Who Do You Say I Am?
Faithfulness to Jesus in an Age of Spiritual Crisis
Over the past couple of years, I have found myself wrestling not only with the spiritual, social, and cultural moment we are in, but also with the prompting of the Holy Spirit within it.
At the centre of all this has been a disarmingly simple question:
"Who do you say I am?"
This is the question Jesus asks His closest companions in Matthew 16, Mark 8, and Luke 9. Yet it is also the question that all who claim to follow Jesus must seek to answer every single day of our lives, not merely in confession, liturgy, or doctrinal alignment, but in how we discern, follow, interpret, obey, and embody Jesus in a world of many voices and many claims.
Living, as we are, in a moment of profound spiritual curiosity, this is far from an abstract issue. For example, across the UK, stories abound of people quite literally walking off the streets into churches, opening a Bible for the first time unprompted, and discovering Jesus for themselves. I too have friends and family seemingly more open to talking about Jesus, being prayed with — not just for — and even willingly coming along to church with me on occasion.
For a while, there were some in the UK confidently calling this the "quiet revival." Then came the uncomfortable news that the Bible Society’s Quiet Revival report had been withdrawn after YouGov identified faulty and unreliable survey data. Now, that does not mean there is no spiritual stirring; it simply means that even our most hopeful narratives require discernment, and that we must be honest enough to test what we hear, even when we want it to be true.
Alongside the language of quiet revival, there is also what some have called a "dirty revival": namely the rise of a form of cultural Christianity that increasingly equates national, racial or political identity with Christian faith. The cry has been, "we're British, therefore we're Christian." Or, more disturbingly: "we're white, therefore we're Christian." At the very least, this should quickly alert us to the reality that not all church growth is necessarily gospel growth. It’s quite possible for Christian language to grow louder even as the likeness of Christ grows dimmer; for churches to fill, slogans to multiply, and political confidence to rise, all while discipleship, humility, repentance, neighbour-love, enemy-love, and the fruit of the Spirit actually diminish.
Nor is all the spiritual hunger we are witnessing out there directed solely towards Christian faith. Other religious communities are also growing, and interest in the paranormal has positively skyrocketed, as practices such as manifesting, crystals, tarot, astrology, witchcraft, and shamanism become part of the ambient spiritual grammar of contemporary culture. The 2021 Census for England and Wales recorded shamanism as the fastest-growing religion among write-in responses, increasing from 650 in 2011 to over 8,000 in 2021 with little sign of the trend abating.
So, I want to suggest that what we are actually witnessing is more akin to a general rise in spiritual curiosity, marked by an increasing openness to well… almost anything. Some of which is harmless, some of which is nonsense, but not all of which is naïve or even mistaken. Alternative spiritualities are growing, in part, because for some, they truly "work."
Even within the Church, forms of “manifesting” are already popular, alongside a growing fascination with the miraculous, the prophetic and the spiritual forces shaping political and cultural life. Increasingly some of our prayers sound more like incantations or formulas designed to produce particular results, than expressions of relationship with Jesus. The line between faith and spiritual manipulation can become disturbingly blurred when prayer becomes a technique for controlling outcomes rather than an expression of trust, surrender and obedience.
So, we are living in a moment of real spiritual hunger, but also real spiritual confusion. And in such a climate, discernment cannot be an optional extra; it must become an essential practice.
We must therefore recover the apostolic imperative of 1 John 4:1:
"Test the spirits to see whether they are from God."
Testing the Spirits
In Matthew 16:13–24 we read:
When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, "Who do people say the Son of Man is?" They replied, "Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets."
"But what about you?" he asked. "Who do you say I am?"
Simon Peter answered, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God."
Jesus replied, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, 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, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven."
Then he ordered his disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.
For good reason, as it turned out! Matthew 16:21–24 continues:
From that time on, Jesus began to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things at the hands of the elders, chief priests, and teachers of the law, and that he must be killed and on the third day be raised to life.
Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. "Never, Lord!" he said. "This shall never happen to you!"
Jesus turned and said to Peter, "Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns."
The Question Jesus Asks in a World of Many Voices
Jesus asks the two questions that frame my central concern and this call for discernment in a plural spiritual environment:
"Who do people say the Son of Man is?" And
"Who do you say I am?"
It is not incidental that Jesus begins with public opinion before turning to personal conviction. These two questions remind us that Jesus made such a mark on the world that He cannot be ignored. People have been trying to make sense of him since the very first century — loving Him, rejecting Him, and at times attempting to reshape or even erase Him altogether.
Humanists and atheists are hardly the first to describe Jesus as just a wise moral teacher or a great life coach with ancient insight. Nor has the Church throughout history been the first (or indeed the last) to try to co-opt Jesus for purposes other than faithful discipleship. Across the centuries, Jesus has subsequently been named teacher, prophet, political agitator, miracle worker, magician, and even a kind of divine action hero, part James Bond, part Ethan Hunt, too invincible to be real. The French philosopher Ernest Renan declared with great conviction, “Jesus was the greatest religious genius who ever lived”. Truth is people have always attempted to interpret what they see using the only language available to them.
A bit like three travellers entering a great city. One enters through the marketplace and describes it as a noisy and crowded city, another through the temple and calls it a sacred and peaceful, while a third enters through the slums and names it a broken and poor city. Each account contains truth, yet none captures the city as a whole. From a distance, Jesus always appears to be something else. I know this, because I too, thought He was something else before I came to know Him personally.
Matthew reveals that before this moment Jesus has been teaching, healing, delivering, and even commanding the elements. He has literally just fed 4,000 people with seven loaves and a few small fish. His reputation has gone before Him and people are talking, wondering: Who is this man? How is He able to perform such miracles? How does He seem to outdo even our greatest scholars, revolutionaries, and even moral teachers?
So when Jesus asks, "Who do people say the Son of Man is?" — or as Mark and Luke put it, "Who do people say that I am?" leaving us in no doubt about whom He is referring — the disciples have plenty to report: "Some say John the Baptist; others Elijah; still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets."
In other words, people saw Jesus as one of Israel’s holy men. Elijah was expected to return as a herald of the Messiah. Jeremiah was one of Israel’s great and revered prophet. And the local Jewish ruler, Herod Antipas, apparently thought Jesus might be the newly martyred (at his hand) John the Baptist back to haunt him!
But can Jesus really be defined by those who do not know Him? And can He adequately be described in terms He never actually uses for Himself?
One of the greatest temptations we face as Christians today is allowing public opinion or even public need, to shape who we say Jesus is. So Jesus makes the question unavoidable and personal not only for them, but also for us:
"But what about you, who do you say I am?"
And in a world of many voices and competing claims, this question demands more than the repetition of inherited answers. It requires discernment, conviction and fidelity. It also presses us toward an even deeper question: what does it mean to remain faithful to Jesus in a time of profound spiritual complexity and crisis?
Christological Clarity in Caesarea Philippi
Peter declares:
"You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God."
And Jesus replies, in The Message:
You didn’t get that answer out of books or from teachers. My Father in heaven, God himself, let you in on this secret of who I really am.
We soon discover, of course, that Peter has little idea what his own words really mean. Nonetheless, he has genuinely received a divine revelation that Jesus Himself immediately confirms.
Peter does something amazing simply by naming Jesus for who He truly is: the Messiah in Hebrew and the Christ in Greek, meaning the "Anointed One," literally, "son of oil." And then Peter adds: "the Son of the living God." Yet in Scripture, the term "son of God" is not exclusive to Jesus. It can refer to angels, kings, prophets, or those with a distinctive relationship to God. So Peter’s words raise an important question: what kind of "Son" is Jesus?
Matthew ensures we grasp the weight of this confession by placing it in a setting that is anything but neutral. Caesarea Philippi is Gentile territory; foreign ground spiritually, religiously, and culturally. It is a region saturated with competing claims to power, identity, and divinity.
Gods, Kings, and "Sons of God(s)"
In fact, Caesarea Philippi was filled with shrines, temples, and symbolic claims to power. It existed within a world shaped by emperor worship, where a temple was devoted to Caesar Augustus, an emperor hailed as "son of a god," "bringer of peace," and "saviour of the world."
Against this backdrop, Peter’s confession, "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God," is not merely devotional or spiritual language; it is theologically and politically subversive. This is language that helps us understand why the forces that eventually imprison and kill Jesus are themselves both theological and political.
Jesus in a World of Competing Powers
But this was also a world filled with miracle workers and oracle speakers — figures who, like emperors, could also be described as "sons of god(s)." Scholars have long observed that Jesus operated within a cultural environment in which healing, exorcism, prophecy, and miracle-working were familiar categories and experiences. Géza Vermes places Jesus within the stream of Jewish charismatic holy men, while Craig Keener's work reminds us just how rich ancient and modern contexts are in miracle claims.
In other words, Jesus does not operate in a vacuum. The first-century world is already saturated with miracle claims, prophetic voices, and figures associated with divine power.
I only recently noticed how thoroughly unimpressed the religious authorities seem to be by Jesus' actual miracles. His was not their first rodeo. For them, the issue was never simply a question of power, the issue was always source. They wanted to know by what authority He did these things, where that authority came from and they wanted proof He had indeed been sent by God and was who He claimed to be.
Among Jewish miracle workers, figures like Honi the Circle Drawer and Hanina ben Dosa were known as charismatic "holy men" famous for extraordinary answers to prayer. Honi, for example, was said to have drawn a circle, stepped into it, and refused to leave until rain came. Hanina ben Dosa was associated with remarkable healings and other elemental miracles. Josephus also records Eleazar, who practised exorcism using the name (or perhaps the ring) of Solomon.
In the wider Greco-Roman world, accounts such as Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana describe healings, raising of the dead and predictions of the future, performed by figures regarded as divine or semi-divine, the theios aner, ("divine man") who all formed part of the wider world of "sons of gods."
Set side by side, Honi, Hanina, Eleazar, and Apollonius make the same point from different directions: that the ability to heal, exorcise, or predict was never, on its own, the ultimate proof of divine sonship. Such displays of power were already a widely recognised currency in the first-century world. Source was critical. Which is precisely why Peter's confession cannot simply be concerned with displays of power at work in and through Jesus— it must be describing something, and someone, categorically different.
Of course, this world of magic, mystery, and powerplay is also seen throughout the Bible, where, once again source is critical. Pharaoh's magicians mimic Moses' signs in Exodus 7–8. The medium at Endor conjures Samuel for Saul in 1 Samuel 28. Ahab's prophets are deceived by a lying spirit and fail to discern truth from falsehood in 1 Kings 22. Jeremiah and Ezekiel repeatedly confront false prophets whose visions and oracles do not come from God. The diviners, sorcerers, and astrologers of Daniel 2 and Isaiah 47 receive real visions and insights, claiming access to hidden knowledge.
In the New Testament, Matthew 2 portrays wise men/Maji correctly interpreting signs using their own charts to “follow a star” to Bethlehem. In Acts 16, a slave girl accurately identifies Paul and his companions while operating under a spirit of divination. In Acts 8, Simon the Sorcerer attempts to buy apostolic power, while in Acts 13, Elymas the Sorcerer opposes Paul's ministry. Most importantly, Jesus Himself warns that false messiahs and false prophets will perform great signs and wonders so persuasive that, if possible, even the elect could be deceived (Matt 24:24).
The biblical question, therefore, is never simply, “Is there power at work?” but “What is its source — and where does it lead?”
Scripture, in other words, tells the same story once through pagan holy men, and once through Israel’s own history. Real power surfaces in both, and in neither case does its presence alone settle the question of its source. That is precisely the discernment Peter’s confession requires of us.
Power, Source, and Discernment
There are genuine displays of spiritual power that do not necessarily originate with God. Some are clearly demonic, others arise through human agency, and some appear to be benign or neutral — or, at least, not opposed by God. We all probably know someone who is not a Christian who nevertheless seems to be very "tuned in" spiritually.
So not everything that looks spiritual is from God. Not every prophetic voice is speaking truth or has been sent by God even when what it says turns out to be true. The unnamed exorcist in Mark 9:38 and Luke 9:49, together with the sons of Sceva in Acts 19:11-20 (despite their rather spectacular failure) should remind us that not every display of power done even in Jesus' name necessarily points towards Jesus.
Miracles were widespread in the ancient world. The question is not whether miracles are reported, but how such claims are interpreted, weighed, and discerned.
The deeper question is always:
Where did it come from — and where does it lead?
To Jesus Alone Belongs the Definite Article: The Christ
It is into this landscape of competing claims to power and divinity that Jesus asks His disciples, "Who do you say I am?" And of all the disciples who had been so eager moments earlier, to tell Jesus what everybody else thought, seemingly only Peter has something to say. This is hardly surprising because Peter, invariably, always had something to say. His foot-in-mouth condition frequently got the better of him. But this time when Peter opens his mouth… God fills it.
"You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God."
What distinguishes Peter’s confession is not simply its accuracy, but its precision.
He does not identify Jesus as a christos, one among many, like the many “well-oiled” kings and rulers before and around him. Nor does he draw from the language used for miracle workers or oracle speakers in the surrounding culture, often hailed as, “sons of gods.” Instead, Peter names Jesus as the Christ — the Anointed One in a singular and definitive sense because, to Jesus alone belongs the definite article — the.
For Peter, Jesus was unlike anyone or anything he has ever encountered; He is categorically distinct. Quite literally one of a kind.
Jesus affirms this declaration because it reflects revelation rather than inference, and because it is what Jesus knows to be true about Himself. “You didn’t get that answer out of books or from teachers. My Father in heaven, God himself, let you in on this secret of who I really am.”
Jesus is not simply another powerful figure within a crowded spiritual marketplace — neither a miracle worker, prophet, nor imperial rival operating on familiar terms. He does not compete within the system; He redefines it.
As N. T. Wright argues, Jesus’ works are not spectacles designed to impress, but signs of the kingdom of God breaking into the world — the Creator God returning to reign, heal, judge, forgive, and renew. The question, therefore, is not simply one of power, but of identity and authority.
Peter’s confession, spoken in Caesarea Philippi, also carries prophetic weight that extends beyond that moment. It anticipates a future in which people from every nation, culture, and spiritual background will make the same declaration in recognition of the ultimate identity, power and authority:
"You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."
Jesus’ response — "On this rock I will build my Church" — signals that this recognition of who He truly is becomes the foundation of a community shaped not by competing claims, but by clarity about Christ.
The Peter Paradox: Revelation and Misalignment
Yet in the very next scene, days, or perhaps even hours later, it becomes clear that Peter is not quite on the same page as Jesus. Matthew 16:21–24 records how Jesus begins to explain that He must go to Jerusalem, suffer, be killed, and on the third day be raised to life. In response, Peter takes Him aside and rebukes Him:
"Never, Lord! This shall never happen to you!"
Jesus, in turn, responds to Peter with startling force:
"Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns."
Peter has somehow spoken the truth — and yet totally missed the point. He ends up being blessed and rebuked by Jesus in almost the same breath.
It is evidently possible to articulate correct Christology while embodying incorrect discipleship. In other words, Peter speaks the truth and yet behaves, in this moment at least, like the Devil!
Peter’s expectation of a triumphant, conquering Messiah reflects the hopes of many first-century Jews living under Roman occupation. Such hopes were shaped by imperial oppression and a longing for political deliverance. So when Jesus speaks of suffering and death, it simply does not fit Peter’s vision (it probably causes him much confusion), and so, remarkably, Peter attempts to correct Jesus.
In doing so, this same Peter who had just spoken with divine insight becomes a satanic hindrance to the very mission he had begun to recognise. We all know, of course, that Peter meant well, and probably had good intentions. But good intentions, however sincere, are not a fruit of the Spirit, and they do not, on their own, safeguard us from distortion.
Peter must have been shocked to hear that he was behaving as Satan. But Peter’s error is not malice, it is misalignment. His instincts are deeply human: to resist suffering, to prefer power, to align Jesus with familiar models of victory. Yet this moment exposes a persistent temptation — not only for Peter, but for the Church in every age — to reshape Jesus according to cultural expectations, often without even recognising that this is what we are doing, rather than allowing ourselves to be reshaped by Him.
Peter’s story is both a warning and a mirror. It reminds us that proximity to Jesus does not guarantee clarity about Jesus, and that even those who confess Him rightly may still misunderstand the way He works. It is precisely this combination of insight and failure that makes Peter so useful to the Church, even today. The New Testament presents him as a model disciple precisely because his failures and breakthroughs so often mirror our own. Where others are silent, Peter speaks, usually only to open his mouth and change feet! He impulsively offers to build shelters at the Transfiguration, steps out of the boat only to sink, resists Jesus’ foot-washing lesson and strikes the high priest’s servant in Gethsemane. Peter loudly declares unwavering loyalty during Jesus’ Passion only to deny Him, not once, but three times.
And yet, it is this same Peter who leaves his home, his job and his family to follow Jesus. It is this same Peter who stands up at Pentecost and proclaims Joel’s prophecy in Acts 2. But his journey is far from complete. In Acts 10, God literally has to put him to sleep to decisively confront his prejudice, leading him through both a vision and a divinely orchestrated encounter with Cornelius. Because it is Peter who needs to say:
"I now realise how true it is that God does not show favouritism but accepts from every nation the one who fears him and does what is right" (Acts 10:34–35).
Even then, Peter falters again in Galatians 2, and has to be publicly corrected by Paul for both his hypocrisy and fear of the Judaizers. It is only by the Jerusalem Council in Acts 15 that Peter appears to grasp the fuller implications of what he was entrusted to declare in Matthew 16.
In many ways, Peter’s story follows the journeys of so many of our biblical heroes and sheroes as they overcome their embodied misunderstandings enroute to embodying greater understanding. It reminds us that those who are commended by Jesus in one moment may be rebuked and corrected in the next, and that it is entirely possible to say all the right things and still do all the wrong ones.
Peter reminds us that disciples are not perfect — but that we must be intentional. Growth and maturity do not happen by accident; they require our active participation. As Francis of Assisi is often paraphrased as saying:
"You only know as much as you do."
Peter also reminds us that following Jesus is not a one-time decision that guarantees a lifelong, transforming faith. Nor does it protect us from deception if we continue to nurture our own agendas or remain uncritically open to persuasion. The pattern is all too familiar: Israel follows false prophets and ends in exile; religious authorities demand signs and miss the Messiah right under their noses; Christians pursue power, privilege, or prominence and lose sight of Christlike humility.
Accurate prophecy, jaw-dropping miracles, and visible influence can all be on display — and yet Jesus Himself may be absent.
When we fail to test the spirits for ourselves, we risk mistaking ambition for calling, busyness for fruitfulness, and hype for holiness.
The Danger of Rebuking Jesus
However, Peter’s faux pax should cause us to pause and consider even further because it’s clear that, without Jesus’ rebuke, Peter could have handed us Christianity without Jesus. So let’s not read past Peter’s rebuke too quickly but explore whether we too are just as prone to the same temptation. Peter does not simply express confusion, or ask a question, or voice a concern. Matthew tells us he "took him (Jesus) aside and began to rebuke him." That is a strong word. It is the same word used elsewhere for silencing demons, correcting the disobedient, and for one with authority correcting another. Yet here Peter, the disciple, attempts to exercise authority over Jesus, positioning himself, however briefly, as the one who knows better.
Rebuking in His Name
That, of course, is precisely the danger hiding inside so many good intentions: rebuking Jesus rarely announces itself as rebellion. Instead, it comes dressed as love, as protection and as common sense. "Never, Lord! This shall never happen to you!" is not the language of a man plotting against Jesus. It is the language of a man trying to save Him. And that is precisely what makes it so dangerous. Peter is not trying to destroy the mission; he believes he is trying to improve it, to save Jesus from a path that looks like defeat, and to save himself, and the rest of them, from a future they cannot yet bear to imagine.
When we rebuke Jesus, our intentions are not so far removed. We almost always do it in His own name, and for what we believe to be His own good. We do not usually set out to oppose Christ. We set out to protect a version of Him — a Messiah who conquers, who blesses our nation, who vindicates our cause, who never asks us to suffer, lose, or lay anything down. And when the real Jesus refuses to conform to that version, we do not always recognise that it is Him we are resisting. We think we are resisting what is wrong. Peter thought so too.
A Faithful Voice, Quickly Turned
Jesus tells us exactly where that instinct can lead: "Get behind me, Satan!" This is not hyperbole, and it should stop us in our tracks. The very same Peter who moments earlier spoke by revelation from the Father now speaks, in Jesus’ own assessment, as an instrument of Satan. Nothing about Peter has changed in the space of those few verses except the direction of his concern. He moved from articulating what God has revealed to articulating what he himself wants. That is how quickly a faithful voice can become a stumbling block — not through malice, not through unbelief, but through the ordinary, human preference for a Messiah who does not require a cross, a Messiah who fulfils all our hopes and dreams.
Resisting the Cross Resists the Resurrection
The irony is that Peter’s instinct to protect Jesus from suffering, rejection and death unknowingly tries to protect the world from its salvation. The cross Peter wants to spare Jesus from is the very means by which Jesus saves. To rebuke the road to Jerusalem is, without knowing it, to rebuke the resurrection at the end of it. And herein lies the trap: our efforts to spare Jesus, and ourselves, from suffering, humiliation or apparent failure can end up standing in the way of the very redemption we say we want.
We want the power of the resurrection without the road of the cross that leads us there.
When Concern for Jesus Becomes Concern for Ourselves
There is also a quieter, more personal danger worth naming. Peter’s rebuke exposes what happens when our concern for Jesus becomes indistinguishable from our concern for ourselves. Jesus’ diagnosis of where such thoughts originate is precise: "you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns." Peter was not just afraid for Jesus. Whether he recognised it or not, he was also afraid of what a suffering, dying Messiah might mean for him, for his status, his expectations and his understanding of what following Jesus was supposed to cost. Our own rebukes of Jesus, when we are honest about them, often carry the same mixture: genuine love for Him, tangled together with a very human resistance to whatever His way is about to cost us.
The Grace Hidden in the Warning
None of this makes Peter a villain. It simply makes him a mirror, as we have already seen. The uncomfortable implication is that sincere, devoted, Spirit-filled disciples remain capable of resisting the very Christ they have just correctly confessed — not because they have stopped believing in Him, but because they have begun, often without realising it, to negotiate with Him. Every time the Church prefers a Messiah of triumph to a Messiah of the cross, prefers comfort to sacrifice, or prefers being right to being faithful, we risk repeating Peter’s rebuke in a thousand quieter forms: not with raised voices, but with subtler refusals to follow Jesus all the way to Jerusalem.
It is unsurprising, then, that the same Peter who once rebuked Jesus over the cross would go on to write, years later, that Jesus is “a stone that causes people to stumble and a rock that makes them fall” (1 Peter 2:8), and yet also “the living Stone… chosen by God and precious to him.” Peter learned, eventually and at cost, that the very thing he tried to rebuke Jesus out of was the thing that would define the whole of the gospel. And that is the hope buried inside this warning: the same instinct that makes us capable of resisting Jesus, when surrendered rather than indulged, can become the very conviction that later carries us, and others, through the suffering we once tried to avoid.
Historical Distortions: Co-opting Christ
We are living in a moment of genuine spiritual hunger and confusion. A moment marked by many voices, many claims, and many expressions of spiritual power. It is marked by resistance to Jesus, even by those who claim to follow him. And, just as 1 John warns, it is also a moment in which there are many "Christs" — many who appear anointed, but not necessarily by God.
The temptation to manipulate, control, or reshape Jesus according to our own expectations is not new but Peter is perhaps the first to attempt to redirect Jesus toward a nationalistic vision of the Messiah. The instinct to prefer a saviour who reflects our desires, our politics, our fears, our ambitions, has been present from the beginning. It may even help to explain why before the crucifixion the crowd ultimately chose Barabbas over Jesus. By then, it had become abundantly clear that Jesus had little intention of becoming the nationalistic, militaristic superhero they were looking for.
Across history, this impulse has repeatedly taken theological, institutional and political form. The crucified, border-crossing, enemy-loving Son of God has been invoked to legitimise violence and bless empire. From the transformation of Christ into a cosmic imperial figure in late antiquity, to the crusaders’ banners and the white European Jesus of colonialism; from Jesus wrapped in the flags of Mussolini’s Italy, Hitler’s Germany, Franco’s Spain, Pinochet’s Chile and Apartheid South Africa, to, dare I say, what is called Christian nationalism today, the pattern is strikingly consistent.
The issue is not that each example is identical, but that the underlying dynamic is recognisable. Christian language, symbols, ritual, and even miracle rhetoric can be placed in the service of domination, and we must learn to both recognise and resist it when it happens. Historians of this period have shown again and again how Christian institutions and leaders became entangled with authoritarian political projects, often lending theological legitimacy to systems of power.
In the last century alone, figures such as Mussolini, Hitler, Franco, Salazar, and Pinochet were all hailed as "a gift and miracle," leaders sent by God to save their nations from chaos and moral decay, and defenders of Christian civilisation. Churches (evangelicals included), blessed leaders, prayed over armies and proclaimed political victories as divine acts. In retrospect, history reveals many of these figures not as agents of divine order, but as agents of domination and death. Christian language, symbols, and ritual were used to sanctify agendas that had little to do with the heart of Christ. Even Churches grew, for a while… until they collapsed under the weight of compromise.
Set alongside one another, these regimes did not share an ideology so much as a recognisable method: each borrowed the language of divine sanction to silence the very discernment that might have exposed what was happening for what it truly was. That, more than any one figure or flag, is the pattern worth remembering.
It is tempting to believe that those who lived through such periods were uniquely evil, deeply flawed, or somehow less discerning than us. They were not. Their worlds were just as complex, their fears just as real, and their choices shaped by many of the same pressures we face today. Yet many, including Christians, mistook a christos for the Christ, and followed the very false messiahs and false prophets Jesus warns us about.
And the tendency persists. Political movements continue to appropriate Christian language and symbolism to legitimise power whether in fascist Europe, Apartheid South Africa, or more recently through contemporary expressions of Christian nationalism in the UK and USA. The temptation remains the same:
Christ without the cross, power without sacrifice, faith without formation.
Toward a Discernment Framework
Until we recognise that, like Peter we too stand on the soil of cultures shaped by power, prophetic voices, and miraculous claims, we risk declaring truths we have not yet fully understood and acting in ways that Jesus would not affirm. Peter’s instinct, to co-opt Jesus and align Him with his own expectations, has been repeated by believers and churches in every age.
Yet in Caesarea Philippi, a place saturated with gods, kings, and competing claims to divinity, Jesus redefines what it means to be the Christ. He refuses to conform to the expectations placed upon Him and instead establishes a pattern of identity and discipleship that cannot be reduced to existing categories of power.
Building on this and drawing from Matthew 7:16 and Galatians 5:22–23, I want to propose four interrelated markers of authentic Christian discernment and formation.
Christ-centred
Peter reminds us that not everyone who confesses Christ is truly centring Jesus. To grow as believers — and thus resist unholy spirits — requires making Jesus the lens through which we view the world and the whole of scripture. It means keeping Jesus central and everything and everyone else in proper proportion. The moment we place anything or anyone alongside Him as though they possess saving power, we distort the gospel.
If it does not look or sound like Jesus, it is not Jesus.
Spirit-fruitful
Peter reminds us that confession alone is not evidence of transformation. In a world filled with unholy spirits and competing spiritual influences, the only evidence of the Holy Spirit’s work is the Holy Spirit’s fruit. If love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control are not in evidence or at least growing, then something else is at work. Jesus said, "By their fruit you will recognise them" (Matt 7:16). Not by the accuracy of their prophecies or the impressiveness of their miracles.
Character, therefore, must outweigh charisma.
Cross-shaped
Peter also reminds us that not every confession of Christ is shaped by the cross. Authentic discipleship involves daily surrender, taking up our cross and following Jesus. Where Peter expected a triumphant, conquering Messiah, Jesus embraced suffering, humility, and sacrifice.
Any form of "anointing" that bypasses repentance or avoids the cost of obedience is not aligned with the Spirit of Christ.
Resurrection-powered
Finally, authentic faith is not only cross-shaped but resurrection-powered. The distinguishing mark of Jesus is not simply His capacity to perform miracles, but that He Himself was raised from the dead (unlike the other miracle workers)! We live in a spiritual universe and cannot afford to underestimate, or fail to account for the malevolent forces, powers and principalities that surround us. Many of the things I have written about are in fact, spiritual strongholds, powers and principalities. And as grateful as I am for all that human ingenuity, courage and wisdom can accomplish, practical atheism is simply not an option. Only the power that raised Jesus from the dead, which thankfully is at work within us, can ultimately defeat them. So, we must learn to operate in the power of the Spirit in all that we do. Indeed, we cannot engage in the transformative work we have been called to without it.
However, let me sound a word of caution, while we should expect signs, wonders, and prophetic moments, these are never ends in themselves. Unholy spirits are committed to spectacle and the kind of displays that make humans seen, known, and trusted. By contrast, the Holy Spirit is committed only to signs that point beyond themselves to Jesus, to make Jesus seen, known, and trusted.
Taken together, these markers offer a framework for discernment in a spiritually complex age:
Christ-centred: Jesus is not one voice among many.
Spirit-fruitful: Character outweighs charisma.
Cross-shaped: Faith embraces humility and sacrifice.
Resurrection-powered: True power points beyond itself to the risen Christ.
Conclusion: Who Do You Say I Am?
Peter stands as both a warning and an encouragement. He reminds us how easily we can become entangled in our own needs and larger (sometimes even national) agendas, and yet how change and growth remain possible. He also reminds us that we are not confined to our first, second, or even fourth mistake! To grow as followers of Jesus, and to resist unholy spirits, is to become increasingly Christ-centred, Spirit-fruitful, cross-shaped, and resurrection-powered.
We Christians have been known to lose our minds over all sorts of things; perhaps it is time we lost them over the things that truly matter.
Jesus first asks, "Who do people say I am?" Then He turns to those who walk with Him, live with Him, and love Him, and asks again:
"But what about you — who do you say I am?"
In a world saturated with voices, power, and competing claims — full of many "christs" and many "sons of god(s)" — the Church’s answer cannot be confined to correct words alone. It must take visible form in the shape of our lives: in our fruit, our humility, our repentance, our hope, and our allegiance.
Because if it does not look like Jesus, if it does not produce the fruit of Jesus, if it does not reflect the way of the cross, if it is powerfully impressive but does not point to Him, we can only conclude that it is not Jesus.
The question, then, remains the defining question of Christian faith:
"Who do you say I am?"
It cannot be answered culturally, politically, or experientially alone. It requires ongoing revelation, formation, and discernment.
Because the task of the Church is not merely to confess Christ, but to embody Him, faithfully, visibly, and without compromise.
Originally delivered as a sermon at numerous leadership conferences in 2025/26, and later developed into a paper for Sacred Company, 3–4 July 2026, by Rev Dr Kate Coleman.
Selected Bibliography
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Vermes, Géza. Jesus the Jew: A Historian’s Reading of the Gospels. London: SCM, 1973.
Wright, N. T. Jesus and the Victory of God. London: SPCK; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996.
Wright, N. T. The Resurrection of the Son of God. London: SPCK; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003.
