Transfiguration - Honoring The Moments
Rebecca Clancy
II Peter 1:16-21 Matthew 17:1-8
Many years ago, so many that it almost feels like a lifetime ago, my father and I -- possessed of similar temperaments and interests -- decided we’d ride our bikes to the Mississippi River. From our house that was a distance of about 125 miles, so we decided to do it in two days. We set out on a fine spring morning at the crack of dawn. As the hours passed and the day unfolded, for some reason I felt tireless. Even more, I felt superhuman. “How are you holding up?” my father asked me. “I feel really strong,” I replied. “That’s because there’s a thirty mile an hour wind at our backs,” he said. “Oh,” I said, with new found humility. It didn’t take the wind out of my sails though. How could it? A thirty mile an hour wind at your back is to a cyclist what a hole in one is to a golfer. At the halfway mark my dad said, “Let’s go on. We can make the whole distance fairly easily in these conditions.” And he was right. We approached the Mighty Mississippi just as the sun was setting in the west behind it. It was a glorious sight -- the perfect end to a perfect ride. It was just one of those magical moments, made all the more magical for having shared it with my father whom I idolized. “I wish it could always be like this!” I exclaimed. “Better,” he said, “just to honor moments like this.”
It’s funny how some remarks that are made in passing stay with us the rest of our lives. It’s almost as if they lie dormant until we reach that stage in life where we can make right sense of them. Then they spring to life again. As life caught up with me, I discerned that what my father was trying to convey in that remark was that, despite my wish, in fact it was not always going to be like this. That’s not how life is. Don’t wish for what can’t be. In other words, what my father was trying to convey is that we have to take the good with the bad. My father was right of course. I’ve come to understand and affirm his words. But I’d wager you’ve had moments in your life where you, like me, thought, “I wish it could always be like this.”
And so we must not fault Peter for having a similar reaction.
Things between Peter and Jesus had become a bit rocky. They had had a misunderstanding. But maybe that’s putting it too lightly. They had had a blowout, a major blowout. And Peter did not even understand why. Things had been right on course between the two of them. Jesus had established Peter as his right hand man, and Peter relished the role. He knew himself to be a man of decision, a man of action. He was gratified that someone recognized it.
But then Jesus turned on him, out of the blue, attacked and upbraided him before everyone. They had been conversing like always. “Who do people say that I am?” Jesus asked his disciples. “Some say John the Baptist,” they responded. John the Baptist, of course, had just been executed. Maybe, some fashioned, he was raised from the dead. “Others say Elijah,” they responded. Elijah, of course, never died. He ascended to heaven in a chariot of fire. Maybe, some fashioned, he had returned. “Others,” they responded, “say one of the prophets of old.” The disciples knew that none of these responses were right. They knew who Jesus wasn’t. But did they, Jesus wondered, know who he was? Peter declared, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” They knew. At least one among them knew. In response Jesus declared, “Blessed are you Simon, son of Jonah, for flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter and on this rock I built my church.” Peter could not have been more gratified. This is the kind of recognition that some people need, and Peter was that kind of person.
But Jesus and Peter had in fact been at complete cross purposes. Jesus affirmed Peter not to coddle his need, but to underscore how gratified he himself was that faith had led Peter to the right conclusion about Jesus’ true identity. Now Jesus could impart to them the fullness of it; impart to them the hard part. He went on to impart to them that as the messiah, as the son of God, he had come to die.
Peter was utterly flabbergasted. He couldn’t begin to conceive of such a thing. It was wrong on every level. It made no sense of everything Jesus had ever said and done. Jesus had come to inaugurate the Kingdom of God. How could he inaugurate it if he were dead? What’s more, Peter loved Jesus as his master and friend. They were soon to part? He had come to die? And so he burst out, “Lord this must never happen to you!”
It was then Jesus sprang on him, tore off his hide. “Get behind me, Satan. You are a stumbling block to me. You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” This strange prediction of his death and now this enraged attack? Yes, to say the least, things had gotten off course between the two of them. They went on from there, but Peter was not at ease. He was in fact deeply troubled in. It takes a while to get over these kinds of things, as we ourselves know from when we have been subjected to anger or unkindness. Bruises take time to heal.
About a week later, Jesus took Peter and James and John to a high mountain, and suddenly Jesus was transfigured -- his face shone like the sun, his clothes became dazzling white. Moses and Elijah, both of whom God had once met on mountaintops, appeared at his sides. There they stood together -- three towering figures of the faith. And suddenly, for Peter, it was all better-- the strange prediction and the enraged attack. Jesus was not going to die. It was just one of the many incomprehensible things he said. And his flare of temper, just another of them. Jesus was one of the towering figures of the faith. He stood at their center receiving special divine validation. Everything was going to be fine. Not only were things now on the right course between the two of them, but they together were on God’s course. Peter, like me and perhaps like you, wished it could always be like this.
And so he made preparations that it always would, “I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He was after all a man of decision. It was indeed always going to be like this. The dwellings would render it permanent. But if Peter had a week earlier received a staggering blow from Jesus, Peter was about to receive the blow of his life. A voice from heaven overshadowed him. “This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him!” “Listen to him?” Peter fell on his face. It wasn’t always going to be like this. Jesus was indeed going to die just as he had declared. His rage at Peter was to make clear to him that he had to accept that.
And yet, and yet, Peter late in life, shortly before his martyrdom, made a final testament. He made witness to that time on the mountaintop: “ For when he received honor and glory from God the Father, and the voice was borne to him by the Majestic Glory, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased,’ we ourselves heard this very voice borne from heaven, for we were with him on the holy mountain.” Peter’s words make clear that he had come to understood that though things would not always be as he wished, that he had come to understand that he had to take the bad with the good. He had come to understand that he should simply honor moments like that one. Moments like that one had clearly sustained his faith.
And this has essential application to our own faith lives. We have all had times on the mountaintop, maybe not as dramatic but we all have them nonetheless --those times but we experience God’s truth with sudden clarity. It could be when we sense the hand of providence in our lives. It could be when a prayer is answered. It could be when we encounter a coincidence that we know is not really a coincidence. It could be when God’s cause triumphs in history. It could be when we have experienced the peace that passes understanding. Whatever it is, we have all been transfigured by God’s truth.
And we might be tempted to wish it could always be that way. But it can’t be. That’s not how life is. We have to take the bad with the good. We need to come to terms with the conditions of our existence and those conditions are that much of our lives are lived are not lived on the mountaintop. They are lived in mundanity. They are lived in disappointment. They are lived in tragedy. They are lived in the coming to terms with our mortality. So we should honor our times at the mountaintop.
Not only because it reflects the conditions of our existence, but because our times at the mountaintop are the means to sustain our faith our whole lives long. If we do not honor our times at the mountaintop, when we leave the mountaintops for our sojourns in the wilderness, we run the risk of losing track of them altogether, and so losing our way in the wilderness.
But if we do honor our times at the mountaintop, like Peter we will come to our end of our lives making our final testaments to those who will come after us, and fully ready and eager ourselves to cross over the Jordan River to the Promised Land. Amen.
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
