February
23, 2020,
The
Feast of the Transfiguration
1.
Years
and years ago, I spent a summer on an island, out on Newfound Lake, here in New
Hampshire, working as a camp counselor at a camp for at-risk boys. They were a colorful group, troubled in a
whole lot of ways, and a lot of fun. And
once each session, once each month, we’d take these extraordinary boys hiking,
climbing a nearby mountain. New
Hampshire at its best. And for most of
these boys, it was their very first climb, their very first hike, their first
outdoor adventure of any kind.
Billy
was one of these boys: he’d grown up in pretty tough neighborhood, in a pretty
rough family, mostly TV and fast food; and he’d never seen the top of a hill,
let alone the summit of a New Hampshire mountain. From the beginning it was pretty clear it
wasn’t going to be easy for him. Or the
rest of us.
And
it didn’t take long—about 50 yards on level ground, in fact—it didn’t take long
for Billy to consider the whole outing a colossal disaster. He’d shuffle up, from behind, catch the hem
of my sweatshirt, and he’d say: “DJ, DJ, this is just a terrible idea, DJ. I hate this day. I just hate everything about it.” And I’d do my best to encourage him, to
promise him a lovely view at the top, and we’d go another hundred yards. And Billy would grab me from behind: “DJ, DJ,
this is just a terrible idea, DJ. I hate
this day. I just hate everything about
it.”
And
to be truthful, he exuded disappointment and despair. He looked so terribly aggrieved, so
desperately unhappy. All the way to the
top, I half-wondered whether he was right—whether we’d made a great mistake
bringing him along—whether he’d resent this hike for the rest of his life. He was groaning, and he was cussing, and he
was calling me names all the way up.
But
it was one of those bright, blue, warm summer days in the mountains. And around lunchtime, we finally reached the
summit of that magnificent peak. Billy
hanging on to my sweatshirt, and the two of us bringing up the rear of an otherwise
rowdy group of boys. And, you know, in
no time, Billy saw all that sky, and he figured out that we’d made it to the
top. And then he found a picnic table up
there, and then he climbed up on top of that picnic table—and he looked all
around. He peered across rocky ledges
into the valleys below. He gazed at
purple peaks in the distance. And he
pointed up at a couple of humungous, billowy clouds overhead. And then Billy—the very same Billy, who’d
cussed me up that mountain—Billy laughed and laughed and laughed.
And
then Billy jumped down, off that picnic table, and bounded over to me
again. This part I’ll never forget. I had no idea, really, no idea what was
coming. But this little guy looked up at
me with these big, wide, happy eyes, and he said to me: “See, DJ! See, DJ!
I told you we could do this. I
just told you!” Without even a hint of
irony: “See, DJ! See, DJ! I told you we could do this. I just told you!”
2.
Now
I’ve got to tell you that I think of Billy, and that sweet summer summit, every
time the Transfiguration rolls around, every time we read this odd little tale
about Jesus and his friends climbing a mountain together and experiencing
mystery and wonder and affirmation together at the top. In no small way, Billy was like a little
Christ to me that day in the White Mountains: this little, tired, angry boy,
huffing, puffing, complaining every moment, every step of the way. But when he climbed atop that picnic table,
when he surveyed the great, gorgeous, wild, wonderful world up there—he was,
for all intents and purposes, transfigured by joy, transfigured by grace,
transfigured by God. The only thing
missing was Moses, maybe Elijah. I swear
I had to stop and just pinch myself.
Now
liturgically, this Transfiguration Sunday—that’s today—this Transfiguration
sits at the intersection of Epiphany and Lent.
Epiphany and Lent. Epiphany is
the season of revelation and wonder, the season of God’s big reveal in Jesus
Christ. Epiphany brings us face to face
with Jesus’ inspired teaching on love and nonviolence. Face to face with his great
demonstration—remember the loaves and fishes—his great demonstration of radical
generosity and holy abundance. Epiphany
is joy and intimacy: God dancing with you and me, with the church, in a world
of blessing and delight. God making the whole world new!
But
this week, we turn the corner, we step onto the road that leads Jesus and the
disciples to Jerusalem. This week, we
turn towards Lent. And I hope you’ll
join me Ash Wednesday, that evening, for our simple gathering of prayer in the
parlor. Jesus invites us, during Lent,
to count the cost of discipleship, to accept the consequences of love and
nonviolence, and then to take up the cross with him. To love with an open heart is to bleed. To dream of justice and peace is to
weep. To cherish the planet is to suffer
with the planet. We all want to change
the world. We all want to heal the
world. Jesus reminds us, during Lent,
that the way of the cross is hard, that it makes us vulnerable, that we’ll meet
limitation and loss on the way. To be
human, and to care, is to hurt.
And
here it is, at this intersection—Epiphany and Lent—here it is that Jesus takes
his friends up the mountain and he’s transfigured there, before them, with
Moses and Elijah. The little community’s
dragging. Peter and James and John. Jesus is talking more and more about
suffering: and they’re exhausted by it, and uncertain about what comes
next. It’s not easy to follow this guy!
All
the while he’s been talking up this mustard seed spirituality: this idea that
the Holy Spirit multiplies simple kindness and ordinary courage and daily
friendship—multiplies mustard seeds to create a harvest of justice and mercy in
the here and now.
But
now, deep into the story, Jesus is turning up the heat. Talking
about losing life to find life: this notion that something has to die for
something new to be born. And the
disciples aren’t so excited about all this.
All this talk about sacrifice and suffering, losing life to find life: it’s
rattling them and unnerving them and just plain exhausting them. At one point, dear Peter, dear Peter turns to
Jesus and says, “Hey, man, we don’t have to suffer, right? We got you.
We got faith. We don’t really
need a cross, right?” And, of course,
Jesus says: “That’s the only thing you do need on the way with me.” And then: “Take up your cross and follow me.”
3.
So
this mountain-top thing—this transfiguration—comes at the moment of exhaustion
and uncertainty. When Peter and James
and John need it most. It’s as if God
meets them there at the summit of Mount Tabor and opens the divine heart wide,
shines the holy light bright, speaks the reassuring word clear. “This is my Son, the Beloved: listen to
him!” “This is my Son, the Beloved:
listen to him!” In other words: the way
of the cross will not be easy, but it is the way to new life and hope. In other words: this bit about dying and
rising is hard to trust, but it is the road to renewal and rebirth. In other words: Lent will cost us something,
but the grace of God will see us through, see us through Lent and
Holy Week and into the promise of Easter’s light and resurrection.
Now,
of course, Peter and James and John are so moved, so completely blown away by their mountain-top experience, that they’d be happy to set up camp up there and
stay forever. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s so fantastically inspiring up there,
with Moses and Elijah and the radiance of truth and hope and not a suffering
soul to be seen. But that’s not the
point, either: and Jesus is quick to remind them that the road to Jerusalem is
down below, the road to justice runs through the cities and towns of the
Galilee, the road to renewal and mercy is a dusty and potholed road where
brothers are hungry and sisters seek shelter and human community aches to be
gathered and blessed.
So
as much as we might like to hang out here—in the transfigured glory of God,
with my friend Billy on the White Mountain peak, with Jesus on Mount Tabor—as
much as we might like to hang out in the sanctuary of wonder and beauty, we’ll
need to return, we’ll need to descend the mountain, just as we climbed it. We’ll need to trust that God waits for us in
the worlds of our families, in the complicated worlds of our schools and
businesses, in the especially complicated worlds of politics and advocacy and
the perfecting of our union.
But
what I learned from Billy that summer’s day—all those years ago—what I learned from my transfigured eleven-year-old camper is that the God of mountain-tops is
going with us. The God who shines in our
hearts continues to shine, continues to inspire, continues to renew and refuel
us all the way down. So I encourage you
to take special care with your own mountain-top visions, with your own mountain-top experiences. Cherish them. Write them down in your journals. Remember what glory looked like that day,
what forgiveness felt like that day, what the ridges of the mountains told you
about beauty and creation and the wonders of the universe. Because God speaks to you and makes a promise
to you, on every one of those mountain-tops.
Even though you can’t camp out there forever. Even though you can’t stay up there.
And
God’s word, God’s message, God’s promise is this: I
am your God. I am your Christ. And I will go with you. Into the dark valleys. Into the dizzying cities. Into the messy, hard places of your
life. So that’s the word this morning:
God goes with you, with every precious, broken, hopeful one of you. And the Love that is the one true gift, the
Love that is the unifying blessing of all people will bind our wounds and make
whole our spirits and renew our flesh. For
the mountains, and the valleys, and the high places, and the low places: they
all belong to God. Amen!
