Rev. Nick Cheek
Matthew 16: 13-20
In our story this morning, Jesus asks two questions. The first is this: Who do people say that I am?
Jesus presents this question to the disciples a little over halfway into his ministry. The question comes at a time when people in society have begun to form their own opinions about Jesus. Some are saying that Jesus is the prophet Elijah who has come back from the dead. Some argue that Jesus is actually John the Baptist. Others think he is some sort of prophet, while still others view Jesus as a nuisance—a vocal opponent to the religious leaders and an enemy of the Roman state.
Who do people say Jesus is? Well, the world will always have an opinion about Jesus. Books will continue to be written about him for generations to come—he will be loved and detested. But I’m not so sure Jesus cared that much about popularity polls. I think he was more concerned about how his followers viewed him. [Pause] “What about you?” he asks “Who do YOU say that I am?”
When I was in seminary, our class did a Bible study on this passage, and something one of my professors said has stuck with me to this day. She said, “This is the most significant question you will ever answer in your life, because depending on how you answer, it will have the power to affect your worldview, how you live your life, what you care about—your priorities and purpose.”
The answer is not as simple as “Jesus is my personal savior,” or “Jesus saves me from my sins,” because we all know Jesus is so much more than that. It’s also important to recognize that this is not a question we only ask once. This question is one we will answer all throughout our lives, and the way we answer it—and the way we live it out—will change. It is a question that lives with us and walks with us.
As we grow in faith and in life experience, the answer to who Jesus is also grows in us—and hopefully transforms into something richer and deeper, as long as we keep on asking it.
When I look back on my own life, I can see how my answers have shifted with each season. In childhood, it was simple: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” As a child, I saw Jesus as kind and gentle, someone who comforted me when I was afraid, who made me feel safe. When I think of that childhood Jesus, Christmas comes to mind—Jesus as a baby in the manger, sweet and small, a Jesus you could hold.
As I grew older, that image stretched. Serving as an altar boy at St. George Greek Orthodox Church, I was pulled into the beauty and mystery of worship. I lit candles, carried the elements, and recited prayers. The sanctuary was often thick with incense—I can still smell it, clinging to every surface. We understood the rising smoke of incense as our prayers rising to heaven. Week after week, the entire service carried us toward the Lord’s Table.
There, I recognized Jesus as the one who gave his life for us, and who meets us in bread and wine, body and blood. I came to see Jesus as holy, mysterious, and yet so very present that I could almost feel him standing beside me.
By the time I reached my teenage years, the question felt quieter, less urgent. Not because Jesus had gone anywhere, but because my life was so full. Practices, friends, studies, and a job at the neighborhood deli all demanded my attention. Church wasn’t as steady a rhythm for me in that season. And I think that’s a normal part of growing up. We often give our teens the gift of freedom to explore, to discover who they are. And in the midst of that discovery, questions of faith sometimes move to the background. That doesn’t mean they disappear. It simply means they are waiting—waiting to be picked back up, waiting to be asked again.
As a parent and former youth pastor, this season reminds me that we, as the church, are called not just to prepare young people for the world, but to anchor their souls in something deeper.
It’s natural to ask our young people, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” but even more essential is asking, “Who do you want to be?”—and ultimately, “Who do you say that Jesus is?” Because the answer to that question—this living, personal confession of Christ—is what gives meaning to every other pursuit. It’s what roots them in identity, anchors them in uncertainty, and carries them through life’s deepest questions. It will also hold onto them when college ambitions shift, when career plans get diverted, when relationships falter, or when life takes unexpected turns. It is in those seasons that they will remember that Jesus said, “I am with you to the very end of the age.” “Who do you say Jesus is?”
In my early college years, my image of Jesus took a turn I’m not proud of. I joined a parachurch ministry that seemed to know the secret to living for Jesus, and that was deeply attractive to me. I dove right in—Bible in my back pocket, Bible studies nearly every day, conversations about Jesus with friends and even with strangers.
From the outside, I looked like a very devoted follower of Christ. I was “all in.” But something was missing. My faith, though passionate, became narrow. I was more concerned about the letter of the law than the spirit. I thought I was being “faithful” to Scripture, but I often missed the heart of the gospel. I could argue theology. I could quote Scripture. I could prove my point. But what I didn’t do—at least not well—was show grace. I was forgetting to embody the compassion and humility of Christ.
Looking back on that season: I thought I was defending Jesus, but in reality, I was giving him a bad name. Instead of helping people see the living Christ more clearly, I was putting obstacles in their way. My arguments spoke louder than my kindness. My rigidity painted a picture of a cold and judgmental Jesus, not the expansive, welcoming Jesus we find in the gospel.
That season taught me that there is a danger in clinging so tightly to our words that we miss the invitation to let our lives speak. And perhaps that’s the deeper point of Jesus’ question—“Who do you say that I am?” It’s not ultimately about the words we profess; it’s about the lives we live. The truest answer to that question is found in our discipleship—in whether our actions reflect the one we claim to follow. [Pause]
In our story this morning, Jesus uses the word Ecclesia for the first time—which is Greek for “Church.” He mentions us—you and I—who claim to follow Jesus. The church is tied to this question, and we, as the Church of Jesus Christ, find our vocation in answering it, not only with words, but with our priorities and purpose. The church’s mission is built on our collective confession of who Jesus is. That’s what it’s all about. THAT is number one on the Christian job description.
And if we’re being honest this morning, friends, the Christian church universal isn’t doing so well with its job as of late. Who we say Jesus is being hijacked. We don’t have to look far to see this in our nation right now. Too often, the name of Jesus is invoked not to reconcile but to divide. We see his name raised on political banners, not as a call to love our neighbor, but as a weapon to draw lines between “us” and “them.” We hear the words of the Bible twisted to justify violence, exclusion, or nationalism. Friends, Jesus didn’t come into the world to protect power—he came to lay it down for the sake of the powerless. The gospel couldn’t be clearer on this.
Who do we say Jesus is? If we believe Jesus to be filled with judgment, then we will judge. If we believe Jesus to be angry at our neighbors, then we will be angry also. If we believe Jesus was selective with who he loved and welcomed, then so will we. If we believe Jesus spent his time condemning, separating, and dividing the world, then so will his followers.
However—and this is extremely important—however…
If we believe Jesus is the resurrection and the life, then we will hold fast to hope—even in the valleys, even in the shadow of death—trusting that his presence and love have the final word.
If we believe Jesus is the Bread of Life, then we will become a people who share bread—bread for souls and bread for the tables of others.
If we believe Jesus is living water, then we will offer refreshment and relief to the weary and worn, to those carrying despair, depression, or loneliness.
If we believe Jesus is the Great Physician, then we will be a community that tends to wounds and walks with those in pain, practicing healing through compassion, presence, and prayer.
If we believe Jesus truly said, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened,” then our doors and our hearts will be open wide, to each other and to all who long to know what extravagant welcome feels like.
If we believe Jesus said, “Follow me,” then we will find the courage to follow—not just into the safe places, but into the broken places of this world God so loved.
Ecclesia… Church… the mission is not easy—and at times it may feel overwhelming. But Jesus never asked for perfection; he asked for faith. Take Peter, for example. He was no saint. An unremarkable fisherman—bold one moment, fearful the next. Insightful at times, confused at others. Faithful and faltering, believing and doubting, sometimes in the very same breath. And yet, through it all, Peter kept showing up. He followed. He testified. He struggled. And yes, he failed. That’s human.
Still, Jesus turned to him: “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter responded: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And to this, Jesus said, “On this rock I will build my church.” Not on the rock of Caesar. Not on the rock of power or perfection. But on the living rock of humble, persistent pursuit.
That is the miracle: Jesus is still building today—on people like Peter, on people like us. Imperfect, uncertain, yet willing to confess that Christ is Lord. The church is not made of polished saints but of honest strugglers, carrying both faith and doubt, wounds and dreams. And at its center is not a monument, not a program, not a platform, but a living Savior who calls us to follow him into a more excellent way of life.
So, friends, when the question comes—“Who do you say that I am?”—may our lives be the answer. May we be a people whose grace is wider than fear, whose love runs deeper than division, whose hope shines brighter than despair. For Christ is alive among us. And on the rock of our collective confession, his church stands.