When a person joins our church, or any Presbyterian Church, he or she makes a profession of faith. This profession of faith can take place as part of a baptism service, if the person hasn’t been baptized previously. Parents make a profession of faith when they bring their children to be baptized. When youth go through confirmation and become active members of the church they make a profession of faith.

No matter what the context, the core part of the profession of faith is saying that Jesus Christ is Lord and Savior. That’s the whole root of the profession. In front of the gathered congregation, the individual confesses that they believe Jesus Christ to be their Lord and Savior. This is the root of what makes us Christians. This is what makes us followers of Christ.

But is making this profession of faith an easy thing to do? For some, yes. For others, no. Confessing that Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, may seem to come easy to some of us. Maybe we grew up in the church and learned the faith by sitting at our parents’ and grandparents’ feet. Maybe we had some sort of conversion experience where we truly felt that Christ was with us. Maybe that was what led you to confess that you believe Jesus to be the Messiah.

But for some of us standing up and saying those words, "I believe that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior," was the hardest thing you had ever done. Maybe you stood up here or in some other church and wondered as those words came out of your mouth if you really believed them at the core of your being. Maybe you wondered if anything would change after you said those words or felt that water drip down your head.

In some places in the world, saying that you believe Jesus Christ to be your Lord and Savior could get you arrested, shunned or worse. But here in America, we can say that we believe Jesus Christ to be our Lord and Savior and continue about our business. For most of us, we could stand up here on Sunday morning, confess that we believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Savior and just go about our normal every day work on Monday – seemingly with no one the wiser.

I admit that I did not have some dramatic conversion experience. There was no glowing light or booming voice that met me on a Damascus road. No angel appeared to me in a dream or otherwise to tell me that I should believe. I can’t point to any time in my life and say, "This is when I started to believe." Some preachers from our country’s founding would say that without a conversion experience, you can’t be a Christian.

Like some others in this congregation have shared with me, there was never a time I didn’t believe Jesus to be the Messiah. I can’t say I didn’t believe here but after this happened, I did believe. Now this doesn’t mean that there have not been times when I have doubted what God was up to in my life. Like the ocean, I think that we all probably go through times of low tide. Our faith can ebb and flow throughout our life.

Let’s take a minute to look at Peter. In the passage we read for today, Peter comes to a striking conclusion. Jesus wants to know what others are saying about him. Who do the people think he is? The logical responses follow of John the Baptist, Elijah, a prophet. All fairly good answers, certainly no failing grades here.

But then comes the kicker, "Who do you say that I am?" Can you picture the scene? Jesus is walking between the cities in Caeserea Phillipi. He’s just kicking around conversation with his disciples. The question of what do other people think about him is a relatively safe one. After all, the disciples have certainly heard some of the people in the crowds put forth their own guesses about Jesus. This isn’t a dangerous question by any means.

But then Jesus gets personal: Who do you say that I am? All of a sudden the idle speculation comes to an end. Jesus doesn’t just want to hear what the random person on the street is saying about him. He wants to know who his disciples think he is. He wants to know what is running through the minds and hearts of those who have left everything to follow him around for these many months. All of a sudden it’s time to decide. Who do they really think Jesus is? No longer can the disciples think and talk in the abstract. Jesus is asking for specifics here.

One of the rules of etiquette that I have picked up on is how to talk to strangers. There are certain subjects that are "safe" subjects. The weather is always a good topic. (I think we might be due for some rain.) Comments on the physical surroundings are also usually safe topics. (Isn’t this a beautiful building. I love what they’ve done with the flowers.) But with deep trepidation should we enter either the subject of politics or religion. "Safe" conversations are those where we don’t show too much of ourselves. "Safe" conversations deal with what other people think or say, but reveal nothing of our own thoughts or opinions. "Safe" conversations keep us at arm’s length from each other.

Jesus was having a nice "safe" conversation with his disciples that day. But then things turned personal – all of a sudden they were stepping out into dangerous territory. They had been asked point blank, "Who do you say that I am?" How many of the other disciples choked when Jesus asked that question? Mark doesn’t give us those reactions, nor does he tell us how long it took Peter to find his voice and speak up, "You are the Messiah."

With just those few words, the conversation has entered into dangerous territory. Peter has just said that Jesus is not just some itinerant preacher who heals people but Jesus is the anointed one that the people have been looking for. And just when we feel that the conversation is getting dangerous, Jesus cuts it off. He "sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him." It’s like we got a glimpse behind the door only to have it snap shut again.

But isn’t that how faith is sometimes? We have these moments when we feel so close to God – these times when things seem so clear. I’ve heard them called "thin places" or "mountaintop experiences." But try as we might they usually come to an end all too quickly.

Peter had made a great profession of faith, only to have to close it up again. As if that wasn’t enough, Jesus started talking about suffering and dying. It was just too much for Peter to take. Didn’t Jesus know how to motivate people? If he was going to be the Messiah, he should talk about the victory of God and present his vision in such a way as to make others join in. But here he was talking about suffering, dying and telling his followers to pick up a cross – an implement of torture and death – and follow him.

This makes no sense to the newly-confessed Peter. He had figured it out, he knew who Jesus was, now why didn’t he act the part? All of a sudden the high tide of Peter’s faith turns into a drought. Perhaps Peter is beginning to realize that the confession that he has made is a dangerous one. Jesus is the Christ but his path is not the one that Peter had dreamed up.

Perhaps when we say, "I believe in Jesus Christ, God’s only Son, our Lord" we should do so knowing that such a confession is a dangerous thing. Though our lives may not be in danger from the outside, our very way of living in the world is open for change. When we say that we believe Jesus to be our Messiah and Lord, we are opening ourselves up to follow where Christ leads us. We are agreeing to take up a cross in order to follow the one God sent.

Maybe you don’t even remember the first time you made your confession of Jesus as the Christ but perhaps when we say the creed every Sunday, we may do so knowing that what we are saying are dangerous words. If we believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Savior that means that we are not. If we believe that Jesus is our Lord and Savior that means that no thing and no one else is. If we believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Savior that means that we say that we are willing to take up our crosses and follow where he will lead us – through high tides and droughts. Perhaps if we believe that Jesus is our Lord and Savior, we will be willing to enter into some dangerous conversations of our own.