THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Last week we heard the preceding verses to today’s Gospel, Peter’s confession and Jesus’ response. Today we hear what it really means to confess Jesus as the Christ. It’s not a lesson likely to result in what some among us have described as “happy clappy people.” 

First, though, we have to deal with Simon, now called Peter. He’s a bit full of himself at this point, relishing the afterglow of Jesus’ response to Peter’s confession. Peter simply cannot accept that his Messiah must suffer rejection, cruelty, and death. After all, centuries of teaching point to the coming Messiah as a conquering king, one who will deliver Israel from those very things Jesus says must lie ahead not just for him, but as we soon learn, for those who follow him. 

Peter learns that as quickly as his earlier words echoed the Spirit of God, his next breath could just as easily inhale an opposing spirit. Jesus makes that point abundantly clear. “Get behind me, Satan!” It’s easy to envision the shock on Peter’s face, and even his gasp seeking a renewed spirit. 

I’ve often thought that Jesus isn’t just speaking to Peter at this point. His words are more directed at the spiritual source of Peter’s admonition. The Gospel begins with an encounter with that same source, where Jesus rejects the offer of power and worship. I wonder what he might say to those of us gathered today to celebrate his grasp of those very things he found necessary to reject. 

My thoughts also cause me to wonder what our world might be like if Jesus’ words were accepted. What if Satan, the accuser, the adversary, actually chose to heed them and instead of continuing to try to undo the work of Jesus, decided to follow him. It’s a great big “what if.” Maybe the biggest what if in history. 

“If anyone wants to be my disciple, that one must take up her or his cross and follow me.” He continues with words calling us to accept suffering and hardship, and even death, just as he will show he does for himself. 

Peter wasn’t the first to misunderstand what that means. Jeremiah, some five or six centuries before, bellowed his lament to God. He calls God out as unreliable, as a trickster who made promises to the prophet that appear to be broken, even completely forgotten. 
God’s answer feels a bit unwelcome, and again not leading to a state of “happy clappiness.” “You will stand before me.” Not in judgement, but as the front person speaking not just for God, but God’s own words to the people whom Jeremiah would rather see struck by several well-placed lightning bolts. 

God tells Jeremiah that the wounds, the sorrow, the rejection felt by the prophet are also borne by the One in whose name he speaks. It’s not easy to accept that your work might be justified only after your own life has ended, but later when your words become true, become historical fact. It’s also not easy to accept that those who must suffer are those you also love, revealing God’s own emotion while watching it happen. 

I once spent a weekend helping with a diocesan youth retreat, with about 150 teenagers gathered at a local parish. One of the breakout sessions focused on words from today’s Epistle. “Pray for those who persecute you.” Stories of bullying and other high school traditions came out. 

I switched the focus for a bit when I asked, “Have any of you prayed for Osama bin Laden lately?” He was still alive at that time. They stared at me, and I explained, “Not that his work will find success, but that his heart and mind might be changed.” A few weeks later I asked the same question of my parish across town. 

The crosses we bear could become known when cries for justice let go of the desire for vengeance, but instead go to the source of the many injustices around us and call their instigators to true discipleship, to follow Jesus with us. A cross we bear could be one where we let go of individual wants in order to help furnish someone else’s very real need. But I think the greatest cross we must bear is the one written in love shown toward those seemingly filled with hatred toward ourselves and others. 

Those crosses mean we die to ourselves, we repudiate many of the things that our selfish selves want to grab, leaving us with nothing life-giving to share with others. That is the discipleship Jesus means when he says, “Follow me.” 

Then we have to pick up one more cross, the one that asks, “Are we really following Jesus?” Is our work, is our soul’s desire, a revelation of the Spirit of the Messiah, the Son of the living God? If not, then we need to look again at who it is we truly follow. Yet, too many times, we decide to do that which makes us feel good about ourselves, and create a god in our image who we hope will magically make our own desires come true. 
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Because as Jeremiah learned, standing before God now, facing in the same direction as our Creator, seeing as God sees and speaking God’s word in so many ways, could mean that when we turn and stand before God in our final direction, facing the Giver of life, we find the salvation of the crosses borne by us, and once and for all, the cross borne for us. And then, we might hear another confession that identifies who we are, words that say, “Welcome home, my child.” 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​Every person seeking ordination in The Episcopal Church meets with the diocesan Commission on Ministry sometime near the beginning of the process. When I met the Commission in West Virginia some 25 years ago, the chair asked me a pointed question. “Who is Jesus Christ for you?” 

I didn’t hesitate. “He’s the pattern for my life.” The expected answer was more along the lines of words like "Lord," "Savior," "Messiah," or perhaps a recitation of a theological formula memorized in seminary. As you might imagine, there was some ‘splainin’ to do. 

Today we hear Matthew’s version of what’s known as St. Peter’s confession. Since we’re Episcopalians, we have a feast day for that—January 18. But it falls neatly into the sequence of Gospel lessons now, and it’s worthy of our attention more than once a year. 

At first, it seems as if Jesus is having an identity crisis. “Who do people say the Son of Man is?” he wonders out loud. It may just be the first documented publicity poll in the history of the world. There are a few incorrect answers. “But who do you say that I am?” 

Peter, never shy about being the first with his hand in the air, says, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” 

Throughout its history, the institutional church has provided many answers to the question about who Jesus is. The western church, based in Rome, took Jesus’ follow-up remarks to mean Peter is the first pope, and the institution is the rock upon which Peter’s confession stands. 

And so it was for much of the West until a monk named Martin took hammer in hand and said not so politely, “I disagree. I think there’s more to it.” And so, there was some ‘splainin’ to do. 

At the beginning of this story, Peter was known as Simon. His answer results in Jesus’ renaming him. The name Peter is our translation of Petra, meaning “rock,” and so we might call him “St. Rocky.” More than an ordination to high authority, Jesus indicates that Simon, now “Rocky” will be known differently. He will be known not by his given name, but by his confession of who Jesus is. He is himself forever changed by those same words. 

The words that follow cause me to wonder whether they were inserted by later church authorities, appearing to be spoken by Jesus in order to justify institutional norms. More ‘splainin’ needing much more time. 

“Whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.” Is Jesus giving the disciples, particularly Peter, authority over both heaven and earth? If so, shouldn’t our prayer be changed to “our will be done in heaven as it is on earth?” 

Maybe. 

You see, if the earlier words are true, then there is no separation between the places where God’s will is done. That’s true if the Spirit speaks and works through us to reveal not just God’s will but also to reveal who Jesus truly is for us. And if the Spirit speaks through us and works through us, then it is the same as if Jesus is physically present, revealing God’s will for all creation. Then, if you jump ahead to read the end of the story, you’ll find that heaven and earth become one—again. More ‘splainin.’ 

Paul says, “I appeal to you to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.” We offer ourselves as vehicles for God’s purpose, God’s will, so that the words we pray are more than words we simply say. They are a reminder of who we are in Christ, a remembrance of who Jesus is for us. It is your will be done, not our will be done. To mean the latter is to continue the work of the serpent in the garden to undo creation by making god(s) in our own image. 

The works we do and the treasures we seek go much further than the words we say to reveal who Jesus is for us. Even then, those things fall way short of explaining the fullness of who Jesus is. Our hands and hearts are just as important as our words in making our confession. And since our confession is usually incomplete, we’re left where we have often been before. 

There’s more ‘splainin’ to do. We have the rest of our lives to do it. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​One day while in seminary, a few of us got into my car and went into Columbus, Ohio, to rummage through used bookstores. On the way back, we started discussing the upcoming Sunday lessons. One of those was today’s Gospel. A classmate expressed his confusion over it, especially Jesus’s initial response to the Canaanite woman. Use of the word translated as “dog” was as derogatory as any four-letter word we might imagine. 

I had a thought about that and said, "Maybe it’s Jesus’ own conversion.” That led to a discussion about how all the stories in Matthew had been located in Jewish territory up until this point. After this, Jesus begins to move into Gentile territory. 

The history of the institutional church has many stories about membership, at first about the effect of baptism and whether it could or should be repeated. Then, boundaries were set around the table—who could receive Holy Communion and who could administer it.

Recent history regarding the effects of salvation and its reception only helps to reinforce those boundaries. It causes one to wonder why so much energy is used making sure some are excluded, as if God couldn't decide that and needed our help. But then, there's that line heard at Peter's confession, which comes around next week. Stay tuned. 

When we look back at Hebrew teaching—from before and during the time of Moses through the later prophets—we find answers our ecclesiastical ancestors seem to have forgotten. Moses taught, actually included it in what’s considered “The Law,” that aliens and foreigners were to be treated like family. Some family traditions probably mean they are to be treated better than close relatives, but that’s another sermon for another day. When I had siblings in children’s choirs, I often had to say at the beginning of rehearsals, "For the next hour, act like you’re not related.” 

Today’s lesson from that part of Isaiah that covers the restoration of Judah from the Babylonian exile is a case in point. Remember that Judah’s salvation in this sense comes at the behest of the Persians, who are agents God uses to deliver Judah from captivity. Then remember that ancient Persia is modern-day Iran, and Babylon was in what’s now Iraq. That is also Abraham’s native land. We still have ancient lessons to learn. 

The Canaanite woman is an outsider whose mere presence in the room, let alone conversation, means those present are ritually unclean. All she asks is what any mother would want for her child—for her to be made well. Jesus ignores her at first, then finally answers her plea in such a way as to try to just make her go away. Her reply reminds him who he is, which she evidently sees better than anyone else in the room. I can imagine her expression and her determination as she says, "Even the dogs eat the crumbs under the children’s table.” 

I can also imagine that Jesus’ expression changed with his recognition of the consequences of this encounter. Moving from rigid boundaries to compassion, he says, “Go. Because of your faith your daughter is healed.” 

Because of her faith, Jesus’ own faithfulness expands beyond the rigid boundaries of tradition and expectation. If we don’t want to accept that interpretation, then consider this whole scene as a challenge to everyone else in the room that their own boundaries might just exclude them from God’s compassion, God’s salvation. 

And maybe that’s the point. 

The late Rachel Held Evans had an evangelical zeal that led her to the desire to let others know they lived outside her perceived boundaries of God’s grace. She and her husband moved into a part of Chicago known as Boystown, where a majority of the residents were and are homosexual. At first, she wanted to “save” them from their wicked ways. 

Then she got to know her neighbors. She witnessed their love and caring for each other in ways that only those brought together by their outcast status seem to be able to do. She then begins to speak of her own conversion. “I went there wanting to make them Christian. Instead, I learned from them what it really means to be Christian myself.” 

You see, when we truly live into our faith, when we open all the deadbolt locks on the doors of our hearts and minds, we might discover that we are where we are not because God has work for us to do, but that God’s work is really happening within us. I’ve told you many times that God can be sneaky. 

Sometimes we get so settled in our traditions and practices that we lose sight that another way might be just as good, or perhaps even better. Sometimes it takes what might be considered the intrusive presence of an outsider to startle us to a wider understanding of our faith. That's because our faith is often so limited by our own personal boundaries that we lose sight of God’s infinite and eternal love. 

That does not mean that God loves each and every thing going on within and around us. But it does mean that God’s love reaches out to embrace the unloved and sometimes unlovable in our own perspectives. It's just that God uses our own arms to embrace them. It also means that we stand firm in the face of unloving spirits that work to exclude those who differ from themselves. And while many might boast that God loves us just as we are, the love of God does not leave us there but leads us through a life of continued and continuing redemption as we move into closer relationship with our Creator and each other. 

When serving as a hospital chaplain, I was called late one night to visit a patient in the emergency department. She was dropped off in a state of hysteria by friends after they convinced her that demons were going to claim her eternal soul. She said over and over that she knew God was stronger than demons, but she was so afraid. 

After a few repetitions, I began to interrupt her. “But God is stronger.” Again. You said God is stronger than demons. But . . . God is stronger. She began to calm down, and I finally said some words she seemed to have never heard before. “God loves you.” 

We talked more, and after about two hours of waiting for the behavioral health nurse to approve admission, she consented to receive Holy Baptism. Altar guilds would be hard pressed to find the necessary furnishings for baptism in an ER room, but we made do. Let your imagination wander to what I used as a holy water basin. I have no idea what happened to the demons who drove her to the hospital. Visions of water and dissolving witches from the Wizard of Oz come to mind. Baptism, anyone? 

Sometimes demons work overtime to make sure we don’t notice who they are. Our work involves naming reality and where it leads us. Like that day with Jesus and the Canaanite woman, and like the promise of all the Isaiahs, sometimes it also means we ourselves are converted in ways that help to see as God sees us and those around us. That in itself is a full-time job. 

After all, some may be foreigners, outcasts, or alien to us. That doesn’t mean they are those things to God. After we remind ourselves of that, it’s time to make sure they understand that, too. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​The story of the feeding of 5,000 men, plus women and children, is one that’s found in each of the four canonical gospels. Each tells the story in slightly different ways, although each one is what we call a teachable moment for the disciples. 

In Matthew’s version, this event follows a series of parables that try to describe the kingdom of heaven. That’s Matthew’s phrase for the approaching reign of God inaugurated by the birth of Jesus. 

Matthew pauses from the parables to give us a look back as he tries to explain who Jesus is. Today’s story comes just after Jesus has returned to his childhood home in Nazareth. At first, it’s the hometown hero, the boy everyone’s talking about. It quickly turns into questions along the lines of "We knew you when? Just who do you think you are now?” Jesus leaves Nazareth without much to show because of the lack of faith of its residents. Luke gives us a bit of elaboration, which we heard last year. 

The identity question persists. Word of his deeds and teachings reaches Herod, who wonders if Jesus is really John the Baptist raised from the dead. Herod had John beheaded, and Matthew reminds us of that. 

When Jesus hears that news he needs a little “me time.” He tries to get away to a quiet place, but the crowds find out and follow him there. The day goes on, and it’s getting late. The disciples want to send everyone home so they can have supper, but Jesus brings everything home to them when he tells them they can feed the hungry crowd. 

With what? Have you seen the price of groceries lately? Bananas are getting close to a denari a pound, and don’t get me started about the price of eggs, let alone hamburgers. That stuff they call pork is cheaper, but Moses said “no.” 

“What do you have?” asks Jesus. Five loaves of bread and a couple of fish. And there’s no fish helper to stretch things out a bit. And the tartar sauce has been out in the sun all day, so it’s a no-go. 

That’s the beginning of the story. You heard what happened and how much was left over. So, to make a short sermon longer, what does it all mean? 

First of all, it doesn’t mean we offer a little bit and then magically make it do a lot more so we can say we did something. In case you haven’t noticed, none of us here is Jesus in the same way Matthew presents him in today’s lesson. That’s why trying to remake today’s event happen, could turn into little more than a parody where we become the parable we don’t want told. 

But there is something more substantial than our meager attempts at playing God. Matthew’s Gospel has been described as an “apocalyptic gospel,” words that cause some to shy away from it because the word apocalypse raises visions of misinformed interpretations prevalent among fundamentalists and dispensationalists and missed dates for what they call “the rapture.” 

While the feeding of 5,000+ is an event in the life of Jesus of Nazareth, it also points us to a hope that when Christ returns to establish God’s reign on earth—that eternal Kingdom of Heaven Matthew talks about—no one will be left hungry, either for real food or, as the Sermon on the Mount tells us, for righteousness. 

So today’s lesson is not just about something that happened way back when, but a vision of a time yet to come, a promised time of eternal salvation for God’s people and God’s creation. 

Maybe we’re not getting the glimpses necessary to instill hope because many of our efforts are based on offering what we can get by with instead of all that we have on hand. Maybe we’ve waited so long for the fulfillment of the kingdom that we really have stopped believing those words we still say every week: "He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.” 

But, if we’ve stopped believing that, then why are we here? We might as well declare that the resurrection is just another springtime festival and that Christmas is only about Santa and not the incarnation of the cosmic Christ. 

The difficulty lies in the fact that so many of the teachings of our faith have been co-opted by those seeking only individual and personal salvation in another place and time. Our dissolution of communities, our neglect and distrust of others, our hoarding of personal wealth, and the exhaustive and exhausting need for more are all signs and wonders that compete for faith in the promises of the risen Christ. 

We live in a culture that depends on and requires our belief in scarcity. If we had half as many affordable homes as we have rented storage lockers in our region, we could solve the housing crisis. If we believed in the coming reign of God for all creation, we would start forming a living community where that vision cannot and will not be so easily dismissed. Then, we could get to work taking better care of the world Jesus has promised to return to. 

We’ve spent so much time and energy maintaining budgets and buildings that all we can see is the next utility or repair bill, and we wait in fear for it to come. Maybe we’ll begin to gain a vision of “the life of the world to come” when we, with fear and trembling, offer all we are to join the journey to that life and dare take in the sights along the way, and not bury our noses in the online travel planner. Because some day, all we have will be behind us, and all we are will be left hoping for entrance into the kingdom. 

In the meantime, keep in mind that offering a fish sandwich to a hungry stranger might just be the first tangible sign of salvation they hope for, too.