Transfigured: Seeing the Presence of God in Everyday Life

Looking out from Chanting Steep at Sewanee

 

2 Kings 2:1-12

Psalm 50:1-6

2 Corinthians 4:3-6

Mark 9:2-9

 

©2024 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

It doesn’t happen often—an encounter with the transcendent wrapped in the mundane. A moment when despite all odds we see clearly what is not there otherwise to view. Frederick Buechner, the late great churchman and one of my favorite preachers, in his work Whistling in the Dark, described these beautiful interjections of God entering the humdrum with the following words: 

 

The face of a man walking with his child in the park, of a woman baking bread, of sometimes even the unlikeliest person listening to a concert…[or one] standing barefoot in the sand watching the waves roll in, or just having a beer at a Saturday baseball game in July. Every once and so often, something so touching, so incandescent, so alive transfigures the human face that it's almost beyond bearing.

 

Today, we face one such moment as we walk with Peter, James, and John, following Jesus up a high mountain. We have skipped over seven chapters since last Sunday—a product of the peculiarities of the Church year—and in the process, we have missed much. God has been on the move in Jesus’ healing, teaching, preaching, and being with the poor, the sick, and the marginalized. As his path wove ever-nearer to Jerusalem, to his last week, to the Cross, Jesus invited his inner circle of disciples to a mountaintop respite. There something happened that these disciples could only talk about with one another in hushed tones—at least until the Day of Resurrection.

 

On top of this high mountain, Jesus was transfigured. A rarely utilized word in modern speech, it indicates to us that his appearance became more beautiful, radiant, and luminous. Even Jesus’ clothes changed such that they were dazzlingly white. Just for good measure, Mark shared that even if launders had tried, they would not have been able to make his garments this white with all the bleach in the world. 

 

Mysteriously, Jesus was joined in converse high by paramount figures of the Hebrew Faith—Moses and Elijah. Moses was the founder of the Law and Elijah the chief prophet. How the disciples knew who these persons were remains baffling! Of course, the entire encounter defies the grasp of what is logical or reasonable. In this overwhelming state, Peter grasped at straws.

 

The disciple approached Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Mark adds that he knew not what he was saying. Of course, he did not—he was witnessing his teacher glowing with the two most important figures of the Jewish Faith right beside him. Peter then did the most human of things—he tried to hang onto this sacred moment. He wanted to capture the Holy, to teether the Divine to the mountaintop, to box up God. 

 

All of a sudden though, a cloud descended—the mysterious presence of God, the Father enveloped the whole scene. How marvelously terrifying would it have been to be standing in the disciples’ sandals! In the shadow of the Divine presence God’s voice shared the Truth: “This is my son, the beloved; listen to him!”—a mountaintop revelation we continue to unpack. 

 

Then, as suddenly as the figures and the cloud had appeared they vanished. Peter, James, and John were left alone with Jesus. They were left also with the weighty truth of their rabbi’s true identity. He was not just a teacher—he was the Son of God, the Beloved One, the One to listen to and to hear. On top of holding this good and overwhelming news, Jesus gave them the instruction to tell no one, at least until the Son of Man had risen from the dead. Imagine the scene when Peter, James, and John next sat to eat with the other disciples. 

 

“What was it like up on the mountain with Jesus?” asks Andrew. Peter, “Uhhh…”

James, “It was nice.” John, “Yeah, we just chatted with Jesus and looked at the view. Prayed a little bit.” 

 

As funny as this might have been, the Transfiguration, even though we hear it every year on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, the last Sunday before we begin the Season of Lent, even though we hear this every year, the impact of this story on our lives is often cloudier than the mountaintop. Buechner rightly pointed out that these encounters with the Divine, when God enters our common, human lives are at most once-in-a-lifetime. Still, there are times when we surprisingly catch a glimpse of the ethereal shining brightly through the everyday, like the brilliant spring sunlight illuminating shards of stained-glass. I wonder, have you ever had such a once-in-a-lifetime moment? 

 

God once gave me such a gift. When renewing my Baptismal Vows at the Easter Vigil in 2008 I encountered a Great Mystery. After the Rt. Rev. Duncan Gray Jr., late Bishop of Mississippi and Civil Rights leader, had led me through the renewal of my vows, I was given the opportunity to bear chalice. I was a 23 year-old working in All Saints Chapel where the service was taking place. As I picked up the Schwartz Chalice a fishbowl sized communion cup something happened. The first person kneeling to receive the Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation was my childhood priest, the Rev. Francis Xavier Walter. Fr. Francis in his early years of ordained ministry picked up the holy work of Jonathan Daniels that cost him his life. Something holy radiated from Fr. Francis’ face that holy night. 

 

After giving him the chalice, I started to move onto the next communicant, Francis’ wife, Faye. Something stopped me though, as I looked into the reflection of the silver cup. It was a momentary glimpse into the Divine Cloud. Sewanee is known for its fog, but this was a surreal glance, which revealed to me the Great Cloud of Witnesses. It was as though those who were, are, and will be God’s People had converged there to share in Holy Communion. And, just like that, the vision was gone. I faltered for a moment, then got on with communing the full congregation, afraid to share what I had seen for several months. 

 

I know this may sound like the wanderings of an unhinged priest succumbing to the fullness of life as a new rector; however, I know what I saw. I know the truth that has been revealed. Jesus is God’s beloved, and we have the opportunity to dwell in this reality, like we are watching the fog roll in on a misty Sewanee morning. 

 

And yet, these moments of holding the Divine are fleeting, like the joy of holding a baby for the first time, the sting of holding a beloved’s hand as they enter the nearness of God, or a million other incandescent moments in life that we briefly hold as they dissolve before our very eyes. The human instinct is to build containers in these moments—to do something to capture the Divine, like Peter wanted. As we come down from this luminous mountaintop to walk the path of Lent, the road towards Jerusalem, the Way of the Cross, I invite you to embrace every mundane moment with open hands, which allow you to receive what God gives you and to give it away. For as terrifying as this sounds, we will only see the transfigured one, we will only hear God speaking to us, we will only experience the belovedness of the God who made us and makes us one, if we show up, if we watch, and if we listen. 

 

God’s here and now. Do you hear the Divine voice? “You are my beloved.” Amen. 

Why Do We Go Up The Mountain?

From the cloud clattered: "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!"

  

 Exodus 34:29-35 

Psalm 99

2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2

Luke 9:28-36

 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2022

 

Holy, transfigured One, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

This week has been a challenging one—leaving us with more questions than answers. What will happen in the aftermath of Russia attacking Ukraine? Are we facing existential crisis—if not from this then from another variant of COVID, a natural disaster, or not being able to afford groceries? What will be the fate of transgender children and youth in the face of more hurtful legislation across this country? More questions than answers…

Today’s mysterious Gospel lesson does not provide us answers to these question—at least not in any straightforward manner. Like the rainy weather outside—thank you God for cooperating on the setting for today—we are left in obscurity wondering. We may even be asking, “Why do we go up the mountain?”   

Every year we walk up the Mount of the Transfiguration on the last Sunday after the Epiphany—the Sunday, which immediately precedes the Season of Lent. This pilgrimage of prayer with Jesus, Peter, James, and John calls us to wander in holier air may we continue to wonder about the purpose of this heavenly hike.

The Transfiguration is the type of moment, which is better to be experienced than to be explained. Have you ever had such a moment? If you have had any such divine encounters, I encourage you to share them with me and one another, maybe right after this service concludes. Often, we in our orderly, intellectual Episcopal Church may shy away from sharing things we cannot easily explain.

Things like when I was four years old and riding in the backseat of my family’s van, I had a conversation with Jesus. Even though my mother has told me that story repeatedly, I still have a hard time believing it really happened. Or like when I was fresh out of college, and I reaffirmed my baptismal vows at the Easter Vigil.

When serving as a Eucharistic Minister that night I experienced a visceral vision in the reflection of the chalice, and I knew that God was calling me to serve more intimately at the altar. To this day, my mind is still trying to catch up with that experience. Or a moment that I think about every time we walk up this mountain to witness Jesus transfigured before us.

In my mid-twenties I was up a high mountain leading an outreach experience in Quito, Ecuador. On this trip, my group of fifteen college students and I went to a small church for Sunday morning worship. This community met in a bright yellow school room that sat on the edge of a cliff face that overlooked the valley where Ecuador’s capital city rests.

I found myself out of the Episcopal element at this service. A praise band blared music that overpowered the congregation, a thirty-minute sermon turned into a forty-five-minute sermon due to interpreting from Spanish to English, then came the altar call (and I do not mean Communion). When one of the students from my group wanted to go up, I felt compelled to support her decision, even if I was uncertain. After hearing the prayer both in Spanish and English I thought, “This is not so bad. It is kind of like the Public Service of Healing.” The student got up from kneeling and she returned to her seat.

At that moment I turned to walk back as well, but the leader of this congregation stopped me. What was translated to me was something like, “You are the leader of the group, and you need a blessing.” I waved my hands and shook my head saying, “No, I’m good.” Then the pastor insisted. Not wanting to deny the hospitality and thinking, he’ll just say some prayer, I agreed to the blessing. This is when things got weird.

As soon as the minister put his hands on my shoulders my heart began to race, as though it were trying to burst forth from my chest. He spoke words that were being translated, but somehow, I already knew what he was praying. His hands touched my head and they felt white hot! Then, he said the Spirit is strong with you and this blessing will knock you down. I thought, “No, it won’t! I’m Episcopalian.” I had no power over what was happening, though.

The next thing I knew, I was falling backwards into the arms of some of my group and local leaders. There’s a picture of me after this experience. In it I have this calm look on my face as though I had seen the divine, as though I encountered God on that mountaintop.

Why do we go up to the mountaintop?

Why did Jesus go? Jesus went up the mountain to pray, and pray he did. When he prayed his appearance changed. His face became dazzling white. In his prayer he conversed not only with God, but also with paragons of the Faith—Moses, the bearer of the Law, and Elijah, the chief prophet. They spoke, Luke tells us, of Jesus impending departure—except that’s not the right word.

Exodus. They spoke of Jesus’ exodus. When like the Israelites Jesus would walk into freedom, but not without first walking through trial and tribulation. Jesus went up the mountain to pray, but what about the others.

Why did Peter, James, and John go up the mountain?

They went, according to Luke, because Jesus took them. Eight days after Peter had correctly identified Jesus as the Messiah, they went. These ones who would be sent by Jesus were at that moment being sent into a drowsy prayerfulness. If you have practiced centering prayer, you may be familiar with this phenomenon. Prayerful meditation slides into prayerful hibernation.

The disciples fought their dreariness and stayed awake to witness something unexpected and unexplainable on the mountaintop. Moses, Elijah, and Jesus—the Law, the Prophets, and the Messiah all bound together in a visceral vision. The mysterious nature of this encounter gets echoed by the mysterious nature of Luke’s text. This is to say there are way more questions than answers here. What were the disciples thinking in their tiredness? We do not know. How did the disciples know that it was Moses and Elijah? We do not know.

What we do know is that Peter upon seeing this glorious sight uttered a most human desire: “Let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

Peter may not have come up the mountain to see a vision, but now that he was, he wanted to hold onto these holy ones. On the surface, this may not seem that strange—after all we do this, often missing a moment because we are trying to take a picture of it. Still, if we explore Peter’s and our own frailty, we may discover something more challenging.

Peter yearned to incase Moses, Elijah, and Jesus. He wanted to cling to this vision. Maybe he even wanted to control these religious figures or God Almighty. Luke was quick to point out that Peter did not even know what he was saying. We might wander into this same sort of misguided desire as we are wondering about challenging decisions.

Anytime we want to control others, coerce religion for our ends, or limit God we, like Peter, do not know what we are saying. We may not be a Russian president invading Ukraine, or overzealous lawmakers hurting vulnerable transgender youth, but any time one of us says “my will be done” instead of “thy will be done”—any time we do this, we do not know what we are doing.

The good news, at least for Peter, was that as soon as those words left his mouth, God intervened. Fog overshadowed him and his fellows. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” clattered from the cloud. They were rightfully terrified, but before they suffered any mortal danger, Jesus was found alone. Amazingly, they kept silent about what happened. So let me restate what transpired, Peter said something that, at best, made no sense or, at worst, was sinfully self-serving, then God said, listen to my Chosen Son. After this they saw only Jesus, and they kept silent. This sounds like a good path for us too.

When we find ourselves opposing God’s will in our lives, when we seem to not know what we are saying, when we are trying to box God into being a genie granting our wishes, may we too be overshadowed, may we listen, and may we keep silent.

Peter, James, and John went up the mountain because Jesus took them up there. They needed to be up there to see that Peter’s view of the Messiah was not God’s view. In Luke’s story Jesus had just told the disciples that the Messiah’s path led through suffering, rejection, and death. Through this exodus Jesus would lead God’s people including us into freedom.

What about us, why do we go up the mountain?

We go up the mountain, so that we too might be confounded by Jesus’ glory, that we may be overshadowed, that we might relinquish our control listening deeply to God’s voice.

We go up the mountain, so that we come back down. Jesus and the disciples did not stay on top of the mountain. No, they descended, so that Jesus could go to another mountaintop—one called Calvary. After the transfiguration, Jesus turned his face towards Jerusalem, towards suffering, rejection, even death.

We go up the mountain, so that we may follow in Jesus’ way—that we may suffer with Jesus having compassion for the least, the lost, and the loveless—that we may reject all that does not flow from his way of love—that we may die to ourselves, so Christ may live through us.

Why do we go up the mountain? To pray with Jesus listening intently to the beloved, to follow the Chosen One in our daily life, and to walk with Christ in the Way of Love.

 

 

 

The In-Between

This week we find ourselves in-between:

-We (in Central Alabama) are in-between natural seasons, the calendar may say March, but it feels like we are in the dead of winter…

-Perhaps, we in-between seasons in our personal lives (more on that in a moment)…

-And, we are even in-between church seasons…

We have not yet started Lent, but Christmas and Epiphany are in the rearview mirror, and we are about to leave this year's long Season after the Epiphany. Most probably already know what Christmas is (the Incarnation of Christ in Jesus), and even may know that Epiphany is that moment when God became manifest to the whole world in Christ Jesus (see: the story of the Wise Men and the Baptism of Jesus), but Lent (as you may not know) is the 40 day season that leads us penitently to our holiest days during Holy Week and Easter. The last Sunday before Lent begins we hear of Jesus’ Transfiguration up on a high mountain, which was the case yesterday. This story is a familiar one that tells of Jesus taking his inner circle of disciples (Peter, James, and John) on a prayerful retreat, but instead of quiet they receive visions of Moses and Elijah as well as the overshadowing cloud of God. So what about the in-between nature of this week? 

Looking ahead to this coming Sunday, we will discover Christ Jesus (much earlier in the synoptic Gospel accounts) being cast out into the wilderness by the Spirit and there in the desert he must overcome temptations. A little closer at hand, tomorrow night we celebrate Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras when historically people got rid of all those tempting items in their pantries, homes, and even lives to prepare for the Pilgrim Journey that is Lent, which starts on Wednesday.

So right after Fat Tuesday we "celebrate" Ash Wednesday when we are reminded of our mortal nature—we are dust and to dust we shall return. We are also invited into a holy observance of Lent. Some people take on new prayer practices, while others get rid of something that they believe takes them away from God. So, to say the least this week in the life of the Church is an in-between time. It's a week when we jettison the last gleaming remnant of the Season after the Epiphany and put on the proverbial sackcloth and ashes, but not before indulging in pancakes, crepes, beignets, or maybe some form of cajun food on Tuesday night.  

This sort of in-between time can feel disorienting—corporately and individually. My instinct in topsy-turvy moments like this is to grab onto any nearby, bolted-down object, like I’m on a capsizing ship; however, today in the glow both of my first Sunday at All Saints' Homewood and the Transfiguration, I hear an invitation from God simply to be. Can I just be, can you just be, can we just be even when we are in the midst of transitions and transformations? 

What is going on in your personal life? Maybe you have just lost a friend or a loved one and are in the midst of grieving. Maybe you have recently moved but you do not quite feel at home. Maybe you are struggling with the weather or an illness or just feeling disconnected from loved ones, yourself, or even God. Maybe it is something else, like the changing liturgical seasons. And maybe you are like me, and so you try to grasp onto some belief, some practice, some person, or something else in the midst of change, as though these things will bring us to safety. However, in the in-between-ness that is life—for life is always shifting and changing and undergoing transformation—the only constant is God. 

And, strangely what I am figuring out slowly and with many trip-ups and mistakes along the way is that what God wants from me is not for me to figure it out or to get over any negative emotion or to make myself feel at home, or anything else I must do or achieve or earn, but rather God simply wants me to be. God wants me to be with Christ like Peter, James, and John were with Christ Jesus up on the high mountain. God wants me to be with Christ like the disciples were with Christ Jesus healing the child in the story after the Transfiguration ended. God wants me and us to be with Christ today and on Shrove Tuesday and on Ash Wednesday and through Lent and everyday. 

St. John's Church, Decatur

Recently moving from the beloved community of St. John’s Church, Decatur to the beloved community of All Saints’ Church, Homewood has me feeling like I am in-between. My wife, son, and I closed on a house, but we await renovations, so we’re camped out with my family in-between spaces. At church while some remodeling here is being completed I don't yet have an office, I am working in-between spaces. In my ministry my well-worn routines and practices are being reworked as I learn new things, new church rhythms, and drive a new way to work. I am learning to be with God and fellow children of God in the in-between.

All Saints' Church, Homewood

At times I get inpatient and feel frustration, as I want to grab onto a silver bullet, some snake oil, or a cure all, but the truth is whether it is a great overshadowing cloud, people clamoring for healing, the devil beckoning with temptations, or simply shear silence what remains constant through all these in-between times is God. Always God is and always God yearns for us to be with God through Christ and the Spirit. Amen.

Aftermath

Sometimes we hear the thunder, but don't see the lightning.

This sermon was preached at St. John's Church, Decatur, AL during the Wednesday Healing Eucharist. The texts for the (transferred) Feast of the Transfiguration of Our Lord are the following: 

Exodus 34:29-35

2 Peter 1:13-21

Luke 9:28-36

Psalm 99 or 99:5-9 

Sometimes we miss it. That thing that came before. We only hear the thunder, but we did not catch a glimpse of the lightning. Only the mess remains from the dog or the kids, but what really happened here? What came before the aftermath? In our life-long journeys with God this can also be true.

We find ourselves focused upon the results of our life. Think about it. We wonder how well did we do? Did we get the job? How much did we earn last year? Are we raising our kids right? Did they turn out okay—are they making money and raising their children right? What car do I drive? What neighborhood do I live in? Life though does not merely happen in the results.

It is not simply in the thunder, it’s in the lightning too. It’s not only the results, but the process that led to it. So, when we recall the Good News of Christ Jesus that we heard today, we cannot simply celebrate the (transferred Feast of the) Transfiguration, but we must wonder what came before it. Why did this happen? And, why did it happen here?

We might expect Peter, James, and John to follow Jesus up a high mountain at the beginning of his ministry. I mean isn’t that a perfect way to enter into the competitive 1^st Century religious market in this backwater part of the Roman Empire? Jesus’ initial offering ought to start with a bang—a big pyrotechnical smoke show with a voice shouting down from heaven—right? Well, that’s not where we are. In fact, according to the logic of our world, the Transfiguration might just come at the oddest time possible in Jesus’ ministry.

In Luke’s telling of the story, Jesus fed the Five Thousand, then asked his followers who he was—to which Peter replied, “The Messiah of God.” And, right before today’s story Jesus explained what it meant to be the Son of Man. In this explanation—the lightning to the Transfiguration’s thunder—Jesus told his disciples that he had to undergo suffering at the hands of the powerful, rejection by those closest to him, and death by means of the systematic structures of the day.

In this account of the Good News, we do not hear the disciples’ response to this difficult, no-good, very bad news. Still, we can project that this would have been devastating. Certainly this was not the time for Jesus to reveal through a dramatic journey up a mountain his divine identity. Well, actually it was.

In all the synoptic Gospel accounts Jesus told of his suffering right before he traveled up the mountain to be transfigured. Why would God choose to reveal such glory in the aftermath of the statement that Jesus had to suffer, be rejected, and die? Well, because God’s way is not our way. The logic we apply to this world is that if something bad happens to someone then they must have deserved it. This though is not what we experience in the life of Christ.

Christ exemplifies for us a different way. If we are to walk after him we must know that God glorifies not those who will cause suffering to get ahead, reject even their closest friends, and do anything necessary to get ahead. No, Christ reveals God’s way is different. His way calls us to know that God’s glory looks different.

The Transfiguration is not a standalone event. God showed Peter, James, and John that Jesus was God’s Chosen Son not because of Christ’s power, but rather because of his letting go of power; his willingness to endure even the pain that was to come. Jesus’ reveling that he must endure suffering, rejection, and death was the precursor for the mountaintop revelation. This is the way that we too are called to walk.

Our lives are not simply about the huge spiritual revelations that happen amongst the clouds. We are called also into the suffering, rejection, and death of Jesus, who endured those atrocities to point us towards the way of limitless love. In our lives we are called to stand up to the powerful who are focused solely on themselves. For us to walk onto the mountain hearing the true identity of the one we follow we also must follow him into suffering, rejection, and death.

The Transfiguration: A Guide to Our Spiritual Life

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration, which means we get to hear the story of John, James, and of course, Peter. Oh Peter! We’ll get to him in a moment, for now though, can you imagine being those disciples hiking along with Jesus on this mountaintop journey? First, they hiked up to the top of Mount Hermon, which stands at about 9,200 feet. Next, they watched as Jesus in the midst of prayer began glowing brighter than anything on earth. Then, out of nowhere Moses and Elijah the paragons of the Jewish Faith appeared. And finally, a cloud obscured their vision such that they could not see and a voice spoke from the fog saying, “This is my Son, my chosen; listen to him!” This had to be an intensely overwhelming experience.

We are probably not accustomed to having such spiritual moments. When was the last time that you saw your spiritual leader transfigured by God or joined by some pillars of the Faith? Still, we like the disciples do have peak spiritual moments. We are not immune to both the valleys and the mountains on our journey. In the midst of Peter’s experience of Jesus’ Transfiguration he said something so trivial and out of place that I have a hard time not belittling the disciple. Peter spoke, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah,” and Luke even adds the editorial comment, “Not knowing what he said.” This sentiment by Peter stands out though as one of the most human responses to an encounter with the Divine.

More people now believe that they have had an encounter with the Divine than in previous generations over the last 100 years, says the Pew Research Center. Maybe it is not quite like what Peter, John, and James saw on top of the mountain, but something is happening in our desire for and our belief in connections with God. Our response to these encounters though seems woefully undisciplined. I can hardly recall a time growing up when I learned what to do when or if I felt like I had some sort of epiphany or spiritual experience. Often then we respond like Peter, not knowing what we do or say.

The typical human response to Divinity is to encase God somehow. From primitive societies up to this very moment we have been trying to make a home for God, just like Peter did during the Transfiguration. This is not a bad thing, this is just what we do. We want to be able to come back to the overwhelming moment with God. We yearn to hold onto God. We desire some reliable way of getting spiritually high. And yet, this story of the Transfiguration actually provides us with a blueprint to how we might respond to feeling the overabundant presence of the Almighty.

After Peter said his comment, after God came and spoke, and after things went back to normal (if that was even possible for the disciples) everything went silent, stark, and quiet. The disciples, probably in shock from being some of the only people to come into the direct presence of the Almighty without dying, could not say anything. And so they did not. They remained silent as they descended down the mountain. They would not even speak of this experience for weeks, not until after Jesus died and was raised. This might be a good guide to the divine life.

All of us live in immediate proximity of the Divine. In our hearts, minds, bodies, and souls, in our relationships, in Creation around us is God’s omnipresent nature. We may not always recognize it, but God is always here with us. Sometimes those moments when everything seems right make us want to hold onto the moment like Peter did. Instead maybe we could just enjoy the contact with God. Perhaps we can allow that moment to permeate our beings. I can sometimes want to talk so much about what I have experienced—I know it’s an occupational hazard of being a priest. And yet, when we meet God the most fitting response might just be to be… to be quiet, to be silent, and to be reverent, as we allow this experience to shape us and form us. Let us look to the Transfiguration as an example of how we might be transformed by God, quietly taking in Divine Communion as God permeates our entire existence.

Glory Down the Mountain

If God is always on a mountain does that mean He's always hard to see?

Sermon audio can be found here.

Fog has a tendency to congregate on the peaks of mountains. I know this after spending seven years living on top of a high plateau. For what feels like days, weeks, and even months at a time, a mood-depressing mist can linger sticking to everything it touches. One’s entire field of vision takes on a type of grey, surreal obscurity and very little appears in focus. Higher elevations can even lead to altitude sickness, including migraines, diarrhea, and blurred sight. Despite all of this mountaintop moments remain a beloved catchall for spiritually exhilarating periods of our lives.

Mountains have since our earliest ancestors been the place where humans interact with the Divine. Whether we will admit it or not, we often imagine that God dwells somewhere among the clouds. Of course, this is not our fault. Everything about God seems cloudy. Our hymns reinforce this—think of our current Offertory, “From all who dwell below the skies, let the Creator’s praise arise” (Hymn 380, 1982 Hymnal). The Old Testament suggests this, as Moses exchanged messages with the Almighty on Sinai’s height and in today’s first lesson Elijah was swept up into the clouds by a chariot of fire. And of course, God names Jesus his beloved on a mountaintop. We get it God, you dwell up there, and we, well, we live down here.

Yet, even as Elijah zoomed off in a blaze of glory, Moses chatted with the Almighty, and God transfigured Jesus, I am left wondering what happens when they (and we with them) come back down? What occurs if the mountaintop becomes too foggy not with God’s Holy presence, but with a cloud of unknowing? Where do we meet God, if not on top of a mountain?

We can, of course, look to those who have met God on top of a mountain more recently, like the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. who in his last public address beautifully depicted his own pinnacle experience. He even spoke of peeking over the peak and into the Promised Land. In his own words:

“I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop.
And I don't mind.
Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you.
But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!”

The Rev. Dr. King seemed to know that like Moses he might have made it to the mountain top, but he might not make it into the Promised Land. This prophetic saint of the 20th Century stood on a proverbial mountain, as he felt God calling him home. Only 300 feet above sea level in Memphis he could still see far enough to view his dream of racial equality becoming reality.

This summit experience of that prophetic speech appears so magnificent in light of the Rev. Dr. King’s martyrdom that it overshadows the first 4,276 words of that same speech. In it he did not pontificate on pinnacles, but rather he wound his way through history until he made it to his own day. He believed that something was happening across the globe as people cried out, “We want to be free.”

We can believe that the work of freedom is done by God, or by more mountainous figures, like the Rev. Dr. King, Mahatma Gandhi, or Mother Teresa. We might think that it takes a spiritual peak experience to be called by God into the work of bringing God’s healing to life. And yet, I believe as John F. Kennedy did that, “Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free.” The work of the Church, the work of the Body of Christ, the work of us who are that Church and that Body comes not when we have a powerful moment, like that of the transfiguration, but when we receive God’s grace and let it transfigure the rest of our life.

This is not always a pleasant experience either. Moses, Elijah, and the Rev. Dr. King all struggled with God, but maybe none of them as much as the disciples. On the one hand, in the Transfiguration they encountered the symbol of the Law, Moses, and the epitome of the prophets, Elijah, speaking with Jesus. Plus, they had heard the voice of God, and had lived! Yet on the other hand, a cloud obscured their vision, Peter blabbered about building booths, fear wrapped around them, and worst of all Jesus told them to tell no one of the experience. But, why?

Throughout Mark’s Gospel account the reader is left wondering, “Who is this Jesus?” In fact, Jesus even seems to turn to the audience to ask, “Who do you say that I am?” Peter answers the question acknowledging Jesus as the Messiah, and yet when Jesus describes the type of death the Messiah must die Peter cannot handle it. This is when Jesus calls Peter Satan. So when God transfigures Jesus on the mountaintop this fuels Peter’s understanding of the Messiah that is this person who was to come in and overthrow the occupying forces of Rome. And yet, Jesus understands the truth of this moment far better than the disciples.

The moment of the Transfiguration will remain a mystery until the events that transpire in Jerusalem and result in Jesus’ death. Some would have certainly tried to put Jesus in a position of political power had they heard of this divine encounter on the top of a mountain. Yet, the glorification of God’s Son in the cloud can only make sense in light of the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. And this is what we must understand about our peak spiritual experiences: they are not meant to give us something to boast about, but rather are to transfigure our hearts so that we might continue on the journey.

We with the disciples and Jesus are beginning our journey towards Jerusalem through the Season of Lent this very week. We need not go in search of any alps. For Christ wants us to walk with him down the mountain instead. Jesus’ Transfiguration occurred among the clouds, but God yearns to reform our hearts, as we journey with him bringing freedom, release, and transformation to all God’s children starting with ourselves.