On this 20th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, it’s easy to ask “Where is God?” as we remember and grieve stories of suffering and death on that day and in the decades since 2001. To find God, we look to the cross, to Jesus giving himself for us and for the world.
In this week’s Gospel reading from Mark 8:27-38, Jesus asks his disciples who they say he is. Peter correctly identifies him as the Messiah, the Savior sent from God. But when Jesus begins to explain that he will soon suffer and die, that’s too much for Peter. He rebukes Jesus. After all, who ever heard of a Messiah suffering and dying? That’s no one’s idea of how to save the world and rescue God’s people!
Yet from our perspective, we know Jesus’ death on the cross is exactly how God saves the world. God is revealed to us most clearly through Jesus hanging on the cross, willingly giving his very life for us. In that moment of suffering, anguish, and death, we see the full extent of God’s love. And as Jesus’ followers, we are called to testify to that love. We are called to bear that love into the hurting places of this world, knowing there is no suffering, no sorrow, no pain that is too much for God. As God brought resurrection and new life out of even the horror of the cross, so too God is bringing resurrection and new life for us and for this hurting, broken world.
I found helpful this week Rev. Nelson H. Rabell González’s reflection in the ELCA World Hunger Sermon Starters email, C. Clifton Black’s commentary at Working Preacher, and Debie Thomas at Journey with Jesus.
Today’s reading is a turning point in Mark’s Gospel. We’re in chapter 8, halfway through the book, and this is the first time Jesus is identified as the “Messiah.”
That word “Messiah” literally means “anointed one.” It’s actually the same word as Christ, just the Hebrew version, not the Greek version. We’re more used to hearing Jesus called the Christ, but you can just as easily call him the Messiah and mean the same thing.
There’s a lot of history to the idea of a Messiah, an anointed one. Over and over in the Old Testament, in the Hebrew Scriptures, God promises to send a rescuer to God’s people, the people of Israel. Someone descended from the line of the great King David will come and will gather God’s people.
Over the centuries before Jesus, various people claimed the title of messiah, anointed one, but Israel is still oppressed, still a subjugated people ruled by the Roman empire.
Now, in this story, Peter identifies Jesus as the Messiah. He makes the bold claim that this guy from Nazareth, this rabbi, this teacher is the Messiah, the Christ, the anointed one of God. It’s a mighty statement of faith from Peter.
It’s even more significant if you understand the setting of the story. They are in Caesarea Philippi, a religious city, with temples and shrines honoring Roman deities like pan and Roma, and even Caesar Augustus, who himself claimed “son of god” as one of his titles. The city itself is dedicated to Caesar, named as a monument to his power.
So, to declare that Jesus is the Messiah, the anointed one of God, in this place is treasonous. The empire has little tolerance for anointed liberators setting people free. But when Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” this is what he’s looking for, right?
Well, apparently not quite, because when Peter correctly identifies him as God’s anointed Messiah, Jesus immediately says “Don’t repeat that to anyone.” Then from there, he starts telling them what sounds like some really bad news.
The future, Jesus says, holds great suffering, rejection, even death. That’s…not quite what Peter was picturing. It’s not what anyone was picturing for the Messiah, the savior.
Peter’s statement of faith is bold, but it’s incomplete. He’s looking for a messiah through a human lens. When humans come up with a savior, or a god, it looks a lot like the temples and shrines around them in the city, like mighty military leaders, powerful, glorious, triumphant. That’s what Peter’s expecting.
Peter is on the right track—God is glorious and almighty—but his confession is incomplete because he doesn’t know about the cross. And when Jesus tries to fill him in with the information he’s missing, telling him the Son of Man—that is, Jesus—must suffer and be rejected and die, Peter gets upset. How can this be?
“Lord, I think you’re a bit mixed up. You see, you’re the Messiah. You’re the Savior. I’m pretty sure you’re actually God. You can’t suffer or die. That doesn’t make any sense! Maybe go meditate, pray for a bit, and get your head on straight, Jesus.”
Jesus rebukes Peter, calling him Satan, telling him to get out of the way, to take his mind off human things and focus on divine things. Stop trying to make sense of Jesus’ mission—God’s mission—from a human framework. Stop trying to limit God to working the way you expect.
It’s a tough rebuke to hear, because we’re often more on the same page as Peter in looking for something glorious—at least I am.
When I think about God, I know better (at least, most of the time I hope I know better) than to picture some Greek titan, or an idol of a Roman nature deity. I hope we know better than to imagine that any politician or emperor or president can be the divine savior of the world.
Instead, we worship the Lord God, creator of the universe, maker of all that is, seen and unseen. We serve the one true God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God who rescued the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt into the promised land, the God who has the power to shake the foundations of the earth. We serve a mighty God, the Lord almighty.
And that God chooses to be revealed to us in Jesus. Our God comes not as a human king or emperor, but as an itinerant Jewish rabbi; born not in a palace, but in a humble home stable. Our God chooses to come and to suffer and die. That’s hard to accept. This savior who submits to suffering humiliation and death on a cross is hard to follow.
I get why Peter is uncomfortable, why he’s trying to protect Jesus. The question I’ve been wrestling with this week is verse 31, right in the middle. “Jesus began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering.” But why?
Why does Jesus, why does the anointed Messiah need to suffer? I think the answer is because we suffer. And we need a God who understands. In Jesus’ suffering and death, we see how far God is willing to go for us. The cross reveals the extent of God’s love.
With the 20th anniversary of the September 11th attacks this weekend, I’ve been reading the book The Only Plane in the Sky: An Oral History of 9/11. It’s an incredibly powerful history of 9/11, with some 500 people’s memories woven together to tell a story of trauma, suffering, and heroism. It’s a gripping page-turner, but it’s also tough to read. It’s hard to imagine the amount of suffering that day, let alone all the suffering and loss that’s come out of it.
Nearly three thousand people killed that day. Then almost 7,000 American service members killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Hundreds of thousands of civilians dead.
As you hear stories of suffering, whether it’s on 9/11, or in a war, or in an earthquake in Haiti, or the more mundane suffering of individuals with cancer, or dementia, it’s so easy to wonder, where is God in these stories, in these moments.
The cross is the answer to that question, the best answer we have.
Martin Luther wrote that “the visible and manifest things of God [are] seen through suffering and the cross.” (Heidelberg Disputation, #20)
What he means by this “theology of the cross” is that the best way of seeing who God truly is isn’t to look at the beauty of a sunrise, or the grandeur of a cathedral. God’s love for us is ultimately revealed in Jesus, God with us, hanging on a cross. That’s the gospel, the good news.
And we need that, because if God isn’t present with us in the midst of suffering, if we can’t enter into the deepest places of evil and suffering and find God has something to say there, what’s the point?
The cross gives us evidence that God is present in refugee camps, hospital beds, nursing home rooms, on hijacked planes and office buildings, even in concentration camps and gas chambers.
God is with you in those times when you feel like the Psalmist, entangled by cords of death, with the power of death and the grave gripping you.
God is the creator of beauty and joy. God is the giver of life, the source of all good things. We serve a beautiful savior who created a wonderful world, sparkling stars, blooming flowers, all of that.
But a god who couldn’t be present at Ground Zero wouldn’t be worth following. A god who wouldn’t weep on the side of a highway next to a smashed car or at the smoldering site of a drone attack wouldn’t be worth following.
There’s a famous picture of a seven-foot-long, two-ton metal crossbeam standing in the rubble at Ground Zero, a cross jammed into the rubble. It’s at the 9-11 museum now. Some Christians have interpreted that photo as a symbol that the cross still stands, that terrorists can’t destroy our freedom to worship, some kind of triumphant symbol rising out of the ashes. You can look at it that way, I suppose.
But I think it’s much more powerful as a reminder of Jesus’ suffering. In the midst of devastation, in the midst of piles of rubble and death, God is not absent. Jesus is present. As Frank Silecchia, the excavator who discovered the crossbeam in the rubble on September 13, 2001, said, “It was a sign, a sign that God hadn’t deserted us.” (source)
Jesus understands suffering, the worst our world can offer, because Jesus has gone through it. God has chosen to enter into our world. The Son of Man must undergo great suffering and rejection and be killed.
Most importantly, suffering is not the end of the story. After three days, Jesus promises, the Son of Man will rise again.
And then he does. On the third day, the tomb was empty. Death was defeated, and death remains defeated. God is in the business of life and restoration.
And we are called to be part of that mission. Jesus calls us to take up our cross and follow him. We are called to be bearers of the cross into places of tragedy and pain knowing there is no anguish, no sorrow, no pain that is too much for God.
That’s why we do things as a church like support refugees, sharing God’s love with people we’ll never meet. We are called to testify to God’s presence in our own lives, and in the lives of our neighbors. As we’ll sing shortly, we are called to lift high the cross and proclaim the love of Christ.
Lifting high the cross doesn’t mean waving it like a talisman in front of a conquering army (although Christians have done that). Lifting high the cross means proclaiming a God who comes into our suffering and suffers alongside us, proclaiming both the reality of suffering, and the promise that death never gets the last word. As the hymn we’ll sing shortly says, it’s a call for us to follow where our master trod, an invitation for us to proclaim the hope of resurrection, even in the face of suffering and death.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, you came and lived among us to experience the joys and the sorrows of human life. You gave your life for us, so that we might live. Lord, give us the strength to carry our cross and proclaim your love. Open our eyes to not turn away or ignore the suffering in this world, but instead to enter in, to be your hands and feet, to provide comfort, and healing, and hope in your name.
Amen
As you’ll see in the insert in the bulletin, church council has decided our congregation is having a special offering collection this weekend to support the work of the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service.
I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures and video out of Afghanistan over the last few weeks with so many people who’d worked with the US military and aid workers fleeing the country as our forces withdrew.
The Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service is one of the 9 organizations in the United States who work with the federal government directly on refugee resettlement.
They’ve been doing this kind of work for over 80 years, since after World War 2, and after refugees pass their security vetting and are allowed into the country, LIRS is one of the groups that meets them at the airport and helps them find housing, food, jobs, English classes, all of that kind of thing.
They’ve been asking for tangible donations like diapers, food, and furniture, but that’s not practical for where we are, so we’re asking for financial donations so they can keep doing this work of welcome and loving our neighbors on our behalf.
There’s a separate basket for this offering in back by the regular offering plate for our congregation, or if you didn’t realize we were doing this today and don’t have anything with you, you can give later, just mark it for refugees. Whether or not this is a cause you feel God calling you to donate towards (and not everyone is called to support every single cause!) but do please pray for both the refugees and those working directly with them.
When church council decided to do this offering to help, I don’t think they realized this would also be the 20th anniversary weekend of September 11, 2001 (at least, I didn’t realize it). But particularly with the refugees from Afghanistan, I think this is the perfect day for us to give for refugee relief.
There’s something beautiful about declaring that instead of being afraid and terrorized by people from across the world, we are committed as Christians to seeing them as people made in the image of God, neighbors in need of help. So, thank you for your generosity.
We join in the offering prayer.