Who do you say I am?
“27 Jesus went with his disciples to the villages near Caesarea Philippi. On the way, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say I am?’ 28 They replied, ‘Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others say one of the prophets.’ 29 Then he asked them, ‘But who do you say I am?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘You are the Christ!’ 30 But he ordered them not to tell anyone about him.”
Jesus teaches, tells stories, debates – and he asks questions. His words are therefore always questions as well. One of the most crucial is: ‘Who do you say I am?’ In the Greek text, the verb used here is legein (from logos – word), so the question can also be understood as: ‘What do you call me?’ It is not merely a description, but a naming that forges a relationship and reveals one’s stance.
Jesus directs this question to his closest confidants. However, it is preceded by a more general one: ‘Who do people say I am?’ Only then does he address the disciples personally. Jesus does not ask this because he is unaware of his identity, because he is seeking validation, or because he needs reassurance about his mission. Rather, it is part of his mission that people name him, take a stance towards him and find an answer to the question of who he is.
In doing so, Jesus challenges his listeners. His question opens up a space of freedom. He does not prescribe the answer, but invites them to engage with the question. The opposite of a question would be a command: ‘Call me this!’ Yet Jesus does not impose an interpretation on anyone. He leaves open who he is to others, and makes their answer an expression of their own stance.
But why is this question significant for the Son of God in the first place? And why is it immediately followed by the command to remain silent? It is precisely this tension that makes it clear: Jesus is not concerned with public recognition or with building a reputation. His question is neither an expression of narcissistic self-affirmation nor a sign of insecurity. It is an invitation to clarify matters. Whoever gives Jesus a name is at the same time revealing something about themselves and their willingness to bear the consequences of this confession.
Peter replies without hesitation: ‘You are the Christ.’ His confession is clear and resolute. Yet as the Gospel unfolds, it becomes apparent that these words do not yet hold true. When Jesus is arrested and suffering, fear and mortal danger become a reality, Peter is no longer able to stand by his confession. The courageous spokesman for the disciples becomes a denier. This makes it clear that a Christological confession is not merely a matter of uttering the right words. It is only truly tested when it shapes one’s own life and endures even in the face of adversity.
Mark deliberately places Jesus’ question at the beginning of the first prediction of the Passion. This makes it clear that the recognition of Jesus as the Messiah is inextricably linked to the way of the cross. For Mark, the crucial key to discipleship is following in the footsteps of the cross. It is precisely in this that the disciples fail time and again. They can profess the Messiah, but they do not yet understand that his path leads through suffering and death to the resurrection. The idea that life is gained, of all things, through death remains an imposition for them. And it asks every person who reads it: ‘What do you call me?’, thereby also eliciting a response from people: Throughout history, there have been many answers: ‘Saviour’, ‘Redeemer’, ‘Jesus’, ‘Rabbi’, but also ‘fool’, ‘glutton’, ‘drunkard’, ‘charlatan’.
As powerful as the image of following the cross is, it must be interpreted with equal care. It must neither be romanticised nor hastily generalised. Following the cross does not mean glorifying suffering, but rather the willingness to walk the path of Jesus – trusting that God’s life shines forth precisely where, from a human perspective, all seems lost.
Aleksandra Brand