Musings

Feb

11

Transfigured

A sermon preached at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, Port Chester, NY on Sunday, February 11th, 2018 (The Last Sunday of Epiphany)

Readings: 2 Kings 2:1-12; Psalm 50:1-6; 2 Corinthians 4:3-6; Mark 9:2-9

There is something beautifully consistent about this Last Sunday in Epiphany, this last deep breath before we plunge into Lent on Wednesday. As some of you know, our readings are on a rotating lectionary cycle, meaning that, once we’ve heard a reading on a given Sunday, we typically won’t hear it again for 3 years. This has the double function of keeping us from getting bored and exposing us to the different voices of each of the four Gospels. But there are exceptions to this rule, and they are worth paying attention to – certain days when we read the same Gospel every year because it’s just so important. Ash Wednesday, for example. Maundy Thursday. Those readings never change. And then there are other days, like today, when we celebrate an event that is common to multiple Gospels: on this Last Sunday in Epiphany, we always hear the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration, from Matthew, Mark, and Luke in turn.

Why is the Transfiguration so important that we hear about it every year? Why is this the event in Jesus’ life that we use to mark the transition from the brightness of Epiphany to the wilderness of Lent? How does the Transfiguration of Christ mirror what’s going on in our own lives? What wisdom does it have to offer us, here and now?

In all three Gospels that tell the story, the Transfiguration is all about light, brilliance, revelation. Jesus, we are told, is literally glowing, dazzlingly white. That light is what the season of Epiphany is all about – the same star that shone in the night sky above Bethlehem on Christmas continues to shed its light on our lives, revealing all the surprising ways in which Jesus is present. But we don’t get to stay in that place of blinding radiance forever. Our lived human experience is a constant cycle of light and darkness, joy and pain, trauma and redemption – and our liturgical calendar mirrors that reality. Every year, right around this time, the lectionary allows us to stand with the disciples on the mountaintop to witness this Transfiguration. We revel in Jesus’ glowing appearance – and then we follow him down the mountain and into the wilderness.

That journey from the joy of the mountaintop to the desolation of the desert is not a super fun one. And yet, it’s a path that all of us have walked at some point in our lives. We all know what it feels like to have glorious, fleeting moments of perfection, split seconds where everything makes sense and everything is ok. And we also know what it’s like to feel the ground crumbling beneath our feet, to watch our world fall apart, to feel crushed by the lonely weight of despair. The relentless, cyclical movement from mountain peak to desert and back again is part and parcel of what it means to be human – and by ritualizing that journey every year in the liturgical calendar, the Church honors that. This passage from Epiphany to Lent reminds us that we are not alone, either at our most joyous or our most despondent. Not only do we accompany one another in community; Jesus himself walks with us.

Every one of us has a deep-seated and often unexpressed desire to know that we are not alone in whatever difficulty we’re experiencing. Each one of us craves recognition that, no matter how broken we feel, we are not beyond help. It is human nature to fear our own darkness; there is always a nagging voice of doubt that if only people knew what we were really like on the inside, they would run away in horror. It is so easy for us to feel isolated in our darkness, chronically misunderstood, irreparably damaged.

When Jesus leaves behind the dazzling perfection of the mountain, where he is surrounded by love and understanding from the prophets who went before him and the voice of God resounding from the heavens, he is doing something quite extraordinary. He is voluntarily entering our darkness, our brokenness, accompanying us and assuaging our fears by reminding us that we are not alone. Jesus could have stayed up on that mountain peak forever, prolonging the magic, enjoying the glory. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not what he came to do. By deliberately walking down the mountain and choosing to enter the darkness of the wilderness, Jesus is expressing a fundamental truth about our relationship with God. He is showing us, not by his words, but by his actions, that there is no darkness within our world or our hearts that God will not willingly enter and that God is not capable of redeeming.

We still don’t have to like the descent from the mountain peak. Like the disciples, we can try to stretch out that mountain top moment as long as possible, offering to build tents that will keep Jesus in a place that is safe and comfortable for us. But a Jesus who only relates to us on life’s mountain tops, when we’re at our best, ultimately isn’t much use to us. Those aren’t the moments when we need salvation and healing. We need a God who sees us, loves us, and heals us when we’re at our worst. If we want to experience the true power of grace, the full potential of redemption, then we have to follow Jesus down the mountainside, into the wilderness, and all the way to the Cross.

That is the journey we will be taking together over the next six weeks. Starting on Wednesday, we will leave behind the splendor of Epiphany, with its bright joy and plentiful Alleluias for the murky austerity of Lent. We will trade dazzling white light for crumbly grey ashes. And we will do all of this in the knowledge that Jesus has gone before us and continues to walk alongside us. The good news that we celebrate and proclaim is that we never experience darkness alone. May the transfiguring brightness of today give us strength for the journey ahead and courage to enter the wilderness with trust and boldness. Amen.