“What do you think of Jesus?” is a question that has no
equal or rival. It is a question that persists as the
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
