Once upon a time there was a jester. His job, of course, was to amuse the king, to tell him jokes and funny stories or even to find some comedy in affairs of state within reason. Unfortunately, this particular jester loved puns. Simply couldn’t resist them. “What did the grape say when it got crushed? Nothing, it just let out a little wine.” “You should see my collection of candy canes. They’re all in mint condition.” “Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.” That sort of thing.
The king, for his part, hated puns. Hated them. And one day when there had been one pun too many he told the jester, “If I hear even one more pun out of you you’re a dead man. I’m serious. I’ll have you hanged. Do you understand me?” The jester could see that the king was serious, so he simply said, “Yes, majesty. No more puns. I promise on my life.”
Just then the smell of smoke came wafting into the throne room through the open widow. The jester looked out into the town and cried, “Oh no! The bakery is on fire!” Then without thinking added, “The poor baker. His business is toast.”
The next morning as the jester stood on the gallows and the hangman slipped the rope over his head, a messenger came galloping up frantically. “The king has decided to be merciful,” he called out to the jester. “If you will swear never to utter another pun for as long as you live, he will spare your life.”
The jester looked out at the crowd who had come to witness his hanging, then with a wry little smile said, “Well, no noose is good noose.” And that was the end of him.
I love that story because even with all its silliness it illustrates an important point about human nature: we find it hard to change. Even when the stakes are high, life-and-death high, we don’t like to change. The jester in the story couldn’t bring himself to make a simple change even though his life was on the line.
We don’t like to change the way we do things. And we are especially resistant to changing the way we think. The way we think about ourselves. The way we think about others. The way we think about the world. The way we think about God.
In this week’s gospel lesson, Simon Peter is having trouble changing his understanding of what it means for Jesus to be the Christ, the Messiah. Jesus had asked him, “Who do you say that I am?” In a flash of insight, Simon Peter had responded, “You are the Christ, the son of the living God!” That’s when Jesus in a play on words, a kind of pun, affirms that Simon is Petrus, a Rock, and that he will build his church on the petra, the bedrock of Peter’s confession.
For a glowing moment, Peter is the star. He had the right answer. He’s A Rock. But then things turn sideways for him.
From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.
This absolutely does not fit with Peter’s idea of Messiah. Messiah may go to Jerusalem, but it won’t be to suffer and die. Messiah, in Peter’s understanding, in is a conqueror. Messiah will ride in at the head of an army, kick out the Romans, and restore the Kingdom of Israel. Messiah will lead a revolution! That’s how Peter understands it. So he takes Jesus aside and rebukes him. “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”
I can sympathize with Peter. I think we all can, at least to some extent. He had this picture in his head of how he thought things should be and how he thought they should go. But it wasn’t what Jesus had planned, what God had planned.
Peter needed to change. He needed to change his understanding of Messiah. He needed to change his understanding of Jesus. He needed to change his understanding of how God was working. He needed to change his understanding of how the world works. He needed to change his understanding of himself and his role in what was happening.
We don’t like to change. It’s not just that we don’t like it, we have all kinds of ways of resisting it, especially when it comes to changing our ideas, our understanding of things, the way we think.
We have all kinds of ways of resisting information we don’t want to hear. Often we immerse ourselves in echo chambers so we only receive information that is consistent with our way of thinking. We only watch certain news channels, only read certain papers and periodicals. Surround ourselves with social media friends who think like us and screen out those who don’t. Some simply close their minds and refuse to take in any new or different information.
And then there’s what writer Julian Sanchez calls Epistemic Closure. He describes it this way:
“An ‘echo chamber’ just means you never hear any contrary information. The idea of ‘epistemic closure’ was that you WOULD hear new and contrary information, but you have mechanisms in your belief system that reject anything that might force you to update your beliefs.
Peter needed to update his beliefs. But he resisted. He pushed back. “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.”
It must have cut Peter to the heart when Jesus turned to him and said, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me. You’re setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”
Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.
How often do we try to get Jesus to follow our plans instead of committing ourselves to him and his plans?
I wonder sometimes if we—and by we I mean a large segment of white American Christianity—I wonder if we haven’t created an epistemic closure version of Christianity. We call ourselves Christian because we believe certain things about Jesus—that he’s the son of God, that he died for our sins, that by his cross and resurrection he saves us. And if someone challenges our claim to the Christian label because of the way we treat poor people or hungry people or immigrants, or people of color, or people of differing sexuality, or because of our infatuation with firearms, our because of our less than generous politics, or simply because we’re not really doing much to change the world into something that looks more like the kin-dom of heaven, we crank up the defense mechanisms of our epistemic closure to shield us from any pointed new information or hard questions. We point to the creed or our church attendance or our giving to certain things. We point to particular passages in our Bibles. We point to our baptism. We point to our claim that we’re saved.
We forget sometimes what Jesus said in Matthew 7:21: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven.”
Jesus had to shock Peter into the fact that he needed a makeover of the mind, heart and spirit. He had to call him Satan. The cosmic opponent. Lord, that must have hurt. Going from Rock to Devil in nothing flat. Jesus had to shock Peter to get him to simply stop believing certain things about him in his head and to get him, instead, to start following him with all his heart.
What would he have to say to you to get through your defenses? What would he have to say to me? What would he have to say to turn us from mere believers into followers who carry a cross?
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”
There is so much in life that fragments us. Not just things that fragment our unity with each other, but things that fragment our individual souls. We try to wear layers of identities that don’t always fit well with each other. The patterns clash. They chip and chafe our psyches if we ever give half a thought to them. It’s hard to love when you’re trying to hold the pieces of your soul together. Better to let your self—your selves—fall away into the love of Christ.
That’s exactly what Jesus is asking us to do. Deny ourselves—let go of our false selves—put down the beliefs and personas that don’t really fit well with the identity of follower of Christ. And quit trying to make Jesus wear a costume that fits our ideas of who we might prefer him to be.
Lay it all down. Pick up a cross. And follow. That’s where we will find our lives, our souls, and be saved. That’s where we will be made whole. In Christ’s healing work. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
 Julian Sanchez@Normative