Jesus was deep in prayer, “in solitude,” as the Gospel reading says. Somehow the disciples were with him. Maybe they were whispering so as not to disturb him. All at once his prayer turned into questions. “Who do the crowds say I am?” he asked; and most crucially, “Who do you say that I am?”
This was the hardest of questions.
Let’s look at the context. Jesus had already sent the disciples out “to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal” (Lk 9:1-2). They had gone from village to village, on their own for the first time, preaching the good news, and now at last they could tell him about it.
People had already begun to speculate as to who this highly praised Jesus was. Some had thought he might be an ancient prophet raised from the dead, specifically the prophet Elijah, or maybe John the Baptist. This kind of gossip had reached Herod himself.
More followed. Crowds had begun to come along with Jesus and the apostles. In a remote place he fed them by turning a few loaves and fishes into enough food for five thousand people. Very impressive. Of course it heightened everyone’s curiosity, and understandably it encouraged many to become star-struck.
Maybe this is why Jesus asked the apostles the difficult question we are looking at. It was time for them to advance a step beyond. He did not want them to be just members of the multitude, seeking mainly to have wounds healed, seeking something from him that resembled magic, even something that would free Israel from its Roman occupiers. So he asked them.
“Who do you say that I am?”
This subject is at the heart of the Gospel and the heart of Jesus’ prayer. He asks it of you and me as well. Peter answered for the others:
“You are the Messiah of God.”
A huge insight. A milestone. Jesus must have been very pleased.
So let us ask what it meant. Important as it was, did it form a complete insight into the Christ (the Messiah)? Or was it merely a stepping stone to that awareness?
Don’t be discouraged. It was only a stepping stone, something that enabled Jesus (“from that point forward,” as the Gospels of Matthew and Mark note) to unfold the surprising deeper layer of his identity.
The Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised (Gospel).
This unimaginable part of Jesus’ identity did not go over well with the disciples. Later they would fight against it. A love so complete that it would not tear itself away from those he loved, even under immense pressure to the contrary. This revelation would make Jesus into “him whom they have pierced,” as the First Reading for Sunday describes him.
All of this shows you how important the tiny question from today’s Gospel was. The First Reading passage was written five hundred years before Christ’s time. Now, so many centuries later, here was the suffering servant, “the one who was to come,” the one would gradually teach us God’s identity, who would be the one for whom our souls are thirsting (Responsorial Psalm). He had descended directly into our suffering and would stay with us all the way, not turning back, not forgetting to love us with his whole heart and soul.
Do you fight against such an idea? Or do you thirst for it? Or both?
John Foley S. J.
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