jesus? Peter claimed for the disciples and for all, “You are the Messiah.” Plain and simple, Jesus was—and is—the Christ who came to heal and to save us all. So, we know who Jesus was, but what claim does that make on us?
Why does it matter that Jesus was…is the Messiah? 2,000 years later and half a world away, why should we care that a backwater rabbi impressed his followers enough that they thought he was the Savior of the world? Well, immediately after Jesus heard Peter’s words in today’s story, he sternly ordered his followers not to share this information. Why? In part because the disciples’ view of what it meant to be the Messiah and why it mattered was different than Jesus’ view. So, Jesus began to reveal the full view of what it meant to be the Messiah. It is in this description that we hear a claim on our lives—it’s here that we begin to discover our purpose and identity in light of Christ’s own purpose and identity.
According to Jesus, the Messiah had to undergo suffering, rejection, and even death. This is not glamorous or glorious or even gratifying, but it was God’s way, and it still is. We are so accustomed in our time to pride and pomp and pageantry being associated with being great. We throw parades for victors. Jesus’ parade on Palm Sunday was instead the anti-parade, as he came into Jerusalem not on a stead, but on a donkey. We shout words of honor towards those we respect. Jesus instead heard cries to crucify him on Good Friday. We heap praise on the celebrated ones of our day. Jesus instead endured jeers and mockery when he hung on the cross.
What claim does Christ make on our lives? He claims that if we are to be his, if our identity, our being is to be united with his own, then we too must take up our cross. We must not seek praise. We cannot go in search of our own vain glory. We are to deny these pursuits of puffing our egos, so that we might take on a new identity in Christ. We must be like Saint Paul who wrote to the Galatians, “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who lives, but it is Christ who lives in me.” How does our identity change? We no longer live for ourselves, but we unite in Christ and allow that new creation to be born through us.
This is a life-long journey. We never reach the finish line of our faith. We find ourselves every day at a new starting line. Always we begin again. Each day we have the opportunity to unite with Christ—yes, even in suffering, betrayal, and death—so that our identity is resurrected in Christ’s likeness. You may be saying, no way! I am not going to put my life or my family’s lives at risk. I hear you.
Since we are here at All Saints, let me tell you about how we celebrate Saints within the Church. We have beautiful vestments and liturgical hangings that go with the color of the season. Sometimes though we celebrate a particular Saint, like St. Stephen. Stephen was a deacon in the Early Church who died because he would not renounce his faith in Christ. He bore his proverbial cross even unto death. We remember martyrs like Stephen using the liturgical color red—he died because of his faith. It is much like those who gave their lives to share the love of God with others on September 11, 2001.
There are other Saints though who we also consider martyrs—just martyrs of a different kind. St. Mary the Mother of Jesus did not die because of her faith—instead she lived out her faith. She bore a different cross than Stephen. We remember her with the liturgical color of white because she still gave up the life she would have otherwise lived and instead said to God, here am I, a servant of the Lord.
All of you are actually practicing martyrdom right now—and not because you are listening to a long and tedious sermon. No, you gave up what you would otherwise have been doing and you are here, participating in what we call liturgy—the work of the people—prayer, song, silence, Scripture, and communion. And it is in this way that our world can be different—it’s in this living martyrdom that Christ transforms the world. Here we become a new creation—reunited—as God grafts us into Christ’s Risen Body. God makes a claim on our lives. God yearns for us to see the sometimes difficult truth that we are all children of God’s family through Christ. So that we can become fully alive in Christ and see our true identity in light of God’s Son Jesus.
Who am I? What are my gifts and talents? What is my place in the world? As we explore these questions of vocation, may we keep a broader perspective understanding that our true identity becomes clear in the light of Christ. There we see that we are members of Christ’s Body. There we hear an invitation to share the gift of God’s self-sacrificing love with everyone—even through suffering, betrayal, and all kinds of death. There we know that our true place is picking up our cross and following after Jesus. May we deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow Christ. Amen.
