one most people stumble over, even today. For example, according to data from Ligonier and LifeWay Research, in 2022, fifty-five percent of U.S. adults agreed that “Jesus [was] created by God.” Jesus of Nazareth, in other words, wasn’t “God incarnate”; he was just a slightly more divine angel sent from heaven with a message for the world. But if that’s all Jesus was, Christianity offers next to nothing to hope in, revel in, or rejoice in. (Those respondents, by the way, are encouraged to examine history and the declaration of the Council of Nicaea.) Say what you will about Jesus’s teachings, miracles, or morals; research him all you want; study his ethics and example till kingdom come — apart from the confession that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ of God who suffered and died for the forgiveness of sins and rose again to justify the ungodly, there is no Christian faith.
If Jesus isn’t “the Christ,” then our faith is little more than a religion whose central figure was a teacher from Nazareth with a messiah complex. In that case, to copy the words of Paul, “[our] faith is futile [and] we are of all people most to be pitied” (1 Cor. 15:17–18). If Jesus wasn’t “the Christ,” there is no such thing as Christianity. Wesley Huff’s question to Joe Rogan, which was originally Jesus’s question to his disciples, is the ultimate of ultimate questions. It’s every “$64,000 question” rolled into one profound inquiry. “What do you think of Jesus?” Or, to use Christ’s own words, “Who do you say that I am?” (Matt. 16:15). It is nearly impossible to overstate how important one’s answer to that question is, especially since the implications are eschatological.
Worldly wisdom vs. Christ’s word.
In many ways, there are only three possible answers to this poignant query — namely, Jesus was a liar, a lunatic, or he was the Lord incarnate. Oxford don C. S. Lewis is often credited with formulating these alternatives in one of his lectures in Mere Christianity. “You must make your choice,” he writes. “Either [Jesus] was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse” (55–56). This response, however, was first expressed by an eighteenth-century Scottish preacher named John Duncan, whose writings were collected by his long-time friend and conversation partner William Knight. “Christ,” Duncan is quoted as saying, “either deceived mankind by conscious fraud, or he was himself deluded and self-deceived, or he was Divine. There is no getting out of this trilemma. It is inexorable” (109).
The point is that Jesus’s entire earthly ministry comes down to a single question. Every word, every miracle, every little moment that filled Christ’s life was building up to this moment. The previous three years of ministry in Galilee and beyond were accomplished so that this confession would be unavoidable. As C. S. Lewis proceeds to observe, “Let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to” (55–56). Jesus wasn’t interested in being another in a long line of great spiritual teachers or gurus, nor was he keen on becoming a politician. Jesus didn’t set out to earn a reputation for being a revered prophet, a respected philanthropist, or some sort of “social reformer.” As ethical and charitable as he was, Jesus wasn’t sent to start a charity or redeem everyone’s pitiful ethics. Jesus came to Earth to accomplish a particular purpose, which is what the scene “on the road to Caesarea Philippi” reveals (Matt. 16:13–23).
The turning point of eternity.
Historically speaking, Christ’s exchange with The Twelve in Matthew 16 (cf. Mark 8:27–29; Luke 9:18–20) constitutes one of the most pivotal moments in the first century. The religious world was still processing and reeling in the aftermath of John the Baptist’s beheading a few months prior (Matt. 14:1–12). Despite the apparent momentum Jesus appeared to have, a heavy cloud of uncertainty seemed to follow him. After all, how were Jesus’s followers supposed to deal with this development? How would they respond to the death of one of Jesus’s most vocal proponents? Since John’s death, Jesus had been ministering in the northern region of Galilee through his third (and final) year of public ministry. He already knew his fate and began to clarify it for his disciples.
The conversation in Matthew 16 represents the first of several overt revelations of his ultimate purpose. The Markan version tells us this scene happened while they were on the road to Caesarea Philippi, which was a city that was heavily influenced by Greco-Roman intellectualism and hedonism. Caesarea Philippi was situated in an area of the ancient world that most Jews did their best to avoid, not the least of which because it served as a hub of pagan idolatry and impiety. But despite the shadow of ungodliness, worldly wisdom, and pride that loomed over them, the Lord proceeds to probe the allegiance of his closest followers. “Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’” (Matt. 16:13). What’s the word on the street?
Truth that defies popular opinion.
What makes this question so intriguing is that Jesus already knew the answer. He was very aware of the rumors that were swirling around him and his identity. In other words, he wasn’t seeking new information from his disciples. Neither was he interested in the latest “water cooler talk” from the religious elite back at Jerusalem. His question was entirely designed to get his disciples to come to a certain conclusion regarding who he was by highlighting all of the obvious false theories that were circulating (Matt. 16:14). Throughout Jesus’s earthly ministry, no one quite knew what to do with him or what to think about him. His messages and miracles defied all reason and logic. He spoke with supreme authority and humanity. He was magnanimous, generous, and gentle. He was never in a hurry nor too busy to care.
Nearly everything he did and/or said seemed antithetical to his upbringing. This was Jesus, the son of a carpenter from the backwoods village of Nazareth — and yet, crowds flocked to him and hung on his every word, leaving the “religious elite” befuddled and jealous, so much so that they conspired against him (cf. Matt. 12:14; cf. Mark 3:6; John 11:53). The working theory of the religious aristocracy was that Jesus was “one of the prophets” who had been brought back to life for a divine reason yet unknown to them (Matt. 16:14; 21:46). This theory, though, was nothing more than the ultimate example of human wisdom attempting to give an explanation for a divine occurrence. The speculation summarized by the disciples (Matt. 16:14) represents humanity’s attempt to rationalize what was being revealed to them through the person of Jesus.
Such theories cast aside the fact that Jesus’s life was not about reincarnating as a prophet. Rather, it was about fulfilling everything the prophets said. Consequently, Jesus presses his query even further: “But who do you say that I am?” (Matt. 16:15). The disciples were undoubtedly paralyzed by the very nature of this question. They had never been asked something like this before. What’s more, anytime anyone had offered to identify Jesus had been silenced by Jesus up to that point (Matt. 9:27–31; Mark 1:44–45). And on top of all that, John the Baptist just lost his head because he wouldn’t stop talking about how Jesus was “the Christ.”
But despite all that, the Lord pensively inquires, “Who do you think I am?” This is a question that looks back on everything he had already said and done. “Based on everything you’ve witnessed and heard,” we might render his words, “who do you say that I am? I don’t care what ‘they’ are saying, I care about what you believe.” To no one’s surprise, Peter was the first to speak up: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matt. 16:15). Impetuous, speak-first-think-later Peter put all of his eggs in the basket that said “Jesus is the Christ,” that is, the Messiah. (This is one of many examples of Peter saying what the rest of The Twelve were thinking.) The Messiah, of course, was an anticipated future deliverer and king of Israel whose arrival would signal the establishment of God’s kingdom on earth (cf. Dan. 9:24–25). The bulk of Israelite life and culture revolved around this promised Messiah, which means Peter’s reply is a monumental claim, one that Jesus swiftly endorses (Matt. 16:17).
According to the Lord’s own testimony, Peter’s confession was not only true but also revealed to be part of the work of God in the world. This declaration that Jesus was “the Christ” wasn’t due to Peter’s acumen or “street smarts.” It was “in no way,” R. C. H. Lenski observes, “the product of his own reason, his superior intellect, or of any meritorious quality or effort on his part” (623). Rather, it was entirely due to the fact that God was at work revealing himself through his Word, which “became flesh” in Jesus (John 1:14). Through the person of his Son, God was speaking his words of peace and promise to the world (Heb. 1:1–2).
The confession that changes everything.
As Jesus expands on Peter’s confession and reveals that this would be the rock upon which his church is built (Matt. 16:18–19), we are introduced to what might be the most controversial text in the entire canon. (“It is possible,” as Patrick Schreiner says, “that more has been written on these verses than any in the Bible” [99].) The common Roman Catholic interpretation equates this moment with Peter’s ascendancy as the first vicar of Christ’s church, which almost entirely misses the point. Peter isn’t a pope; he’s an object lesson used by Jesus to illustrate how the world would be remade — namely, through the proclamation of the rock-solid confession that the man whose name means “rock” just made (cf. John 1:42). “You’re right, Mr. Rock,” Jesus seems to say. “Your confession is spot on, and the world will soon be remade through a gathered assembly of confessing believers who all confess the same thing.”
That’s what the church is: the church is a gathering of those who confess that Jesus is “the Christ,” the very cornerstone of faith (Eph. 2:19–21) and who hold fast to this confession via Christ’s Word and Spirit (Heb. 3:6; 4:14; 10:23). “Peter’s confession,” E. Arnold Sitz once wrote, “expresses the quintessence of the Christian faith, namely, that Jesus is both Son of man and Son of God in one Person, the God-man” (162). In other words, we become virtual Peters when we confess that the solid rock is none other than Jesus.
When God’s plan subverts your expectations.
The church isn’t built on Peter. It cannot be, especially since even he misunderstood the purpose of “the Christ” (Matt. 16:21–23). Jesus had alluded to his death and resurrection before (John 2:18–21), but now he was explicitly telling them what was to come. He “must go to Jerusalem” because he was sent to “save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21). Jesus eschews any sense of mystery and conveys where this would take place (Jerusalem), who would be behind it (the Sanhedrin), and what the result would be (resurrection). The Lord was very aware of what he had been sent to do. The cross seemed to loom over every step he took. Peter, though, can barely take what he has just heard from his beloved Teacher, leading the impetuous disciple to pull his Master aside to “rebuke him” (Matt. 16:22) — to show him how wrong he was about his destiny.
This was another case of Peter saying what everyone else was thinking. He was the only one with the gumption (or is naïveté?) to say something. “What do you mean suffer and die?” we might hear him say. “What do you mean you’re gonna be killed by the religious aristocracy? I’m sure that’s not true! You’re the Christ, the Messiah, the one who’s supposed to bring in the kingdom! Stop all this nonsense about dying!” Peter — God bless him! — was not only speaking on behalf of the Twelve but also on behalf of what he thought was right. Little did he know that his “rebuke” of Jesus had made him an agent of the evil one.
Without missing a beat, Christ turns the whole exchange around. Now Peter is the one under rebuke. “Get behind me, Satan!” “Get out of here with that!” The Lord instantly dismisses any idea that he could forgo the suffering and death that was ahead of him, not the least of which because he had been tempted with this before (Matt. 4:8–10). Peter’s inclination that the Messiah cannot and must not die is an echo of Satan’s temptation to take the shortcut to glory by bowing in front of him. But Jesus isn’t fooled. He immediately recognizes the “satanic overtones” in the words of his beloved follower, which earns him his fiercest epithet. “Get behind me, Satan!”
Forgoing the cross wasn’t an option. The very hint of it was a “hindrance” to what he was sent to accomplish. He is the one who will make everything right again, but that involves far more than a political regime change or a religious revolution — namely, it involves death and resurrection, which is exactly what Jesus came to do. Even better, it’s who he is (John 11:25).
Holding fast to the cross.
Jesus came to redeem the world from sin by having all of the world’s sins put on him. He was sent to live for us, die for us, and make a way for us to live with him forever. Instead of leaving this world to spin into the oblivion of sin, perversion, and pride, God in Christ demonstrates “his love for us” by dying for us, even while we were still in our sins (Rom. 5:8). He doesn’t come to give us a little more wisdom. He doesn’t arrive with another dose of moralistic messages that promise a “new hope.” Nor does he offer us “new life,” let alone “eternal life,” through any other means than his suffering, death, and resurrection for us. That’s how he changes the world — specifically by taking the sins of every sinner on himself and paying for them with his life.
All of this is connected to the fact that he is no mere man or “heavenly being.” He is “the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matt. 16:16). He is the Lord’s Christ “manifested in the flesh, vindicated by the Spirit, seen by angels, proclaimed among the nations, believed on in the world, taken up in glory” (1 Tim. 3:16). Ever since that afternoon, those who belong to the Lord have made the same confession. “All believers of all future ages,” Lenski says, “have joined [Peter] in his confession and have understood it in the same sense that he gave to it” (622). The very thing that Peter rebuked Jesus for ended up becoming the driving impulse for the rest of his life (Acts 2:22–24,36; 4:10–12; 5:30–32). All that we are, have, and do as “the church” hinges on perpetuating and holding fast to this confession, which means holding fast to Christ himself. After all, as E. Arnold Sitz concludes, “Christ is not only the content of the Gospel, but the personified Gospel” (172).
“Who do you say that I am?” is an invitation to see God in the person of Jesus in the only way he intended — that is, through the paradigm who gives life by giving himself up to death for our sake.
by Bradley Gray
Christ for You
https://www.1517.org/articles/liar-lunatic-or-lord
