Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
23/2/20 11.00am.
Mark 8.27-9.8
Listen to this sermon here: https://soundcloud.com/bloomsbury-1/2020-02-23-simon-woodman
I’ve always loved optical illusions,
and particularly
the kind where you can see two different images,
depending
on which part of the picture you’re focusing on.
Do you know this one, which originated in the nineteenth
century,
but became
famous after it was published in the satirical magazine Puck,
with the
title, ‘My Wife and My Mother in Law’?
Depending on how you look at it,
you will
either see a beautiful woman looking away from you,
or an old
woman looking towards you.
I did contemplate scrapping the sermon altogether,
and for us
to just have fun looking at optical illusions together on the big screens,
but then I
figured you can waste plenty of time
on
that at home without my assistance.
But I wanted to make the point
that
sometimes we need to learn to see things differently.
Not everything is as it seems,
and not
everything can only be seen one way.
Which is kind of the theme of our readings this morning,
from the
gospel of Mark.
Today is the day in the Christian calendar known as
Transfiguration Sunday,
and so, as we
are continuing working our way through the gospel of Mark,
we
conveniently find ourselves at the story of the Transfiguration.
(it’s
almost as if someone planned it!)
And the Transfiguration is an invitation to see things
differently,
to learn to
see things in a new way.
I’ll come back to that in a bit,
but first
I’d like us to consider the story that Mark gives us
just before the bright lights
and
mystical mythical characters on the mountain:
the
confession of Jesus by Peter at Caeserea Philippi.
This story, fitting for what scholars tell us is the central
narrative of the gospel,
touches on
some of the key philosophical issues
of what it
means to be human.
Here we encounter
the problem
of suffering,
the
mysteries of life, death, and resurrection,
the nature
of evil,
and the question of ultimate authority.
So, buckle up! We’re going deep…
I’ve mentioned before that in Mark’s gospel,
none of the
geography happens by accident.
Mark often gives his readers little clues about where things
are happening,
and it’s
always worth paying attention to them.
In fact, his whole gospel has a careful geographical
structure:
starting in
the North in the region of Galilee,
and then
moving South to Jerusalem in the second half of the gospel.
Here, in our story for today, at the half-way point in the
gospel,
the
narrative is about to start heading south.
But not quite yet – because today we’re in the town of
Caesarea Philippi,
an ancient
Roman city located at the southwestern base of Mount Hermon,
and about
as far North as the gospel gets.
It was adjacent to a spring, with a grotto,
and shrines
dedicated to the Greek god Pan.
The city that existed at the time of Jesus had been started
by Herod the Great,
who had
built at large white temple there,
and then it had been developed by Herod’s son Philip,
who named
it Caesarea in honour of Roman Emperor Augustus,
and
Philippi, in honour of himself - a typical Herodian touch.
So its name – Caesarea Philippi – was highly symbolic:
speaking of
Roman power,
of
Jewish religious authority,
of the
pagan mystery religions,
and of the might of the Herodian
dynasty.
It is no accident that Mark takes us to Caesarea Philippi
to address
the question
that has
been haunting the gospel up until this point.
And this question is very simple: Who is Jesus?
Of course, Mark has already given away his answer to this
question,
in the very
first verse of the gospel;
so as his readers we already know
that he
thinks Jesus is ‘the Christ, the son of God’ (1.1),
and we’ve had this confirmed to us
as we
listened in to the voice of God declaring to Jesus at his Baptism
that ‘You
are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased’ (1.11)
But for the characters in
the story Mark is telling,
the
question of who Jesus is, has been much more mysterious.
They’ve witnessed him casting out spirits of uncleanness,
and healing
people
to
restore them to right relationships with others and with God,
and they’ve
heard a bit, but not a lot, of his teaching.
But have they worked out who he is?
This is
what Jesus asks Peter at Caesarea Philippi.
And the initial response isn’t promising,
as Peter
reports back that some people are saying
Jesus
is the ancient prophet Elijah returned to the earth,
while
others are thinking that he is John the Baptist,
come
back from the grave.
And this raises an interesting question for us, today,
in terms of
the variety of views and opinions
that exist
about Jesus in our world.
I wouldn’t mind betting if we went out onto Shaftesbury
Avenue,
and asked
those walking past the question,
‘Who
do you think Jesus is?’
we’d get
some pretty interesting answers…
The response of those around him in the first century,
interestingly,
pretty much
mirrors the typical responses
you get to
this question today.
Some would say he’s a religious leader:
a spiritual
reformer and a caller-to-repentance,
like
John the Baptist had been.
And others would say he’s a prophetic figure:
offering a
social and political critique
in
the style of a modern-day Elijah.
It may be that there are some of us here this morning,
who would
put Jesus into these kinds of categories.
But Jesus pushes further, and asks Peter who he thinks that Jesus is;
and here we
get to the heart of the matter,
as
Peter has one of is rare moments of lucidity,
giving the
answer that the gospel has been building up to:
He
says that Jesus is the Messiah.
And honestly, it would be hard to imagine a more
inflammatory thing to say
in the city
of Caesarea Philippi.
The word ‘Messiah’ is a Hebrew word meaning ‘anointed one’,
and it
translates in Greek as ‘Christ’.
But in the Jewish tradition,
the only
people who were anointed
were the
High Priest and the King himself.
So to declare Jesus as the Messiah was a direct challenge
to the very
heart of the Jewish power system,
striking at the root of both religious and royal power,
not to
mention the implications for relations with the Romans
of
proclaiming someone King
in
a town literally named after the Roman god-emperor.
This isn’t so much a revelation as it is a revolution,
and the
possibility of it all getting very bloody very quickly is right there.
We don’t know whether impetuous Peter,
quick with
his sword and his words,
if not
always with his brain,
was gearing up for an armed march on Jerusalem
to re-take
the city from the Romans.
But certainly if he was,
it would
explain what happened next…
Firstly Jesus told Peter and the others not to say anything
to anyone:
there was
to be no rabble rousing at Caesarea Philippi.
And then he started to teach them
about how
the Son of Man must undergo great suffering,
and
be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes,
and be
killed, and after three days rise again.
…
to quote from verse 31.
And you can understand why Peter is confused.
He needs to learn the lesson
that
sometimes we need to see things differently.
Not everything is as it seems,
and not
everything can only be seen one way.
If Jesus is the Messiah, the anointed one,
if he is
the personification of royal power,
and the
embodiment of religious power,
then this doesn’t look like the kind of kingship or
priesthood
anyone was
hoping for.
If this is Jesus making his great bid to become the heir of
David,
the king
who was also a priest,
then something is going wrong.
If this is Jesus challenging the power of Caesar, Rome, and
the Herodian dynasty,
then it’s
not going to work if he goes to his death.
But sometimes we need to see things differently:
because not
everything is always as it seems.
Closer attention to what Jesus is saying
reveals
Mark he is making a deliberate point:
In his choice of words is consciously aligning Jesus
with the
trajectory of the Suffering Servant from the book of Isaiah,
who faced
suffering and death for the sins of the world.
At the time the book of Isaiah was written,
the Suffering
Servant was a personification of the nation of Israel,
suffering the indignity of the exile
at the hands of sinful nations who
rejected God and God’s people.
And Jesus is indicating that just as the suffering servant
Israel had to face pain,
so the same
is true of him.
But why does Jesus do this?
And why
does he say
that the
Son of Man ‘MUST’ undergo great suffering…?
It’s a big question:
Why does
Jesus ‘HAVE’ to die?
Some Christians will say that Jesus had to suffer and die,
because it
was the only way
that
the wrath of God against human sin could be satisfied,
and that if
the wages of sin is death,
then
divine righteousness demands the sacrifice of an innocent victim
in
place of the those sinners whom God longs to spare.
This kind of thinking is known as substitutionary atonement theory,
and
thankfully it isn’t the only game in town.
Sometimes we need to learn to see things differently.
Not
everything is as it seems,
and not
everything can only be seen one way.
I’d like to suggest an alternative,
which is that
Jesus had to suffer and die,
not because God is wrathful,
but because humans are sinful.
It’s an important distinction:
If Jesus is
God made flesh, drawing near to humans in love,
then sin is
human resistance to that work of grace.
If Jesus is inaugurating God’s new reign of love,
then sin is
human resistance to that in-breaking kingdom.
To put it another way:
Sin is the
human will which fights to the death
to
stop God being God,
because
deep down we want God to be more like us,
and
less like God.
So Jesus says that he must suffer and die,
not to keep
sinners from the hands of an angry God[1]
but because he knows that he must remain true to his mission
of bringing
God’s offensively inclusive love to all,
and that humans, at least some of them,
will resist
him to the bitter end.
And because people still caught in sin
will always
fight to stop God drawing near to them,
Jesus says that the Son of Man must suffer,
must be
rejected by those who should know better,
must die, and must rise again.
If the Suffering Servant Israel in the book of Isaiah
faced exile
and destruction
at the hands of those who rejected
God and God’s people,
in order to
bring salvation to the nations who denied God’s love;
the same is true of Jesus,
who
embodies the hope of God’s people in all times and places
and who must therefore suffer and die
in order to
unmask the violence of human sinfulness once-and-for-all.
The death of the Messiah at the hands of sinners
will be a
cataclysmic event from which there is no going back.
There will be no undoing this moment of scapegoating,
where the
one dies because of the sins of the many.
It’s no wonder Peter is confused and upset,
but it’s
also not the end of the story.
And the good news here, which Jesus speaks but Peter misses,
is that the
death of the Messiah must be followed by resurrection.
One way of thinking about resurrection which I find helpful,
is that it
is God’s ‘no’ to human rejection,
and that it speaks of the deep truth,
that God’s
ultimate will
is for life
and not death to get the final word.
And every time humans draw back from God,
and resist
God’s attempt to draw near to them,
every time we make choices
that bring
death and pain and suffering to humanity,
God answers back with a divine ‘no’,
persistently
calling life back into being
from the
darkness of the tombs we create.
This is why the son of man must suffer and die,
because
without confronting the awful consequences of human sin,
the path to
life remains stubbornly blocked.
So what is this resurrection to life,
that is so
wonderful
that it is
worth suffering and death to find it?
And again – there are those Christians who will say
that the
life that Jesus brings is a life beyond death:
the
afterlife, heaven,
eternity
on a cloud with a harp,
however you
think of it.
I’m not going to try and deconstruct the classical theology
of heaven this morning,
that’s a
sermon for another day,
but I do wonder if there is a shift of perspective here,
that might
also help us understand what Jesus is getting at.
Sometimes, as I’ve said, we need to learn to see things
differently,
and not
everything can only be seen one way.
The Greek word that’s used here for ‘life’
isn’t zōē, which would typically describe the
physical life
characterised
by hearts pumping and lungs expanding.
Rather it
is psuchē, which describes the life
spiritual
the
life of the soul, the heart, and the mind.
So when Jesus says those who want to save their life will
lose it,
and those
who lose their life for his sake will save it,
he is talking about the life spiritual - not the life
physical,
the loss
and gain in view here is the essence, the vitality of a person,
not their
biological existence.
So the finding of
true, eternal, spiritual life
involves losing of one’s ‘self’
in something greater than oneself.
Those who lose their life, their ‘self’ in Jesus,
and in the
gospel he proclaims,
find this sacrifice restores to them their true self,
their true
quality of life.
Just as Jesus must suffer and die, and lose his life,
in order
that the new life of resurrection may be unleashed;
so wherever new life in Jesus is found,
wherever
those who lose their ‘self’ and find it again in him,
this is where resurrection occurs.
The giving up of ones-self in order to find life,
becomes the
aligning of our life with that which is greater than we are,
and this is
the new life, the new vitality, that Christ provides.
And so we come to the moment of transfiguration,
with Jesus,
Peter, James and John
making
their pilgrimage up Mount Hermon from Caesarea Philippi.
Here we find ourselves sharing with them in the ultimate
‘mountain top experience’,
the moment
of supreme revelation in the gospel,
where the key group of disciples hear the answer
to the
question of who Jesus is;
and they hear it from none other than the voice of God!
This is where Mark’s assertion in the first verse of the
gospel,
and Peter’s
confession at Caesarea Philippi,
get their
divine authorisation.
Jesus is the Son of God.
In Jesus,
all the fullness of God is made known.
In Jesus, God draws near to sinful humans in an act of love,
identifying
with us in all our sinfulness
in order to
fan into flame the spark of true life
that lies
dormant in each human soul.
In Christ, God is
drawing our souls to life,
gifting us resurrection,
and showing us a new way of seeing,
and being, and doing.
The moment of transfiguration is God’s gift to each of us,
showing
that we can share in, and experience,
the
life-giving, life-affirming, life-renewing resurrection of Christ.
The question for us, as for the disciples on the mountain
top,
is whether
we can accept and inhabit this new perspective.
Peter, of course, gets it wrong again…
Having
already denied what Jesus had said
about
the need for the Messiah to be crucified;
he next
offered to build huts for Jesus
and
the two Old Testament characters
who
had mysteriously appeared with him on the mountain.
Just as an aside, it is sometimes suggested
that Moses
and Elijah appear at this point
to
demonstrate that Jesus is the fulfilment
of
the law (personified by Moses),
and
the prophets (personified by Elijah);
but it is more likely that they are here
at the
point where heaven opens to reveal the identity of Jesus
because of
their role in the Jewish apocalyptic tradition.
Both of them have slightly ambiguous death-traditions,
and this
meant that within Jewish apocalyptic texts
they
often featured as kind-of tour guides to heaven,
showing
people around in their visions of the heavenly realm.
Their appearance with Jesus at his transfiguration
is an
indication that this is an apocalyptic moment,
a
moment of the unveiling of truth,
when the
boundary between God’s realm and the earthly realm is breached.
Such moments don’t last forever, of course,
as you’ll
know if you’ve ever had your own ‘mountaintop experience’
of the
overwhelming and inescapable presence of God.
None of us can stay on the mountaintop for ever,
we have to
get back to real life,
to the
nitty gritty of living out the truth that has been revealed to us.
So Peter is mistaken, but understandably so,
in his
desire to perpetuate the heavenly moment.
But the revelation of Jesus’ identity doesn’t leave him,
and his
perspective is forever changed
by his
encounter with Jesus on the mountain.
The hot-headed impetuous Peter
ends up as
the rock on which the church is built. (Mt. 16.18)
And the same can be true for us,
in our
encounter with the transfigured Christ.
I wonder if this morning, on Transfiguration Sunday
we can see
in a new way what it means to believe
that in
Jesus, God is drawing near to us?
The change of perspective that this truth gives us
is
something that will deeply affect the way we live in the world.
This is no cost-neutral paradigm shift,
it’s going
to bring transformation
to anyone
who opens their heart to it.
The Transfiguration narrative ends with the voice from
heaven
declaring
that Jesus is God’s son,
echoing the
words spoken from heaven at Jesus’ baptism.
But there is a significant difference too.
At the
Baptism, the declaration was for Jesus:
"You
are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." (1.11),
whereas at
the Transfiguration the declaration is for the disciples of Jesus:
"This
is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!" (9.7).
The change of perspective here is not just about who Jesus
is,
but what we
are to do about it.
It’s not enough to accept that Jesus is God’s son:
that knowledge
has to go somewhere…
Those who have seen the transfiguration,
who have
received the revelation of Jesus’ identity,
now need to learn to listen to the voice of Jesus.
There are so many voices clamouring for our attention,
so many
calls on our loyalty, allegiance, and resources.
In the midst of it all, can we learn to listen to the voice
of Jesus,
who
challenges all those powers that might seek to own us,
and invites us to a new quality of life,
where we
lose our selves in him
in order to
be found by the one who truly loves us.