Weighed Down -- Transfiguration Sunday

Luke 9:28-43

March 2, 2025

 

            Getting a glimpse of the top of the mountain, the peak of a mountain is not as easy as you think. Not always. We might see the summits of a mountain in movies, because they have airplanes and videographers who can capture the moment when the peak of a mountain can be seen clearly in glorious sunlight. But when you are looking to see that peak from the ground, it can be much harder. It was in Alaska. Many years ago, I took a train trip on Alaska Railway from Anchorage to Fairbanks and back again with a stop in Denali National Park. All the way up to Fairbanks, there was no clear glimpse of the top of Denali.

The stayover in Denali National Park did not provide me with a clear glimpse of the peak of the mountain. I remember when we stopped in the National Park, there was an older gentleman who had been on the train as well. He was talking to a person who was booking helicopter rides that promised to get you as close to the summit without actually climbing to it as possible. The person booking the flights asked the man what he hoped to get from his experience riding in a helicopter, and he replied, “I want to see the top of the mountain.” She smiled and laughed a little nervously, and said, “ Well, sir, there’s no guarantee of that.”

She was right. There was no guarantee. After staying in the park for a couple of days, I went on to Fairbanks, stayed there overnight, then headed back down to Anchorage. I had given up any hope of seeing the top of Denali and was thinking about other things. Suddenly one of the conductors on the train ran through the cars crying, “You have a clear view of Denali! You can see all of Denali!”

I’ve never seen so many passengers jump up at one time with cameras ready and start taking pictures. But there it was – this elusive mountain with its peak usually hidden in clouds. There it was, right in front of us, shining in the sun that had emerged from the clouds at just the right moment. And it was visible for a long time after. That beautiful mountain casts a long shadow across that landscape, and I watched it until finally the train took us out of view.

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit as a pastor trying to explain the transfiguration of Jesus on that other mountaintop so long ago. I’ve searched for analogies and groped for metaphors, trying to envision what this strange occurrence of transfiguration might have been like, what it might have looked like. But I still have nothing. There is no explaining it, there is no analogy or metaphor available to me in the English language – or any other language – that can effectively capture what happened on that mountaintop. All I can really say for sure is that the disciples got a glimpse of Jesus in the fullness of his glory, glory that must have seemed as otherworldly and elusive to them as seeing the top of Denali was to me.

Jesus takes only three disciples with him to the top of the mountain – Peter, James, and John. Jesus wants to go up the mountain to spend time in prayer. While he was praying, his appearance changed. His face changed. His clothes became dazzling white. Elijah and Moses suddenly appear with him in their glory, and they talk to Jesus about his departure which will be accomplished in Jerusalem. The disciples were weighed down with sleep. I’d probably be sleepy too if I had just hiked up a mountain. But they managed to stay awake and because they did, they witnessed this strange transfiguration of Jesus into his glory. 

We know how Peter tried to capture this moment. He wanted to make three dwellings, one for Jesus, one for Elijah, and one for Moses, but even before the words left his mouth, a thick cloud overshadowed and enveloped them. If they weren’t already bewildered and scared at what they were seeing, they were now completely terrified. I don’t know if they could see anything in that cloud, but they could hear. From the cloud comes the voice of God, a voice that proclaimed,

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

Just as quickly as the cloud had enclosed and shrouded them, it was gone. The voice was gone. Elijah and Moses were gone. Jesus was the Jesus they thought they knew once more, standing there alone. In other gospel accounts, as they make their way back down the mountain, Jesus tells them not to tell anyone about what they’ve seen and heard. In Luke, that warning seems to be unnecessary or just unrecorded. In Luke’s account the disciples keep silent all on their own.

The next day they head back down the mountain to the valley, and there they were greeted by a mess. A crowd of people rushed up to them, and from the crowd a man, a father, emerged and begged Jesus for help for his son. According to the father, a spirit seizes his son, convulsing him until he foams at the mouth, mauls him, and will not leave his poor boy in peace. The father told Jesus that he begged Jesus’ disciples – we suppose the other nine who did not go up on the mountain – to heal him but they could not do it. Jesus’ response to this father’s agonizing plea is not what we’d expect. He becomes impatient, even a little angry, and says,        

“You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”

Then in my mind I hear him almost growl at the father, “Bring your son here.”

Jesus rebukes the spirit, heals the boy, and gives him back to his father, whole and healthy once more. And our part of the story for today ends with, “And all were astounded at the greatness of God.”

But why does Jesus seem angry and impatient? With whom was he angry and impatient? Was he frustrated with the remaining disciples for not being able to heal the boy? Was he impatient with the crowds for closing in on him and demanding he care for them once more? Maybe Jesus had needed his transfiguration, not just to enlighten the disciples, but to reassure him. After all he and Elijah and Moses were not just chatting about the weather in their glory, but Jesus’ impending departure from this world. They were discussing Jerusalem. They were speaking of the cross. Jesus knew what lay ahead. He knew where he was going and why, but surely our fully human Messiah experienced moments when he was weighed down not only with sleep but with apprehension, anxiety, and fear. Maybe some part of him wanted to remain on that mountaintop as well. Maybe Jesus felt the shock of returning to the valley as keenly as the disciples must have.

Theologian Debie Thomas points out that we, all of us in the church, tend to think of these two stories as separate incidents. But while Jesus and the three disciples were on top of that mountain, the valley was not frozen in stasis. It’s quite possible that the other disciples spent a sleepless night trying to heal the man’s son and failing. It’s quite possible that the crowds of folks waited all night for Jesus to return. It’s highly possible that the father held his son as tightly as he could until another convulsion took hold of him, and then he could watch in horror as the seizure shook his child. The mountaintop and the valley don’t happen separately from one another. They happen at the same time. As Thomas wrote, one person could be sitting in a pew having a mountaintop experience, filled with the power of the Spirit, while another person just a few pews over could be living in the agony of the valley. In a few minutes we will gather for communion together. One person could come to this meal filled with the power of the Spirit, and another could come overwhelmed in pain and grief.

And let’s expand this from individual experiences to communal, to cultural, to national and international.

While some countries may believe they are experiencing a mountaintop moment, other countries, other children of God, are living in valleys that are shadowed by war and oppression and ongoing violence. And none of us know when we will be called or forced back into that valley, while others climb the mountain in our stead.

The two do not happen separate from one another – the mountaintop and the valley are simultaneous. There is not one without the other. But even so mountaintop experiences are far more fleeting than life in the valley. Jesus did not stay on that mountain. He came back down to the valley. He may have been weighed down with trepidation, with anxiety, with fear, just as we all are, but he never resisted what the valley asked of him. He didn’t stay on that mountaintop, nor can we.

The season of Epiphany ends today with the Transfiguration. This has been a season of revelation, of seeing the light of God, the glory of God, but now we are called back down to the valley. In Lent we are called to face the valley of the shadow of death, to walk as closely as we can where Jesus walked, to pick up our own crosses and follow him. We are called to walk in the valley, trusting that we are not alone, hopeful that the light will return on the other side.

We are called to be in the valley, even if we feel weighed down and afraid, because most of life happens in the valley. God’s children, all of God’s children, need us in the valley. Suffering is real in the valley and so is our call, our command to serve. The voice of God may be thundering in a cloud on the mountaintop, but we are called to be in the valley, with Jesus, walking, working, and waiting, and trust that even in the valley we will still be astounded by the glory of God. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.