Luke 9:28-43a
February 7, 2016
The first time I remember having a
mountaintop experience, I was actually on top of a mountain. I was in Montreat,
North Carolina with a group of senior high school students, members of my youth
group from my church in Richmond, Virginia. For many Presbyterians, going to
Montreat is a pilgrimage. I can’t say that it ranks up there with making
pilgrimages to Mecca or other holy sites in other countries … but it is close.
The kids in my youth group loved
going to the Montreat youth conferences in the summer. It was something they
looked forward to all year long, and it was something that we worked to raise
money for all year long. As a youth leader, I helped washed cars at car washes,
helped organize an elaborate and sophisticated Valentine’s Day dinner for
parents and other church members, and led silly parodies at a Cabaret Night.
All of this was done with the intent of getting to Montreat. Everyone who had
been there told me it would be an experience I would never forget. I would love
it, they said. I would hate leaving, they said. Honestly, I worried that the
actual Montreat would not live up to the glowing picture of the place the kids
and other adults had painted. I was wrong.
It was beautiful. And amazing. And
spectacular. The mountains were glorious, the sunrises and sunsets were
glorious. The conference was incredible. Each worship service seemed to be even
more meaningful and moving than the one before. I loved the workshops I participated
in, and I loved the other youth and adults I got to know. My bond with my own
youth grew stronger in that week. I learned how to do the group dance Star Trekkin, and play the game Killer. To top it all off (no pun
intended), when we left Richmond I had not yet gotten official confirmation
about my application to seminary. Before our week in Montreat was up, I received
the word that I would be starting in Hebrew school at the end of month.
I absolutely loved everything about
my time in Montreat. I was so inspired and motivated in my faith and in my life
that I promised myself that I would never lose that enthusiasm. I would never let
myself forget how powerful it was to be on that mountain, feeling closer to God
than I ever had before. But what goes up must come down. The week came to an
end and we had to leave the mountain and drive back down into the valley.
Not all valleys are valleys of
despair. Valleys have their beauty too. There is nothing inherently wrong or
bad about being in a valley. But after that time on top of the mountain, being
back in the valley didn’t seem quite as nice. I have been mixing the literal
and the metaphorical in this illustration. I was literally on top of a
mountain, and while there I had a metaphorical mountaintop experience.
I wonder if this kind of mix isn’t
also happening in Luke’s account of Jesus’ transfiguration on the mountaintop
in our passage from the gospel. Regardless of which gospel version we are
reading, the story of the transfiguration is just strange. It is a moment of
supernatural splendor that we children of the enlightenment may struggle to picture,
imagine, or even fully believe. Jesus takes three disciples, Peter, John and
James, up a mountain. Jesus often traveled up a mountain to pray and to find
rest, so it isn’t a surprise to read that he’s climbing one again. We often
interpret his choosing of these three disciples as indicative that they were
special to him. But a point I never get tired of repeating is homiletics
professor Anna Carter Florence’s suggestion that perhaps these three weren’t up
there because they were ahead of the others. Maybe they were chosen because
they were in the remedial group.
Either way, Peter, John and James climb
to the mountaintop with Jesus. Having hiked many times in my life, I know how
tiring that can be, so I can understand their sleepiness at the top. In spite
of that, they resisted napping and oh boy were they rewarded! Because they
stayed awake, they saw Jesus transfigured. They saw his face change and his
clothes become dazzling white. They saw two men suddenly appear with Jesus,
talking with him. Somehow, they recognized the two men as Moses and Elijah. That
recognition is astonishing in itself. Moses and Elijah lived hundreds and
hundreds of years before. I doubt there were any images of them inscribed on
coins. There was no such thing as holy prophet collector cards. Still, they
recognized Moses and Elijah. And as terrifying as this may have been for them,
it was also exhilarating. Peter was so excited he wanted to make little tents
for the three transfigured men.
“Jesus! This is great! Let’s stay
here. Let me build some dwelling places for the three of you.”
But before Peter could finish his sentence,
they were engulfed in a cloud and a voice spoke to them from its mists.
“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen
to him!”
When the voice finished, Moses and
Elijah were gone. Jesus looked like Jesus again, and whatever the disciples may
have been thinking about what they had just seen, they didn’t talk about it.
They kept silent and told no one.
A commentator pointed out something about
this dramatic scene that I had never thought about before. This was a visual
moment. Jesus’ face and appearance changed. Even his clothes changed. He was
transfigured before their very eyes. They saw the two great prophets of history
and of the promised future. They witnessed Jesus talking with them. They heard
God’s voice, but they saw the cloud; they were in the cloud. Everything was
seen. But what does God tell them? “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”
Listen. Not, remember what you’ve
seen. Not, hold this vivid scene in your minds. Not, watch him and everything
he does from now on. Listen. It’s important to remember that this happened eight
days after Peter made his great confession about Jesus’ true identity as the Messiah.
It happened eight days after Jesus told Peter and the other disciples that
being the Messiah meant suffering, dying, and rising again. It happened eight days
after Peter rebuked Jesus for saying that. It happened eight days after Jesus rebuked
Peter in return, telling him, “Get behind me, Satan!”
Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem;
literally and metaphorically. He wasn’t on a trip to see the sights. He was on
his way to confrontation with the powers that be. He was on his way to offering
himself up like a sacrificial lamb. He was on his way to suffering and dying;
he was on his way to the cross.
Peter, James and John were given
this vivid, visual gift. But they were not going to see Jesus for much longer. As
much as they needed to remember this moment, they needed to listen to Jesus.
They needed to heed his words spoken directly to them, and they needed to hear
him through the gift of the Spirit and through others. When they went back down
the mountain, when they once more took up residence in the valley, they needed
to listen. When they could no longer see Jesus, they needed to listen. They were
to listen. Not see. Listen.
So if listening is so important, why
title this sermon, “Seeing Glory?” Obviously, the disciples saw glory on that
mountaintop. But it was a fleeting thing. It didn’t last. The ability to listen
would have to stand them in good stead for the rest of their lives. Yet what
about this story following the story of the transfiguration? Jesus and the three
went down the mountain and immediately Jesus was approached by a man wanting
healing for his son. The boy was possessed by a demon, and the man had already
asked Jesus’ disciples for help to no avail. The disciples were unable to do it,
but Jesus could. If we are called upon to listen to Jesus, what does he say at
that moment?
“You faithless and perverse
generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”
Maybe we could paraphrase this as, “You
people who just don’t get it, how much longer do I have to put up with your
confusion and misunderstanding?” Jesus
rebuked the demon in the boy. Jesus restored him to health. Jesus’s words in
that valley probably seemed the opposite of the Jesus they had seen on the
mountain. But were the disciples able to recognize the glory in that moment, as
surely as they recognized it on the mountaintop?
I’ve been asking people to give me
their definition of glory this week.
Most have defined it as “radiant,” “magnificent,” “glowing.” Certainly Jesus’
visage on the mountain fits that understanding of glory, but I think the real challenge
for the disciples and us is not wrapping our minds around a radiant, transfigured
Jesus. It is in seeing glory in other ways, in other places, even in the
valley.
This week I saw a story about two
mothers. One mother had lost her baby boy, Lukas, when he was only seven months
old. The other mother’s baby girl, Jordan, was born with a congenital heart defect.
If she did not receive a heart transplant, she would surely die. Tragically, Lukas
died suddenly. In the midst of what must have been overwhelming pain and
heartache, Lukas’ mom decided to donate his organs. Jordan received his heart –
and lived.
In this story, the mothers meet for the
first time after three years have passed. The mothers hug and cry and Jordan’s
mother thanks Lukas’ mom for this incredible gift. Then, Lukas’ mom puts on a stethoscope
and holds it to Jordan’s chest. After so much time, she hears her baby’s heart
again. Jordan’s mom says, “That’s your baby.” Lukas’ mom says, “It’s so strong.”
She listens to her baby’s heart, and
we see glory.
We do not get the chance to see Jesus
in his glory as the three disciples did on that mountaintop. We don’t get to remain
in our own mountaintop experiences. It would seem that most of our lives are
spent in the valleys. But as the disciples were called to listen, so are we. In
this Sunday between Epiphany and Lent, we are called to listen to Jesus. And if
we listen, if we pay attention, if we open our hearts and our minds to God’s
voice in the world, we just might see glory as well.
Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”
Amen.
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