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Each weekday in the month of August, we will pursue “prepositional truth” by zeroing in on a single Greek preposition in a single verse, noting the theological richness so often embedded in the humble words we so often overlook.
If you occasionally find yourself reflecting on your experiences back in high school English (be still, my beating heart), you’d be hard pressed to dial up compelling memories concerning prepositions.
Except, perhaps, this classic principle: Never end a sentence with a preposition.
Which, if unfailingly applied, would make all of us sound like characters from Downton Abbey: “With whom are you having dinner this evening?” And, “About what are you talking?”
Winston Churchill was flummoxed when a traditionalist called him out for his dangling prepositions. He memorably retorted, “This is the kind of insolence up with I will not put!”
Prepositions fare better in the Greek text of the New Testament, especially when we realize they often appear at the heart of some of the Bible’s most noteworthy verses. Consider, for example, Matthew 16:18, which has been Ground Zero for theological squabbling between Roman Catholics and Protestants for the last 500 years.
Before he heads toward his fateful final visit to Jerusalem, Jesus takes his disciples to Caesarea Philippi, a city on the northern fringe of Galilee.
It is a place that defies the God of Israel. Pagan temples abound. Idols dot the landscape. The Roman emperor is openly reverenced as divine.
As if that weren’t enough, the city was also thought to be where this present world – the world of human beings and their concerns – intersects with the underworld, the realm of evil spirits and the dead. There was (and still is) an enormous cavern, out of which gushes a cold stream. Locals believed that at the back of the cave there was an entrance to Hades. Thus the yawning mouth of the cavern was known as the Gates of Hell.
Heaven and hell, empires and nations, gods and humans – all the Powers That Be are on display in Caesarea Philippi.
Which is almost certainly why Jesus has brought his disciples to this place to have a crucial conversation.
“Who do people say the Son of Man is?” (Matthew 18:13) As far as we know, this is the first time Jesus has ever asked this question. He has been coy about his identity, intentionally dampening expectations. But now he wants to know what his apprentices have concluded.
“They replied, ‘Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’” That’s what others are saying. Jesus now makes it personal. “But what about you? Who do you think I am?”
Twelve men have been following Jesus through thick and thin – listening to his teaching, watching his actions, witnessing his miracles. Now they’re in a place named for a phony emperor-god, with phony idols on the left and phony idols on the right. It’s time to paint or get off the ladder. Who exactly do you think I am?
Peter jumps in to fill the silence: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.”
It’s his greatest moment – and arguably one of the most head-scratching, analyzed, preached-on, wondered-at, and argued-about moments on the pages of Scripture.
“Jesus replied, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of John, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven. And I tell you that you are Peter [petros in Greek] and upon (EPI) this rock [petra] I will build my church, and the gates of Hell will not overcome it’” (Matthew 16:17-18).
Jesus renames his friend. He is now “Rocky.” Or as Clarence Jordan identifies him in his Cotton Patch version of the Gospel (a paraphrase of Matthew in the language of the American South), “Rock Johnson” – a designation made decades before Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson left the world of wrestling and conquered Hollywood.
What does all of this mean?
In this signature moment, Jesus first affirms that Peter has answered his question correctly. He is indeed the long-awaited Messiah spoken of by the prophets, the fulfillment of Israel’s ancient yearnings. And he is more than just another human descendant of King David. Unlike the fake deities whose temples stand before them in Caesarea Philippi, he is the Son of the Living God – the God who is really there.
For the first time in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus uses the word “church.” The Greek word is ekklesia, “those who are called out.”
Jesus’ mission as the Messiah is to call out and call together those who are ready and willing to follow him. They will become a new kind of family, a new sort of community that will begin, by God’s grace and power, to help heal this broken world – one heart at a time.
Notice the first person pronouns: “…I will build my church…” Jesus is not forecasting a new organization that will be launched by Peter or Paul or Thomas Aquinas or Martin Luther or Joel Osteen or Rick Warren. The church belongs to Jesus. It always has. It always will.
And it will succeed. “The gates of Hell will not overcome it.”
At this point Jesus may have gestured toward the yawning cavern in the high rock wall behind him. It was a place fraught with terror. But hell will be no match for Jesus’ called-out ones. It’s worth noting that this verse is frequently misunderstood, as if Satan has the initiative and the church is forever fighting for its life. Just the opposite is true. The church of the Messiah isn’t on the run. It’s storming the Gates of Hell.
Besides, when was the last time you were chased by a gate?
All of this has been enthusiastically embraced by Bible scholars over the years.
When we zero in on Jesus’ words to Peter, however, the conversation becomes edgier.
He says to his most enthusiastic disciple, “upon (EPI) this rock I will build my church.” EPI appears in a number of familiar English words, including epidermis (“above the skin”), epidemic (“on the people,” describing a plague that seems to attach itself to a whole population) and epicenter (“above the kentron” or central point, designating the location of an earthquake).
What is the “Rock” on which Jesus intends to build? Is it Peter – the guy he has just renamed Rocky – or something else?
Catholics believe this text is proof-positive that Jesus ordained Peter as the first pope.
If Peter became the first bishop of Rome (a genuine possibility, according to tradition), and if being the Rock means the Lord was granting him a permanent office (also a possibility), and if every succeeding bishop of Rome inherits that same call (OK, that one’s quite a stretch), then Jesus’ statement about building his church upon the Rock means that the Vatican should have ecclesiastical and spiritual authority over every follower of Jesus.
Protestants, of course, have a different take.
Even though Peter is renamed “Rock” (petros, a masculine Greek noun) Jesus’ expression “upon this rock” refers not to Peter himself but to the bedrock (petra, a feminine Greek noun) of his faith. According to this view, Peter’s powerful declaration of trust in Christ is a kind of first deposit. Countless disciples over the centuries will imitate Peter’s bold declaration of faith and help advance God’s reign on Earth.
After more than five centuries of exegetical quarrelling – sometimes resulting, tragically, in pitched battles with actual weapons of war – the two sides have not yet arrived at common ground.
Catholics may have overstated Peter’s role in the kingdom. Protestants have almost certainly understated it.
What we know for sure, according to Matthew 16, is that brash, hopeful, shoot-from-the-hip Peter was more than “just another disciple.”
Regardless of where you put your prepositions, that’s something up to which we all can try to live.