This was a turning point in Matthew’s Gospel. It was a turning point in Jesus’ journey with his disciples. It was a turning point in the lives of the disciples. Possibly it will be a turning point in our own lives.
Picture the Jordan River Valley. The river rises in the north on the slopes of Mt. Hermon and flows south to the Dead Sea. Jesus has been heading north, teaching his followers as they went along, forming them spiritually. They climb the slopes of Mt. Hermon to Caesarea Philippi. From there they can scan the valley, and trace the way they have come. I picture them sitting on a rocky outcropping, gazing out at the view, reflecting on their journey.
Jesus breaks the silence with a question. “Who do people say that I am?” It doesn’t call for much thought; it scarcely interrupts their reverie. They simply repeat some of what they have heard — “John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, one of the prophets.” Then Jesus asks the zinger. “But who do you say that I am.” Suddenly everyone snaps to attention. This is the turning point question. The first question didn’t involve them at all. It was about facts. They answer it from their heads, their memories. The second question involves them completely. It is actually about their identity. Who do you say that I am? They can only answer from their hearts.
Up to now Jesus has been preparing them for this question. He has been teaching them to experience life, to experience the world, as he does — as the kingdom of God. He has been showing them how he prays, going apart in solitude, simply to soak in the presence of God. After this moment he will turn and head toward Jerusalem, toward his death. Has he prepared them well enough to make this turn with him? Will they be able to stick with him once the going gets tough? Everything will depend on how they answer this question, because it is not so much an answer they will give — a name — but a commitment. From this point on, depending on their answer, their lives will not be their own.
If we stop now, and gaze back over the way we have come on our journey of faith, we will see something similar. Most of us started out with head-faith. If anyone asked us who Jesus was we would spout what we had learned: the Savior, the Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity, the son of Mary, and so on. Then a point came — it could have been sudden or gradual — when heart-faith took over. We no longer just knew about Jesus, we knew him personally. We had experienced his presence with us and within us. We had felt his love and unconditional embrace, the way we feel our backs go warm when the sun hits us. That is our turning point, our equivalent to Peter’s sudden recognition that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of the living God.
The trouble is, many of us stop at that point. It is such an experience of love and joy and peace, we want to hold on to it as to a treasure. It is a treasure. So we continue to grow and learn in other areas of life, but not in our beliefs. Our beliefs are like a strong box that holds the treasure of our faith. Nothing must touch it.
The gap between what we know of the outer world and what we know of the inner world grows wider with every passing year of life experience, because the latter is not moving. Sooner or later doubt springs up. Sophistication asks questions that naivete cannot answer, except to say, “Do not challenge my beliefs! My whole happiness depends on them!” This is a no-win situation. These doubts do trouble the peace of my faith; and yet I dare not explore them. Ironically, by clinging to my beliefs I jeopardize the very peace they were meant to uphold!
My fears tell me: if I question I will be disloyal. Disloyal to my faith! To my church! I will lose it all! Everything I base my life on will be gone! God’s reality will be uncertain. Salvation will be hopeless! Everything I value will be up for grabs! Too much is at stake to take any risks.
Many remain at this point; they have faith but they cannot enjoy it. It all starts with how we answer Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?” If we think he’s asking about facts, about a correct answer, the proper name or title, our faith will serve us like those hoods that are put over falcons’ eyes to keep them quiet and motionless. But suppose Jesus is asking about a process? Suppose he is hoping to hear, “You are the one with whom I want to share the adventure of life. You are the one with whom I want to explore the mystery of eternity.” Then we are making a commitment, not to a correct set of beliefs, but to the spiritual and existential journey.
Now we welcome every doubt or question as an invitation to go deeper in faith, to understand it in a broader way. We actually seek out doubts — and there will always be new doubts, because the mystery of faith is unfathomable. And it is not God we are doubting, but the adequacy of our model. In one respect this is unsettling, for it denies us a final answer. We have to live in a constant state of uncertainty. In another respect, however, this is profoundly reassuring; because we understand that the God our questions seek to know will never change. Only our models change, slowly growing more adequate as question succeeds question. Our security does not depend on our having the correct answer, it depends on that bottomless source of renewal, which is God’s never-changing love and care for us.
Now to bring this full circle, if our response to Jesus’ question takes the form, not of a name or a label, but of a commitment to an ever-deepening faith, chances are good that we will be able to complete the journey with Jesus. He knew that he would be heading toward his death, but he also knew that if they followed, the disciples would be heading toward their own death, too — though not literally. For us, we enact that death in Baptism, vowing to die to our self-interested lives and to live into the Christ-centered life. It is a process where the end-point is to realize our oneness with God and with all creation, and to experience the unshakeable joy of that life, which we know to be eternal.
Tags: doubting faith, living faith
