At the Border

Text: Mark 8:27-38

Here we are at Caesarea Philippi, on the border, an outpost of the Roman empire and the northern limit of the territory of Israel. Here we are, almost exactly in the center of Mark’s Gospel, at the hinge between Jesus’ healing ministry and his journey to death on the cross. We are at the cusp in this tragic story. Here we are, at a moment when the hint of the divinity of Jesus is strong and the humanity of Jesus is equally strong. Here we are, where the disciples learn of their mission and their fate, and must choose it or not.

For reasons unknown, Jesus asks his disciples about his own identity. After some false starts, Peter declares Jesus to be the Messiah, the hoped-for king in the manner of David, a rescuer of Israel and a restorer of its former glory. Peter’s declaration is surprising. There has been nothing in Mark up to this point that indicates that Jesus is or will be or wants to be anything like a king. We modern Christian readers take Peter’s guess as true. But Jesus himself neither denies or confirms it.

Instead: he tells them that suffering and death lie ahead—plus resurrection, but they seem not to hear that part. Jesus’ prediction of trouble, unlike Peter’s declaration, is not surprising. Jesus has been on a course of healing those who suffer and of annoying those in power. He is a radical kind of guy, preaching a radical message. He was not the first or only political radical of his time. It would not take divine prescience to see that this path will end in a bad spot for him.

Not surprisingly, Peter objects. We don’t know what Peter says, only that he rebuked Jesus. People often figure that Peter objects to the idea of a suffering Messiah. But it seems more likely to me that Peter’s response, and Jesus’ response in turn, is about more mundane matters.

You know Peter. He’s the one who speaks before he thinks. What he says is not about the divinity of Jesus but about his humanity. Jesus is Peter’s friend. Not even the most politically committed person wants his friends to march to their death. Don’t do it!

Jesus is tempted. Get behind me, he says to Satan—not to Peter, but to Satan—the same Satan that Jesus met in the desert way back in chapter one of Mark. The tempter. Jesus, the human being, is being tempted not by Peter’s human weakness but by his—Jesus’— own human wishes. Can we say that Jesus—100% human as we are taught—can we say that he wishes to go to his death, that he does not wish to live a good and satisfying life with his friend, imagining them, perhaps, sitting rocking on the porch in their old age, reminiscing, grandchildren at their feet. These are deep human desires. Human things.

But they both know it is not to be. These are tumultuous times. Times of political change. Restless times in Palestine. Times of hopes and of violence. Jesus is a leader, a man of justice and mercy, teaching against the authorities, drawing rowdy crowds. A cross clearly lies ahead—take up your cross and follow me, he says—it lies ahead for him and those who wish to follow him.

There is no pleasure in this cross. It is pain and sorrow. Jesus is not eager to be crucified. But he is willing to be. He is not willing to abandon his mission and ministry out of fear of the cross. But make no mistake: the cross is a very bad thing.

We should not diminish or sentimentalize or domesticate the cross. The cross is not a sign of personal fortitude. It is not a great inconvenience or something that tries our patience. Nor is it a metaphor for general suffering. And it certainly is not an excuse for indifference to the suffering of others.

Each person who follows Jesus has his or her own cross. Take up your cross, says Jesus. Our cross is that hard thing that results from our being followers of Jesus and workers for justice and mercy in the world. In the face of whatever that turns out to be. Even death—but probably short of that. You see a type of this willingness—but not eagerness—to undergo suffering for the sake for others (even to death) that parents can have for their children, or sometimes siblings for each other, or maybe spouses, or more generally a soldier for his or her comrades, or ideally but rarely a leader for the people.

But more often than not, we do not know what our cross is. It is not always as obvious to us as it was to Jesus (and to Peter, if he had taken a moment to think about it). We come upon it as we proceed without fear until fear of it stops us. It is the thing that finally prevents us from following Jesus, doing justice and loving mercy. It is the barrier to our freedom. But the barrier is not insurmountable.

Jesus instructs us how: Those who wish to follow him must deny themselves. This denial is not about denying ourselves some thing. It is not about cutting back on some privilege. It is not about living an ascetic or dreary life. Those things might or might not have anything to do with it. It is not about turning away from pleasure or lightheartedness. Or requiring us to choose the most distasteful thing. It is not about something that is only within the reach of the great saints. It is not in the dative: it is not denying something to us.

We are the object. Deny you. It is not about our powers of self-control, or self-denial. It is not about our power at all. It is about giving up our self as the boss. And giving up the idea that how an action affects us is the most important criterion for judging that action. What happens to you is no longer the most important thing. The word that Jesus uses means to disown. To deny ourselves means firing ourselves as the boss. We no longer accept ourselves as either the guide or the judge.

And the surprising result is this: that we become free. The freedom of a Christian is a result of living—of doing what we do—because of Jesus, for the sake of Jesus, as he says. By denying ourselves we make ourselves free from any other power. Other powers lose all their leverage. That is, when we are free, there is nothing that anyone can do to us or threats anyone can make or enticements that anyone can offer that can divert us; and for Christians, that means divert us both from the commands of and life in Christ and also from the pleasure in God’s creation. It is fear for our selves that keeps us timid and cheerless. By denying our selves, we become free for service and for joy.

Those who lose their life because of Jesus save it, Jesus says. The word means to heal and to be made whole. What had seemed a cost turns out to be a benefit.

Here we are at Faith Lutheran Church. Jesus calls the disciples together with the crowd—and us. Some at hinges in our own lives. Jesus offers all who would listen the same invitation: to follow him, to go forward in the face of fear, to deny ourselves, to be free, to save our lives.