But who do you say that I am?

 

 

They came from just about everywhere—

Catholic, Episcopalian, Pentecostal,

doubters and believers,

young and old,

black and white.   

They gathered from board rooms

and hockey rinks;

from neighborhood hangouts

and schools across town.

 

They spilled out of the chapel 

and onto the sidewalk,

clutching at tissues and programs

and the strong arms of friends.      

 

Strangers made room for strangers.   

Neighbors searched each other’s faces,

then quickly turned away,

stunned

by the reflection of their own grief.

 

Earlier that week,

they had awakened to the news of a friend’s murder

and then they spent the day

flipping from channel to channel,

broadcast to broadcast,

hoping that somehow,

someone

had gotten it wrong.

 

Senseless.

Brutal.  

Violent.  

It was an act that left a community

bruised and broken.

 

It ripped away the illusion

that they were somehow in control—

that if they honored other people,

if they lived for others,

if they played by all the rules

and stayed within the lines,  

they might somehow remain safe.

 

It ripped them from familiar streets

and well-traveled roads,

and dropped them upon the hill of Calvary,

looking up at the cross.  

 

But who do you say that I am?

 

That question—

asked of Peter and James and Andrew,

is a question

Jesus asks of us, as well.

 

For a person of faith,

that question can be easy to answer

most of the time.

Days when a family celebrates a new life…

            Days when a friend reaches out to forgive…

           Days when sacrifice leads to blessing…

            Days when joy takes you by surprise…

 

But there are other days—

Days when that question

nags and challenges—

even taunts us for a response…

But who do you say that I am?

 

“I don’t know!”, we want to cry.

“I wish that I did…”

 

So often,

when that question comes to us,

it originates—

not from the places of comfort and ease;

not from places with valet parking

and professional landscaping,

but from the lonely desert

and the brambly woods.  

 

That question often comes to us,

not carefully phrased

or beautifully intoned,  

but with a sharpness that can wound and cut.   

 

God’s question,

“Who do you say that I am?”

often comes to us,

not from places of triumph and success,

but from places of ambiguity, conflict or pain.

Wilderness places,

where the border between hope and foolishness,

between life and death,

between trust and despair 

becomes blurred.

 

But who do you say that I am?

 

There are days when the answer we want to give;

the witness we want to be; 

the words we long to say--

            the healing words,

            the comforting words,

            the reconciling words,

the words of faith and hope

stick deep in the back of our throats,

or remain stubbornly silent

too elusive

too fragile,

too uncertain

to be spoken aloud.

 

And yet that question,

“Who do you say that I am?”

continues to echo from Phillipi.

It lingers in the air of a Sudanese refugee camp.  

It shouts from an operating room.

From a half-way house.  

From a neighborhood just around the corner

and down the street.

 

Who do you say that I am?

That question arises when good men die,

when families grieve,

when hearts are broken

when trust is betrayed.

 

At those moments,

who do we say Christ is?

 

Is he a good man,

who, like so many other good men,

died before his time?

Is he a prophet?

A teacher?

A revolutionary hero?

A fool?

A great moral leader?

 

Or is he the Messiah,

the son of the living God--

The God who can be found

not only in triumph and success,

but along the crumbling edges

and in middle of the rocky path?

 

After Jesus asked that question,

he summoned the crowd

and said to them,

“Whoever wishes to come after me

must deny themselves,

take up their cross,

and follow me.”

 

For a grieving family;

for a woman betrayed by her lover;

for a man, facing a grim diagnosis,

these are hard words to hear.

Isn’t life itself

burden enough to carry?

But the truth is,

only the cross

can bear the full weight of human suffering.

 

Only the cross

contains the promise

that death is not the final word.

 

Only the cross offers real hope

in the midst of our despair.  

 

Who do you say that I am?  

 

In the end,

this question does not demand an answer,

so much as an action—

A journey—

A decision to pick up our cross,

and follow the only one

who knows the way home.

 

© Susan Fleming McGurgan