Sunday Morning Sanctuary

August 21, 2005

“Touching Shoulders”

Mark 8:27-38

As I have seen different media celebrities and athletes doing commercials for certain products, I’ve often wondered and have wanted to ask, “Yeah, but do you really use that product?” I mean, does Catherine Zeta Jones really use T-Mobile? Do Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley really use Total Gym? Does Susan Sarandon really use Maybellene? Does George Forman really buy from Meineke? Is Kirstie Alley really losing weight by using Jenny Craig? Does Lindsay Wagner really sleep on a Sleep Number Bed, and does Rafael Palmeiro really use Viagara or is it steroids? If they don’t, I say they shouldn’t advertise that they do.

What can be said about the huckstering of products on TV can also be said of our faith. There are many people who easily say they believe in God and many who maintain that they’re Christians, but when we get to know them and watch them under pressure or in action, we wonder if they really understand and believe what they claim.

John Henry Newman wrote about the difference between conceptual agreement that says, “Of course, there’s a God,” and the internal understanding that translates that belief into trust, into commitment and a life of love. So much of our faith is in words and ideas only, but so little of it has the breath and the smell of life on it.

Jesus more than once challenged persons whose religion they peddled publicly but one they did not hold privately, a faith that did not hold them, a religion that they used to avoid facing life and relating to other people. Jesus said that the best evidence of our religion is in the fruits of our actions and deeds, that the integrity of our faith is measured by how we love each other.

In this morning’s reading from the Bible, Jesus underscores this truth again. Along with his disciples, Jesus has begun his journey towards Jerusalem. However, he pauses with them for a rest in the beautiful area near Caesarea Philippi. During some unhurried moments with the Twelve, Jesus asks them, “Who do people say that I am?” Various ones reply, “Some say John the Baptizer, others say Elijah, and yet others say one of the prophets.” In the silence where the only sounds to be heard are the wind in the trees and the chorus of birds, Jesus studies each of their faces and then asks, “But who do you say that I am?” Silence again, as they glance at him, at each other, but mostly at the ground. Someone clears his throat, and Peter leans forward and declares, “You are the Christ, the Messiah.”

Jesus then attempts to explain to them how such a faith conviction will affect their lives and involve them in his suffering and death. Peter passionately protests, a response that draws a sharp reprimand from Jesus. In fact, Jesus goes further and makes plain to them and the crowds who had gathered nearby that, “any who really want to follow me, to be with me, to share my purpose and future, must deny themselves, take up their cross and go with me all the way.” He adds that only by losing their lives will they find them, that only by giving themselves away in the serving of others will they come fully alive. Moreover, what Jesus laid before them, he also lays before us. This morning we consider two meanings that emerge from his invitation.

First, it’s one thing to say, “You are the Christ,” but it’s quite another thing to be Christ for others. It’s one thing to admire Christ’s cross; it’s quite another to take up our own cross. It’s one thing to talk about being a Christian; it’s quite another to live a Christ-like life in our family, at our work, in our neighborhood, in the political upheavals and moral dilemmas of our day.

Dr. William Gregory, pastor of the First Congregational Church in Berkeley, shared an incident that early revealed to him this truth. It’s an experience that some of us have encountered in our own faith journey. He writes:

It was at a mountain retreat that I attended when I was about sixteen years old. An evangelist had [preached] and graphically depicted the crucifixion of Jesus with nails going through his hands and feet. Then the evangelist looked out on the congregation and, pointing to me, I was sure, said: “No one stood up for Jesus that day. Is there anyone here tonight that will stand up for him?” And I stood up. A few others stood up, too, and the evangelist said, “Praise God, thank you!” Then we sat down.

At the conclusion of the service, a young man approached me and said, “I noticed that you stood up. Would you like to know more about Jesus?” Since I felt both obligated and interested, I said, “Yes.”

We sat in the front seat of a pickup truck, and he began by asking me, “Do you want eternal life?” I didn’t understand quite what he was talking about because when I had stood up, I wasn’t standing up for eternal life; I was standing up for Jesus so Jesus wouldn’t be alone. “Why do you ask?” I wanted to know.

He replied, “So that you’ll go to heaven instead of hell. Do you want eternal life?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “How do you get it?”

“Just say these words,” he answered.

“What words?” I asked.

“I take you, Jesus Christ, as my Lord and Savior,” he recited.

“That’s all I have to do,” I commented, “and I’ll have eternal life?”

“That’s all you have to do,” he emphasized.

“I just say those words and I’m saved?”

“That’s all,” he replied.

So, I said the words out loud in front of him, but it seemed too easy. It somehow seemed like magic and a little cheap. But I didn’t want to miss out, so I said them. Later I realized that it hadn’t meant much to me then—or now.

It’s one thing to say, “You are the Christ,” but it’s a far different thing to live a Christ-like life and to be Christ for others, to struggle with life’s frustrations and contradictions, to sit beside someone in the darkness of his or her despair, to take the risks of love, to walk the first (much less the second and third) mile, to turn the other cheek, to apologize, to forgive, to stand for Jesus when you stand alone and the world ridicules and attacks your motives, to stay faithful when it costs more than we thought it would and we’re tired and no one seems to care, to uphold goodness and righteousness without self-conscious virtue, and to let our whole life be the argument and the evidence for the faith we profess.

The second meaning is this: It’s one thing to use the right words about faith, but it’s quite a different thing to stand the test with faith, to face the ordeal, to engage those moments of truth that reveal our true colors, the ridges of our character and the quality of our love. That’s why Jesus so desperately wanted the disciples to understand at Caesarea Philippi, for he knew what lay ahead not only for him but also for them. And that’s why he scolded Peter, when Peter wanted to gloss over the reality for the sake of a false hope. In spite of Jesus’ efforts, the disciples didn’t listen or learn what he was saying until after the resurrection, when transformed with resurrection power they faced their own suffering and death with a smile on their faces and a song on their lips.

If we ourselves have had to stand the test or struggle through some ordeal that measured our depths, we’ve learned just how such moments reveal the true substance of our faith, how adequate our inner resources are, how committed we are to Jesus as Savior and Lord.

Langdon Gilkey was in China as a missionary when World War II broke out, and he was imprisoned with others in what they called the Shantung Compound. They were deprived of all their possessions and forced to live in sparse conditions while undergoing torture and other indignities. The traumatic events they endured stripped away all their defenses, revealing their courage or cowardice, strength or weakness, inner beauty or ugliness. Some who had talked loudest about their faith in Christ soon collapsed and whined the most, while others who in the beginning were treated as nobodies became, under siege, stalwarts of faith, whose courage and strength held the community together.

I’ve found this to be true. I’ve seen those who talked the most about their faith crumble under crisis and have seen some become bitter cynics who cursed God and berated everyone else for making them suffer. And there have been others whose quiet, humble faith became their strength, so that when tragedy, suffering and loss came their way, they bore the burdens with such uncommon courage and with a sense of humor and a contagion of irrepressible joy, that in them I met Jesus and felt the power of God’s grace. The poet’s lines speak of this:

There’s a comforting thought at the close of the day

When I’m weary or lonely or sad,

That grips hold of my aching heart

And bids it be merry and glad.

It beats in my soul and drives out the blues,

And finally thrills through and through.

It’s just the memory that chants the refrain,

“I’m glad I touched shoulders with you.”

Did you know you were brave, did you know you were strong?

Did you know there was one leaning hard?

Did you know that I waited and listened and prayed

And was cheered by your simplest word?

Did you know that I longed for the smile on your face,

For the sound of your voice ringing true?

Did you know that I grew stronger and better because

I had merely touched shoulders with you?

I am glad that I can live, that I battle and strive

For the place that I know I must fill:

I am thankful for sorrows I’ll meet with a grin

What fortune may send, good or ill.

I may not have wealth, I may not be great,

But I know I shall always be true,

For I have in my life that courage you gave

When once I touched shoulders with you.

It’s one thing to say, “You are the Christ,” but it’s quite another thing to live a Christ-like life and to be Christ for others. It’s one thing to use all the right religious words, but it’s quite another to stand the test with courage and follow Jesus with faith all the way, and thus be a witness to others of the power that holds us and enable us to endure. “If any would come after me, let them deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow me!” Amen!