7th Sunday after Epiphany, Sermon by The Reverend Loree Reed

Luke 9: 28–36
Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.

Years ago, when we first moved to Georgia, my family and I landed in Stone Mountain, just a few miles away from one of the oddest geological formations I had ever seen.  The mountain itself is a giant bubble of granite, almost two miles long and a thousand feet high.  But in the flat terrain of Georgia, it stands out like a sore thumb – nothing like the countryside around it.  It᾵s as if an unneeded chunk of the Rockies had been tossed over the shoulder of the Creator and landed – improbably — in a green Georgia pasture.¹
Similarly, in the Gospel of Luke, the story of Jesus’ transfiguration on a high mountain stands out strangely from all the stories around it.  We’ve just left Jesus after he delivers his Sermon on the Plain.  And before that he was ministering in low–lying villages around the Sea of Galilee.  Where did he suddenly find this high mountain peak?  And why does he invite just a few disciples to climb this mountain with him as they retreat together to pray?  What’s going on here?
The answer to these questions has nothing to do with the physical geography of Israel.  There simply is no tall mountain peak in low–lying Galilee.  But spiritually speaking, you can see a whole lot more if you have just climbed a mountain peak than if you had stayed down on the plain.  And Jesus knows his disciples will soon need to see things from a higher spiritual perspective.  For they are on their way to Jerusalem – and some sad, dark events that await them there.  This trip to the mountain top will begin to give them God’s perspective on these events.  It will begin to show them Jesus in a whole new light.
When Jesus and his three disciples arrive at the top of the mountain, they all begin to pray, quietly.  But as they pray an unearthly light begins to shine out from Jesus’ face.  This light is not shining down on him from above.  It is coming out from him, and not just from his face.  His clothes begin to shine — so brightly white — the disciples have to cover their eyes.  But when they peek through their fingers – lo and behold – there are Moses and Elijah, speaking with Jesus.  Moses – whose face glowed with God’s glory – the Hebrew word for that is Shekinah — when he came down from Mount Sinai after speaking with God.  And Elijah, whose journey into heaven was so brightly illuminated by God’s glory that the whole chariot appeared to be on fire.²  As Moses and Elijah stand there together, the disciples overhear them speaking to Jesus about his coming departure.
Their reaction to all this is similar to the reaction Moses got when he came down from Mount Sinai — with his face shining after speaking with God.  His face looked like nothing people had ever seen, and they were frightened.  They didn’t want to come anywhere near him.  And Luke tells us that up there on the mountaintop the disciples’ reaction is similarly evasive.  They escape — as best they can — by falling asleep.
Only Peter, as usual, begins to speak before his mind is fully engaged.  “Master!  This is a wonderful moment!” he blurts out.  “Let me build three shelters, one for you, one for Elijah and one for Moses.”  Well, Jesus doesn’t dignify Peter’s impulsive offer with a reply.  Instead, a light–filled cloud suddenly engulfs them all.  And a Voice comes from that cloud:
“This is my Son, my Beloved, my Chosen,” the voice says.  “Listen to him.”
And then, as this message sinks in, the cloud dissipates like a mist.  The vision is over. . . and Jesus is standing there, quietly, looking at them.
So what did those disciples make of this experience, afterwards, when they’d had time to collect their thoughts?  What did they learn from their fresh perspective up there on that mountain top?  I imagine they began by saying to each other, “What was that about?  What just happened?”  And their not–knowing was the beginning of their wisdom.
But they would never forget that Voice, that Voice that came from the cloud that enveloped them, telling them that Jesus was God’s own Beloved.  For that hadn’t been the way people had regarded Jesus since the disciples had first encountered him.  It certainly wasn’t the way people in Galilee had looked at him.  Why, the people of Nazareth had tried to throw him over a cliff. . . and his own family had begun to say he was crazy.  And, for good and for sure, it wasn’t the attitude of the Temple officials who regularly came out to argue with him.  Jesus — beloved?  Well, there was a new idea!
And that wasn’t their only fresh revelation.  Though we never hear them put it into words, I think they begin to realize something when they see the Shekinah glory of God coming out from him.  That light wasn’t shining down on him from above.  It was coming out from his very being.  And in that moment — even though, as faithful Jews they hardly dared say such a thing — I think they began to realize that Jesus was God.⁴  Yes, he was human – and they had all seen him irritated . . . tired .  . . hungry.  But he is also divine.  You see, up there on that mountain top, in that heavenly light, it wasn’t just Jesus who was transfigured.  Up there on that mountain top their vision, their way of seeing things, had also changed.
That’s the way it is with mysteries, especially holy mysteries.  The more you try to fathom them, the more fathomless they are revealed to be.  So you don’t understand a holy mystery.  You don’t solve it.  You simply begin to live the mystery.⁵  And that’s what those disciples began to do.
In fact, I think they began to see themselves as part of that mystery they had just experienced.  Yes, they had just seen Jesus in a new way, shining in front of them, mysterious and wonderful – beyond their ability to understand or explain.⁶  But they themselves had been included in that mystery.  Hadn’t Jesus chosen them to accompany him up to that mountain peak?  Hadn’t they too been enveloped by that radiant cloud and had heard the Voice proclaiming, “This is my Chosen, my Beloved.  Listen to him”?  Of course, they had.  And I don’t think they simply heard that Voice.  I think they felt the love that Voice proclaimed as soon as the cloud enveloped them.  And somehow this whole experience changed them.  You see, it wasn’t just Jesus now, who was beloved by the Father.  They too were beloved.  They too were included in God’s all–encompassing love.  And they would never forget it.
But here’s the best part, the best secret of this story.  We rehearse this story every single year – as the climax, the pinnacle of our Epiphany season – as we get ready for the darker days of Lent.  And we do this for a reason.  For it’s not just the story of three disciples long ago in first century Galilee.  Often enough it is our story too.  For we too have had some mountaintop experiences.  We too have known something of God’s transfiguring love.  Some of our experiences are so precious, so mysterious, we hardly have words to describe them.  We hardly dare share them with each other.  But our stories, too, tell us who we are in God’s sight.  Our stories, too, tell us we are God’s own Beloved.
And now . . . it is our turn to go out and transfigure the world.
Amen.
 
¹ Thomas G. Long  “Reality Show” in Living by the Word, a column in Christianity Today, March 7, 2006.

² The Right Rev. Charles F. Duvall  “Seeing things in a Whole New Light” Day 1, February 18, 2007.

³ Will Willimon  “Blessed Befuddlement”, a chapter in Will Willimon’s Lectionary Sermon Resource; Year C. Part 1 (Abingdon Press, Nashville; 2018) p. 175.

⁴ The Right Rev. Charles F. Duvall  “Seeing things in a Whole New Light” Day 1, February 18, 2007.

⁵ Frederick Buechner  Beyond Words: “Daily Readings in the ABCs of Faith”  (HarperSanFrancisco: 2004), p. 267.

⁶ Willimon, p. 177
 
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