SERMON, August 24, 2008

Exodus 1.8-2.10; Matthew 16.13-20

Some time back at the close of an evening service I went about the church extinguishing candles, and discovered a woman lying asleep in the back pew. I very gently woke her up, by touching her lightly on the arm and telling her that the service was over and she would have to leave. She sat up, angry with me, and said, “You should treat me with respect.” I thought I had. She said, “Do you know who I am?” I said, “Yes,” because I had seen her around town and around the church. But I realized as the word came out of my mouth, that really, I had no idea who she was. I’d seen her, I could describe her looks, I’d had a couple of brief conversations with her, I knew only a few things about her. I even knew how some other people described her, who they thought she was. But, the truth is that I did not know who she was.

Who do people say that I am? Jesus asks his friends. This is an important question, isn’t it? Because our relationships with others often hinge on who they think we are. Their understandings of who we are, their judgments, their conclusions. We see this in that great story we heard this morning from Exodus. The Israelites who had been viewed as welcomed guests during the time of Joseph and the Pharaoh he worked for—are now viewed by the current Pharaoh as dangerous, aliens to be feared, and controlled. In fact, the Pharaoh decides to make slaves of them—use them as forced labor. He imagines a future when they might rise up to fight against the Egyptians do he tries to make sure they won’t multiply by having the Hebrew midwives kill the male babies. Kind of silly really. The things we do when we make our judgments. . .

The story is filled with irony. And so much of the action hinges on these judgments the powers that be make about who the Israelites are—and who of them is dangerous. The Pharaoh ignores the girl babies, ignores the women really—and they are the ones who do him in. These two midwives Shiprah and Puah go down in biblical history as perhaps the first examples of civil disobedience, we have. Midwives are all about assisting birth, saving lives—they are not about killing. So they lie to the Pharaoh and say they just keep getting to the birthing too late. Because of their refusal to go along with the edict of the ruling power, Moses is born. His mother hides him as long as she can, and then puts him in that little basket and sends him down the Nile—she hopes to life rather than death. When the daughter of the Pharaoh sees the baby she has compassion and rescues him. She knows full well that he is a Hebrew child—but her compassion cannot be contained within the bounds set by her own father. Then in a hilarious finale, through the suggestion of his sister, the Pharaoh’s daughter hires Moses’ own mother to nurse him. What a great story! I can’t help but smile every time I read it.

It’s a story about how beneath the radar so to speak—off the grid—God is at work in the actions, the courage, the wile, of those unnoticed by the powers that be. Somehow God’s grace is operating in the midst of oppression. Small acts to preserve life, to undermine the death-dealing ways of the Pharaoh make all the difference. Surprise! The least likely group of powerless people came together to change history. Two midwives, a mother, a sister, and a daughter—Hebrew and Egyptian. A conspiracy of the unnoticed, the unknown. Definitely not headline material, nonetheless: God’s creative energy at work in the world.

The story echoes with our Gospel story this morning. Just as the Pharoah’s choice to identify the Israelites as dangerous aliens, and the women as not worthy of attention was crucial in the unfolding of that story—so too the answer to Jesus’ questions were vital to the story of the early church community. “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” Jesus says referring to himself. Who do they say I am?

Interesting how the disciples answer with a list of dead people. Dead prophets. John the Baptist, only recently dead at Herod’s hand. Elijah, the wonder worker, miracle worker, the one who heard the still small voice, carried up to heaven on a chariot. Jeremiah, and other prophets. Clearly people see Jesus as a prophet. And that must mean they see in him the creative energy of God at work—energy that cannot be stopped by the powers that be. The job of the prophet is to speak or enact the truth of God and thus enable it to move in the world. By uttering the words of god the Hebrew prophets in a sense unleashed God’s words on the world—brought them to life. Whatever else people make of Jesus they see in him that same unstoppable creative power of God at work. In their own day. In their time. In their midst.

“Who do you say that I am?” Uh, oh. I was afraid that might be coming next. Where the rubber meets the road. So much easier to report what others think and say. I imagine a pregnant pause here in the text. . . a bit of silence. No one speaks. . . . Then Peter as is often case, blurts out “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!” There it is. Spoken out loud. Again I imagine a silence. The words hang there perhaps.

The Messiah—which means the anointed one. The oiled one, the one on whom God’s favor and call rests. Kings were anointed—as a sign of their chosen-ness by God. And to be honest, in Jesus’ day and even in Matthew’s day there were differing opinions about the Messiah—whether he would be a king, a warrior, a prophet—whether he would free his people from the Romans, or what. No one could be sure.

So we can’t be sure what Peter had in mind when those words came out of his mouth. Although we can’t help thinking that the same creative energizing power of God “the living God” that we heard about in the story of the midwives is present in Jesus—and Peter knows it. And he identifies Jesus as the Messiah. The anointed one—one full of divinity. One identified in a way as we are at baptism when we are marked with oil and proclaimed as Christ’s own forever. That is who we are. Jesus was God’s own beloved son forever. In his deepest being that is who he is.

Jesus tells Peter that he is right, but that this truth has come to him, not from the judgments of the world, but from God. This recognition of who Jesus is—is not something apparently that any person strolling by making typical judgments about folks—about who is important and who isn’t, who is dangerous and to be avoided, and who isn’t, who is worthy of notice and who isn’t—this recognition probably wouldn’t come to a person operating according to those standards of judgment. Like the Pharaoh misjudging the Israelites and the women—those ways of thinking won’t lead you to know who Jesus is. It takes a leap of faith maybe, the gift of insight, the eyes to see beneath the surface of things, the heart to risk loving God in the small, in the surprising, in the upside-downness of life. That’s what it takes.

Jesus tells his friends not to tell anyone. Not to talk about who he is with others. I suspect that’s because even though Peter has said the words, has identified who Jesus is, he still doesn’t really have much of a clue what those words mean. He hasn’t yet learned what kind of a Messiah Jesus is. How the Son of the Living God will live, and die, and rise to new life, how he will be present God-with-us no matter what. He hasn’t much of a clue—in spite of the miracles and the teaching, and the journeying with, he still has a lot to learn, a lot to grow into.

It’s in that growing up and growing into the truth of who Jesus is that Peter will be formed and transformed, and live out his life of faith. The same is true for each of us—and for us a community. Most of us can answer the question of who others say Jesus is. A great teacher, a prophet, a moral example, perhaps—or maybe even someone not worth considering. Maybe that. None of those answers touches on the creative energizing grace of the Living God so tangible in the story from Exodus and in Jesus’ own life.

The central question for us is of course, who do you, who do we say that Jesus is. What kind of a Messiah is he to us, today, right now. In the lives we lead. In the country we live in. In the world we are a part of. How do we find the Messiah among us? Do we encounter the creative energy of the Living God at work in our lives? in our families? at our workplaces? Perhaps in surprising ways, perhaps in little ways, perhaps in the lives of people that don’t make the headlines. Perhaps in folks who quietly say no to oppression—to deathliness. People who take risks, entrusting themselves to the grace of the living God.

Often when I officiate at weddings of young couples I think about the adventure they commit themselves to as they take their vows. The adventure of getting to know who they are marrying, and who they are themselves. it’s all about relationship. It takes time and commitment. It takes attentiveness and openness. And, always, even after many years, there is mystery—some un-knownness.

The Messiah, the Son of the Living God, beckons and invites us to an adventure: to know him and the God who lives within him. Like Peter, we too are on the road. We are still learning who Jesus is—and who we are and are becoming as followers of his. This is our calling. To enter this relationship with the expectation that it will take us to surprising places; it will transform us. . . we too will live as channels of that creative living grace. AMEN.