Sermon for February 3, 2008

The Transfiguration of our Lord

The one thing I have missed tremendously since moving to western Upstate New York is the sight of mountains outside of my door. There are beautiful rolling hills and certainly the lakes are beyond compare, but I spent the first 36 years of my life within view of mountains. I miss the mountains.

I grew up in Pennsylvania cradled between mountains from the Appalachian chain. When I was in high school and my father saw fit to move us to Europe, our house in Italy had a gorgeous view of the Alps. On internship, we would escape the summer heat of the Oregon desert by going high into the Steens Mountains. We have stood on a spot on that range where it is possible to see four states; we have played in the snow in July on the Rockies, we have hiked the Adirondacks, watched smoke and ash spew from Mt. St. Helen’s, tromped around Mt. Rainer, and punctured tires on the obsidian stone littering the Cascades.

There is something majestic, looming, magnificent and yet gentle, freeing and comforting about the sights, smells, sensations of the mountains; clouds swirling, temperatures dropping, plumes of smoke and ash spewing forth, the silent creatures hiding in the woods; who else but God could live at such lofty elevations among such miracles of nature? It is no wonder that our ancestors associated the mountain with the presence of God. Where else but on a mountain could the throne of the almighty be accommodated?

It is from the mountain, the highest heights, that God chooses to address humanity in the Old Testament. It is from the mountain that God’s voice calls out to Moses to come up, to receive instructions written by the fingertips of Yahweh, God of Israel. The thunder rumbled, the lightning struck the earth, a shroud covered the mountain as God’s glory was revealed to Moses.

With this story in their collective memory, Peter, James and John begin their ascent up the mountain. You have to wonder what was going through their minds, certainly they weren’t just out for a lovely hike in the woods. Did they talk amongst themselves about what delicious revelations would be set before them? Did they wonder what tantalizing secrets would be shared? Were their knees shaking in anticipation of possibly hearing the voice of God? Did they glance skyward for changes in the clouds? Strain to hear the first rumbles of thunder?

In their waiting, wondering, anticipating, they were not to be disappointed for suddenly God’s glory was revealed to them in the person of Jesus, their companion. And then Moses, Elijah appeared in conference with the Christ. The atmosphere radiated full and complete glory. No more wonderful indication of heaven could have been predicted by these three men. They got the whole nine yards—lights, glory, clouds, voice of God! No wonder Peter wanted to make it last forever, to set up a memorial for all times to this event. And it’s no wonder that when God’s voice boomed out of the clouds they all hit the deck, scared out of their wits. And when it was over, when the trembling subsided, Jesus was left standing there, reaching down into their fear, extending his hand, telling them not to be afraid.

We spend our entire lives waiting for those mountain top experiences to happen; to be thrilled, chilled, fearful in the certain presence of God. We desire them and if we’re one of the few who have actually experienced such a thing, we want them to last forever.

But the reality is that most of us are like the other nine disciples sitting at the foot of the mountain, encountering life, going about our daily business while someone else climbs to the top, someone else gets the view. The children of Israel waited and waited for Moses to come out of the cloud with the Ten Commandments, not daring to follow in his footsteps, but to sit, look, listen to the thunder and know that God’s presence was almost, but not quite, within reach.

A few years ago our family vacationed in the Adirondacks and we spent each day hiking some different trail. One day we climbed and climbed to get to the top of a small mountain and when we were almost within reach of the top, the climb became rocky and steep. We had our aged beagle with us at the time and he just couldn’t do it. Someone had to sit with the dog. Moms are good for just that sort of thing. Swell. I could hear their laughter and giggling; the oohs and aahs from the top. They told me it was gorgeous.

But then, isn’t that life? We spend most of our days down in the valley where the endless shadows lengthen and the rain puddles and the sun is often obscured. There are even those times in life when we can’t see the mountain much less consider climbing it or what the view must be from the top. You know what I mean—the horrible diagnosis, lousy pink slip, rejection letter, lonely evenings, silenced voices.

For those times, those vast empty moments in life, we remember that we were not sent a spit shined, glow in the dark to light every path Messiah. Nor are we called to the top of the mountain to bask in the radiance of glory. We were sent Emmanuel, God with us. We were sent a Messiah who came to us the same way we came into the world, screaming and tiny, entering our humanity as a baby. As we prepare for Lent and the journey to Jerusalem we are reminded that he didn’t lead a group of disciples up the mountain to build fancy dwelling places advertising doses of glory for anyone who could pay for it or get themselves up that far. The culmination of his journey was that he himself would be led up a hill to a place called the skull where he joined us in the descent into the dead. His exultation was not one a throne with a jeweled crown, but on a cross with a crown of thorns. No one genuflected in awe at his majesty, rather soldiers fell down laughing and mocking his bruises and welts. And in his final moments of life Elijah did not reappear, nor did the angels come to save him and even God was eerily silent as the anointed one cried out, “My God, My God, why have you abandoned me.”

Robert Campbell writes, “The glory of God shines not just in the transfigured face of Christ, but in the disfigured face of Christ—the face that bore the pain and anguish and sin and woe of the world. For the face that shone on the mountain is the face we see on the cross. And the God who was there on the mountain is the God who was there on the cross.

“This is not a God who stands aside from the trouble and cruelty of the world, a God who is absent while a crescendo of rejection builds against his Christ, who lifts not a finger while the anointed one is scandalously and unjustly put to death, and who, at some alter point rides to the rescue in the resurrection. This is the God who was there all along: the God who was on the mountaintop, but came down from the mountain, and walked the road to the cross, and advanced to the pain and sacrifice.”

My dog and I learned something the other year. It’s not about getting to the top of the mountain in quest for an illusive, glorified God. There’s plenty to explore down here in the valley. This is where God’s people are and where they offer encouragement to one another. In our waiting and in our looking about we are bound to see the face of Christ who chose to join humanity, to take our our form and our suffering and reach into our reality. For the anointed one is Emmanuel, God with us, and with us he will remain. Amen

Back to Sermon List