What Do You Say?

Reflections on Mark 8:1-29 in the first week of Advent. I’ve been waiting. Watching and waiting and endlessly praying. Praying for the one to come. The one who will set me free. Who will break me out of this tyranny. Who will overthrow. Let me know that I am chosen, I am saved, and I will rise in victory. The one who will lead us all out of poverty. Misery. Slavery. Here I am and here we are. Slaves of empire and slaves of desire – they have us entangled. We’re still waiting for the dawn. The dawn of a new age. A new covenant. A new deal. And all we see is blood. The crowds gather. They follow you around, watching and waiting, and endlessly praying. Praying that you’re the one. The one who will set them free. Who will break them out of this tyranny. Who will overthrow. Let them know that they are chosen, they are saved, and that yes, they will rise in victory. When you broke the five loaves, twelve baskets left over – when you broke the four, another seven moreover, yet we could not see what was right before our eyes. Yet we did not see through your disguise. Yet we did not see that all we saw was a veiled reality. We were blind to the light, blind to the life you bring. You brought bread from heaven. Bread of heaven. These miraculous signs bring joy and precious life, with plenty to spare. In these things you’ve laid yourself bare. But we just don’t see. We still can’t see the people for the trees. We’ve been waiting. Watching and waiting and endlessly praying. Praying for the one to come. The one who will set us free. But all you’ve done is made blind men see. You may have brought some bread, but we still want an end to this rampant hostility. We’re waiting on something and someone to overcome, to outlive, to outlast to outplay any imperial hand, to finally conquer this band of outlaws who kill us, curse us, crush us at every turn. And we wait and we long. We long for the dawn of a new age, a new page, for your fire and rage against the Roman machine that’s swallowing us whole. But we still haven’t found what we’re looking for. We struggle to see what’s right in front of our eyes. What is this that you’re bringing? What kind of kingdom do you proclaim? Would that the messiah come and crush that Roman bane. Stopping and waiting. Pausing and reflecting on all that’s just happened – the thousands, the Pharisees, the blind man – in this place you ask us, “who do they say that I am?” Prophet, drunkard, patriarch, healer, glutton. They’ve called you all these and more. But who are you really? I watch and wait and endlessly pray, scared to speak the word. Messiah? And what if you are? What could that mean? Until now I’ve been unsure. Until now I’ve avoided the question. But if it’s true. It cannot be true. And yet, I wonder. Can it be true? If it’s true, how was I caught so unaware? Here. In Toronto. In 2005. We’ve been watching and waiting and endlessly praying for God’s kingdom to come. But I wonder. How have we turned aside? Why do we run away? What is it that we just don’t see? As they were for the Pharisee, the blind man, and the disciple, the signs are here. We have eyes that do not see. We have ears that do not hear. Fools. The whole lot of us. We fail to tremble in your presence. Our stubborn rebellious hearts bow to some other, and from you we’ve turned aside. We run away and fail to acknowledge the rain you bring. The rain that brings harvest. A bountiful harvest that comes from a tiny seed. We’re still waiting for the dawn. But the dawn has come. It’s here, and it’s in our midst. Even here in the midst of an uncaring, unrelenting, unmoving empire. Will the empire come creaking, crashing, tumbling down? If it does, will it come back the same, remixed, with a slightly different sound? Expecting cataclysm, the disciples wait. All the while Jesus feeds the hungry. Heals the sick. Casting out demons, he loosens the grip of darkness on his world, his home, his people. We’re hard on the disciples for their blindness, but how often do we fall into the same trap? We know the story. We know it all too well. From beginning to end, we’ve read it. We’ve heard it. And yet, do we live it? Do we wait for a momentous event to signal the kingdom’s advent? What if this kingdom begins with the birth and cry of a helpless child? Even so we pray, thy kingdom come… From a child taught piano in Regent Park ...To a crying shoulder for a wounded heart ...A house cleaned ...A meal cooked ...A body clothed From the loving massage of cancer-strained legs ...To shared silence for shared pain ...A fit of laughter ...A bucket of tears ...Friendship that’s lasted many long years From the decisions of a faithful boardroom ...To celebration of a job well done ...A life saved ...Awareness raised ...A dollar well spent In these things the kingdom. In these things, the kingdom comes more fully to earth. And the lord of this kingdom, the God of creation, reveals himself today in power and in weakness, even as God of the small things. If it’s true...It can’t be true. And yet. And yet, it must be true. The fog of blindness slowly lifts. And I, like that blind man take time to have my eyes opened. I was slow. I doubted. Sometimes we still do. Without a sign. Without touching your sides, your hands, your feet, how will they know that you are the one? The question lingers. Pregnant silence. A tentative lick of the lips, I glance around, eyes firmly planted on the ground. You spit in my eyes, and I still don’t see. You spit in my eyes and though the darkness lifts, nothing but trees. You spit in my eyes, and I’m one step closer. I’m one step closer to knowing. You touch me. Lead me. Open my eyes. You call my name. The dark breaks into dawn. “Peter,” you say, inducing me to sight. You open my eyes, and now I see. I look up, eyes locked upon yours. Your eyes lock on me. The words cannot remain behind these moistened lips any longer. All along, the watching, the waiting, the endless praying. You’ve come at last. As I look you in the eye, I know just who you are. And you whisper the question: “who do you say that I am?”