Mark 9:2-9
February
14, 2021
Back in 2013, Phoebe, Zach and I
flew from Oklahoma to Iowa to help my parents move back to Minnesota. That does
not sound like a big deal on the surface, but we did not fly commercially. A
dear friend was a licensed pilot, and he flew us in his private plane. This was
not a private jet. His plane was bigger than a crop duster, but not by much. It
was a beautiful plane, but it was small. We had to pack very carefully and
lightly, so the plane would not be weighed down. Vic and I sat up front and the
kids sat in the back. In order to talk to one another you had to have headsets
on. To hear yourself think, you had to have headsets on. It was loud.
One of the things that I love about
flying is flying through clouds. That moment of going from seeing the world below
you to seeing nothing but white cotton all around you still seems almost
magical to me. It’s like the whole world changes right before your eyes. Well,
if that moment is magical in a commercial jet, try it in a small plane. The
clouds had never seemed closer and more intense than when we were in that small
plane in the sky. I took some pictures as were going, and the colors that would
reflect off the clouds were incredible.
In one of these cloud moments, we
heard talking. I wish I could say that it was a deep voice booming from the
heavens, because that would not only be the greatest illustration for
Transfiguration Sunday ever, I could also end my sermon right here.
We heard a voice from heaven! Wow!
Amen.
No, it was air traffic control from
some airport below us. And the voice we heard was not directed at us. But as my
friend explained, the chatter of air traffic control is a constant. And, I’m
sure, as a pilot, you are in constant communication with all the air traffic
controls you pass over. They need to know you’re there, and you need to know from
them the other planes that are in the air at the same time you are. I would
never have thought that listening to air traffic control would be fascinating,
but it was. I didn’t understand the technical lingo but hearing these voices in
the clouds was kind of comforting. Down there, on the ground somewhere, people
knew we were passing over. They knew we were there. We were not completely
alone up there in the clouds.
For me it was a comfort to hear the
voice in the clouds as we flew over, but I suspect that being overshadowed by a
great cloud on that mountain and hearing that voice, that eternal, divine,
holy, awesome and awful voice, speaking to them, declaring to them that Jesus
was indeed the Son, the Beloved, and they must listen to him, probably only
added to their terror.
To be honest, if I had been in their
situation, I would have been terrified too. Jesus takes these three disciples,
Peter, James and John, up a high mountain, and there he is transfigured before
them. I will forever quote Rev. Dr. Anna Carter Florence when it comes to this
passage. She said that we tend to think of these three disciples as being
special to Jesus, not his favorites necessarily, but very close to him. What,
she proposed, if Jesus took them up on that mountain not because they were
special to him, but because they were the remedial group? What if they needed
extra help in understanding, so Jesus took them with him so he could show
himself in a different light altogether?
And the more I study this passage,
read it, preach on it, the more I think Dr. Carter Florence has a point. This
story always begins with the words, “Six days later.” Six days later than what?
Six days earlier, Jesus and the disciples were going to the villages of
Caesarea Philippi, and on the way, he asked them what people were saying about
him.
They think you are John the Baptist,
some said. They think you are Elijah, others chimed in. But then Jesus asked
the question, “But who do you say that I am?”
And Peter responds without
hesitation, maybe speaking before he even knew what he was going to say,
“You are the Messiah.”
Peter spoke the great truth, whether
he fully understood that or not. Peter made a great confession of faith,
whether he fully got it or not. And the truth is, he didn’t get it. None of
them did. Because after Peter’s confession, Jesus tells them what it really
means to be Messiah. To be Messiah is to suffer. To be Messiah is to be
rejected and mocked and laughed at. To be Messiah is to die a terrible, painful
death. To be Messiah is to be killed and after three days rise again.
But Peter – and I’m sure the other
disciples with him – was not having it. He was not going to listen to that. He
was not going to hear it. Stop it, Jesus! Just stop it. Stop all this talk
about suffering and rejection and pain and death. You are scaring the others.
You are scaring me. Peter rebuked Jesus, and Jesus rebuked him in turn. And
remember the others that Jesus rebuked? They were demons. He rebuked the
unclean spirits. The meaning and the intensity of this word does not change in
this particular context.
So here we are: six days later. And
Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. And there on that
mountain, they get a glimpse of who is really is. Who do you say that I am?
Watch and you’ll see who I really am.
For years as a preacher, I tried to
articulate what the transfiguration must have been like. I have compared it to
the transformer toys. It looks like a truck, but it transforms into a robot.
I’ve talked about how our greatest laundry detergent and bleach could not get
our clothes as white and as dazzling as Jesus’ were. I’ve tried to find the
words to capture this moment on this mountain, but the truth is there are no words.
How
do you describe glory? How do you portray the holy?
You
don’t. You can’t. There are no words to describe what happened up there. Even
if we had been privileged to experience it along with those three disciples.
But I’ve tried so hard to find words and failed. That is why I empathize with
Peter when he impulsively suggests that they build three dwellings, so that
Jesus, Elijah, and Moses could all stay right there in that moment. Peter did
not know what to say because he, they were terrified, so he reduced this dazzling,
holy, terrifying moment down to something tangible; something they could
understand.
How
do you describe glory? How do you portray the holy?
Ultimately
you can’t. And the truth is, I think most of the time I forget that there might
be reason to try. Because many days, maybe even most days, walking this walk of
faith feels more like being in that cloud, that overshadowing cloud. Only there
is no voice giving me clear, unmistakable instructions. Listen to Jesus. Listen
to him. I know that those instructions are implied to us modern day disciples,
but how do we do it exactly? I think that I’m listening to Jesus, only to find
out I might be wrong. Someone else thinks they are listening to Jesus, and I
can’t imagine that they know the same Jesus I do.
The
disciples were given a tremendous gift. They saw Jesus in his fullness. They
saw him transfigured, changed not into someone different, but into his fullness
as both human and divine. They saw him talking with Moses and Elijah, not as
one who follows in the two great leaders’ footsteps, but as the One who has
taken his place at the head. They were given the gift of true sight, even if it
was for just a moment. And they were given the gift of God’s voice in the
cloud, even though all of this was terrifying and beyond description. They were
given such a tremendous gift up there on that mountain.
And
there are days, weeks, months, when I long to be given that same gift; when I
long to be assured and reassured that I clearly see Jesus, that I clearly and
definitively hear God’s voice. I long for this because so much of the time I
feel as though I am just living in the cloud. Feeling my way forward, unsure
and unknowing of what comes next, what lies ahead, waiting, longing, hoping for
even the briefest glimmer of Jesus the Christ in front of me. I just want to
see, clearly, in a different light.
But
the times when the cloud feels most overwhelming are also the times when I must
remember those glimmers that I have experienced, those glimpses of Jesus I have
been given. I have to remember that God has spoken to me, maybe not in a voice
booming from the heavens, but through others, through unexpected encounters,
through help and comfort being offered to me when I least expected it.
When
life gets hard and the cloud of unknowing and unseeing bears down, I cling to
my belief that faith is found in memory. I have had those moments of insight
and those glimpses of truth. So, I remember them. I remember them and I move
forward in hope – hope that gets frayed and bruised but hope that is also
dogged and determined.
And,
when life gets hard and the cloud of unknowing and unseeing bears down, I also
remember a quote I read from the late writer, E.L. Doctorow.
He
said that writing is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as
the headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
Substitute
the word writing for faith.
Faith
is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as the headlights, but
you can make the whole trip that way.
The
disciples will leave with Jesus and go back down the mountain. They will leave
this liminal place, this place where the mystery and matter met, and go back
into the valley. They will see their beloved Teacher rejected and they will see
him suffer. They will see him crucified. And they will run away in shame and
terror. They will have to walk through their own valley of the shadow of death,
and make their way forward in faith, step by step, inch by inch.
But
Jesus will not abandon them in that valley, nor will he abandon us. He is with
us even when we can’t see him, even when we don’t hear his voice. He’s there,
and we continue on this path of faith, able to see only so far ahead, but
trusting that we will make the whole trip that way.
Let
all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”
Amen.
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