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Sermon – Matthew 17.1-9, LE, YA, February 23, 2020

26 Wednesday Feb 2020

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On this last day of Epiphany, as we prepare to enter into Lent this week, we are given the text of Jesus’ transfiguration.  The text in and of itself is mesmerizing:  Jesus and three disciples go up a mountain, which is a hint to all of us that something dramatic is about to happen; Jesus is transfigured, his face shining like the sun and his clothes turning dazzling white; Moses and Elijah appear, two giant figures in our tradition – so giant we heard about Moses’ mountaintop experience today too; a cloud comes down around them and God speaks; and when the experience is all over, Jesus gently touches the disciples and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  We could easily get lost in this spellbinding moment, longing to stay on the mountaintop this morning.

But as many scholars point out[i], this mountaintop story, situated at the end of the Epiphany season, is not told in isolation.  Because we tell this story when we do, we have to take a wider view today.  The end of this season is bookended by the end of the season we are about to enter:  Lent.  That season ends on a mountain, of sorts, too – the hill of Calvary, where we see a very different kind of scene.  In this Sunday of transition, we hold the two mountains in tension together.  As scholar N.T. Wright reminds us, on Transfiguration Sunday, “…on a mountain, is Jesus, revealed in glory; there, on a hill outside Jerusalem, is Jesus, revealed in shame.  Here his clothes are shining white; there, they have been stripped off, and soldiers have gambled for them.  Here he is flanked by Moses and Elijah, two of Israel’s greatest heroes, representing the law and the prophets; there, he is flanked by two brigands, representing the level to which Israel had sunk in rebellion against God.  Here, a bright cloud overshadows the scene; there, darkness comes upon the land.  Here Peter blurts out how wonderful it all is; there, he is hiding in shame after denying he even knows Jesus.  Here a voice from God himself declares that this is his wonderful son; there, a pagan soldier declares, in surprise, that this really was God’s son.”[ii]

Looking at the transfiguration of Jesus in that way as opposed to a momentous, isolated event feels like riding a rollercoaster – seeing the glorious and the disastrous all in once glance, feeling the high of sweet affirmation and comfort and the low of betrayal all in one breath, knowing the promise of victory and reality of failure all in one moment.  When you take the expanse of the mountaintop transfiguration, the journey through Lent, the culmination on the hill of Calvary, you can almost feel dizzy from the range of emotions.

In some ways, that sensation of being on a rollercoaster of emotions has not been dissimilar to the experience of emotions lately at Hickory Neck.  In the course of one week recently, we said goodbye to a beloved curate, labored intensively with our homeless neighbors, and then had the Presiding Bishop rock this very Nave.  In the course of these next months, we live into the reality of switching from a staff with two full-time priests, to one full-time priest, and will discover how that will shape and shift not only our experience with our staff, but our experience with caring for one another.  In the course of these next forty-plus days, we will go from the high of pancakes and talent shows, to ashes and repentance, back to alleluias, butterflies, and Easter eggs.  I can feel viscerally that rollercoaster of Transfiguration to Calvary right here in the life and ministry of Hickory Neck.

But that is why I am also deeply grateful for Matthew’s transfiguration text today.  We get two instructions today – one from God and one from Jesus.  God speaks first, with words we heard earlier at Jesus’ baptism.  “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.”  Those words are another declaration and reminder of Jesus’ identity.  But God adds something else today.  “Listen to him!” God says.  In those three words, God tells us what to do when caught in the whirlwind of life and transition:  listen to Jesus.  For a people who live in a culture marked by the spirit self-determination and can-do attitude, we are not necessarily the best at listening to Jesus.  Listening takes time and patience and discernment, and we just want to get on with the “doing.”  But today, God’s words are for us.  Listen to Jesus.

I used to be a part of a group who opened our gatherings with prayer.  One particular leader had a unique method of prayer.  He would introduce the prayer normally, saying, “Let us pray.”  But then he would say nothing.  For a long time.  So long was the silence, that the first time I experienced his prayer method, I kept discretely peeking through my eyelashes to make sure nothing was wrong.  I wondered if something had happened, or if he was struggling for words, or maybe even if he had fallen asleep.  But he remained sitting in a serene body posture, in silence as we waited.  When I finally conceded he must be doing this on purpose, I tried to relax and just sit in the silence.  Eventually his spoken prayer began and was lovely.  But I needed several more times praying with him before I could settle into the silence he created.  In that silence I began to stop talking in my head, and began to do what God commands today.  Listen to Jesus.  That is one of our invitations as we enter this Lent, and as we settle into this liminal time of transition at Hickory Neck.  We are to listen to Jesus.  Listening will not feel like doing.  Listening will sometimes be frustrating.  But in listening, we will be equipped to hear Jesus speaking to us and guiding us.

The other words spoken today are by Jesus.  Actually, Jesus does something powerful before he speaks.  He touches the disciples.  Jesus’ touch reminded me of a story from a priest friend of mine.  The priest was at his Diocesan Council a few years ago, an event at which he rarely speaks.  But an important issue arose, and he felt as though he could not avoid speaking.  He stood up, argued his case, and faced a heated confrontation.  In the end, the assembly agreed with him and his opinion won over.  As he sat back at his table, a friend quietly whispered in his ear, “You’re shaking.  I’m going to touch you for a little bit.”  As the friend laid his hand upon his shoulder, my friend could feel his blood pressure lowering and the tension releasing from his body.[iii]  In a world that has become extremely and wisely cautious about touch, we sometimes forget the power of touch.  We all have had powerful experiences with touch:  whether we received a similar hand on the should as reassurance that all would be well; whether we received a hug that was just slightly longer than normal, but much needed, after confessing some bad news; or whether someone just held our hand for a while, as a silent, encouraging gesture.  That is the kind of touch Jesus offers today.

But then, Jesus speaks.  Jesus says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  For those of us who are doers, these words are anchoring today.  God tells us to listen to Jesus, Jesus gives us a reassuring touch, and then Jesus tells us to get up and not be afraid.  In other words, Jesus is speaking to us, Jesus is reassuring us, and then Jesus is telling us to get up and get going.  I hear in Jesus’ words today more modern words for Hickory Neck, “You’ve got this!”  As we enter into the season of Lent, we commit to what we always do in this season – to returning and repenting, to listening and discerning, to seeking comfort and renewal, and then getting back in there.  In what can feel like a rollercoaster of emotions, today’s lesson offers us grounding, comfort, and encouragement.  In a season of journeying from one mountain to another, we have the promise of a comforting hand, soothing words, and inspiring action.  We are not off the rollercoaster yet, but we have each other, and the promise of those unknown to us who join us in this journey.  As we stand here on our hill in Toano, I am grateful for good companions on what promises to be an awesome ride.  Amen.

[i] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 1997), 194; also, Rolf Jacobson, Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#708 – Transfiguration Sunday,” February 15, 2020,  http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1232, as found on February 20, 2020.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 14.

[iii] Steve Pankey, “The Power of Touch,” as found at http://draughtingtheology.wordpress.com/2014/02/27/the-power-of-touch/ on February 27, 2014.

Sermon – Luke 9.28-36, TRS, YC, February 7, 2016

12 Friday Feb 2016

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Today is a pivotal day in the Church year.  In Advent, we start out the Church year anticipating and then celebrating God taking on human form in the Christ Child.  After Christmas we celebrate the season of Epiphany – a series of moments in which the true identity of Christ is revealed.  We hear first from the magi who devote their lives to finding Jesus.  At Jesus’ baptism we hear God claiming Jesus as God’s son.  In Cana, Jesus reveals his power at a wedding.  And then today, we close out the season of Epiphany with another revelation of the true identity of Christ – the transfiguration.

An epiphany is defined as a sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something; an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure; or a revealing scene or moment – in our case, of the divine.  That is what is happens to Peter, James, and John on the mountaintop:  a revealing of the essential nature of Jesus as the divine son of God.  When they see Jesus standing there with Moses and Elijah, talking about Jesus’ pending departure or exodus,[i] Peter, James and John can finally connect the dots about all Jesus has told them.  And in case the dazzling white light, and the appearance of the ancient prophet and lawgiver are not enough, out of the cloud they hear God’s voice saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen.”  On this last day of Epiphany, we get the epiphany of epiphanies!

Many of us have had our own epiphanies when it comes to God.  Whether we suddenly and clearly hear God’s voice, whether someone says something so profound that it shakes us to the core, or whether we see Christ in the face of a child, we have all had those revealing God moments.  My favorite epiphany story comes from the parish I served as a curate.  The associate had a rare Sunday where he was the only clergy person serving at the altar that day.  Everything had been going along smoothly in the service.  After he pronounced and shared the peace, he started to make his way back to the altar when something caught his eye.  He froze as he realized at the corner of the alter sat a bat.  Panicked, he turned around and looked down the long aisle.  There, he says, standing in the Narthex by the baptismal font, bathed in light from the morning sun stood our Sexton, Walt.  The priest, mesmerized by and grateful for Walt’s presence, briskly walked down the long aisle to Walt.  As parishioners looked on with curiosity, the priest quickly whispered to the sexton about the rodent sitting on the altar.  “Don’t worry,” said Walt.  “I got it.”  The priest walked shakily back down the aisle, giving the bat a wide berth on the other side of the altar.  Before he could even start fumbling at the credence table, Walt mysteriously appeared from the side door with a t-shirt, walked past the priest, swooped the bat up with the t-shirt, and then disappeared out the other side door.  Though Walt would never claim sacred status, the priest that day saw Christ in him not unlike the disciples on the mountaintop.

Most of us have more traditional epiphany moments in life:  baptisms, confirmations, ordinations, or weddings.  Today, we will honor two people who celebrated their wedding twenty-five years ago.  Weddings are not unlike those mountaintop experiences.  The soon-to-be-married couple sees each other bathed in light – if not literally, then certainly figuratively.  That day seems to be a day when the couple sees only the goodness in the other person:  their beauty, their care, their compassion, and their love.  There is a certain clarity that comes on a wedding day:  this is the person who makes the other better.  Together they are better servants of God than apart.  Time almost stands still, noises drop into the background, and suddenly, the couple is offered a moment deep assurance that this is a good and holy decision.  I had fun talking with Bob and Janet about that day for them so many years ago.

I think God knows that we need those sacred moments because God knows what happens next:  we come down the mountain.[ii]  I always like to remind couples about their wedding, especially those married for a long time, because their mountaintop experience may feel far away.  When we come down the mountain, we see the realities of life.  No matter how dreamy someone seems basked in light, all of their imperfections are obvious outside of the light.  In Luke’s gospel, the next verses tell the story of a young man who needs healing.  The disciples fail to heal him and the father of the young man begs Jesus for help.  Jesus is frustrated with his easily distracted disciples and scolds them.  The disciples are definitely not on the mountain anymore.  Jesus is no longer gloriously bathed in light – now he is just a scolding teacher.

We know that feeling too.  For as many mountaintop experiences we have had – whether at a wedding or at a retreat or even in a holy moment of prayer – we also have those experiences in the fields of everyday life.  We may even wonder where that glorious God is in those moments.   In fact, when we stay in the valleys and trenches too long, we sometimes wonder whether we imagined the mountaintop.  How could we have seen things so clearly and radiantly when in everyday life we feel nothing but God’s distance?  We may begin to doubt, to experience anger, or to simply feel like God is absent.

Luckily today’s text gives us some hope in our valley and trench moments.  First, epiphany moments are so strong that they keep revealing themselves to us.  On occasions like an anniversary, we can go back to that mountaintop moment and ask, “Why did I choose this person?”  We do not need long to be flooded with list of reasons.  Suddenly all the little annoyances fade, and what is left are the loving, tender moments, the caring, sacrificial actions, and the joyful, abiding experience.  I imagine that is why Luke tells this story today.  Only three of the disciples were privileged enough to be on that mountain.  But in Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension, I imagine they returned to this story again and again, recalling with affirmation how God had said that Jesus is God’s son.[iii]

Second, today’s text also gives us hope through the other part of God’s words.  God says, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  We are all going to have hard days.  But those hard days are even harder when we refuse to listen.  No matter where we are, no matter how low the valley, Jesus is there speaking to us.  We simply need to listen.  All the answers to our questions, all our cries for support, all our loneliness and aching is answered when we listen.  When we get caught up in the illusion of self-sufficiency and having everything figured out, we forget God’s words.  The epiphany today – Jesus’ transfiguration – reminds us that God is speaking.  We need only to listen.

This week Janet and Bob will bask in the glory of their anniversary and the renewal of their vows.  They may even experience some of the radiance of that initial wedding day.  But eventually, the anniversary bliss will fade as they come down the mountain.  In that journey back to reality, their hope will be in listening to Christ as God commands.  The same will be true for us.  This week we begin the journey of Lent.  As we step into that time of penitence and fasting, God’s words offer us hope, “Listen to him.”  If God is telling us to listen, we can be assured that Jesus is speaking.  Our journey off the mountaintop and into the valley in these next forty days will be blessed and full when we listen to our Redeemer speaking to us.  As grateful as I am for a retelling of that transcendent day on the mountain, I am even more grateful for the reminder that disciples, like us, came back down the mountain.  But even on that journey down, Jesus is still with them, speaking truth, love, and hope.  Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 114.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 456.

[iii] Fred B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 135.

Sermon – Luke 9.28-43, TRS, YC, February 10, 2013

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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In the course of my life, I have moved around a lot.  By the time I was in third grade, my family had lived in four different places.  By the time I was ready to head to college, we had lived in three more.  From college until now, I have lived in five more places.  Having lived in so many new life situations, I have picked up a few tips about integrating into a new community.  One of the most important things to remember is that you only have a few months’ permission to reference how your last community did something.  So sentences that begin with, “At my old school…” or “At my last parish…” have a short lifespan.  For the first few months, people will tolerate and maybe even enjoy these stories because they are a way of learning something about you – what you prefer, what gives you joy, and what you do not like.  But the window for sharing this way does not last long.  When you share in this way for too long, people begin to wonder if you are dwelling on the past, not letting go of your old life and actually joining them in this stage of life.  When they hear you say, “In my last home town…” they now roll their eyes, thoroughly expecting you to tell them how perfect your life used to be and just how lame your – and consequently their – life must be now.  Only after years and years of experience have I developed the keen sense of when the looks of interest and engagement have turned to eye-rolls of impatience.

Of course, this reality is true of every single church.  The longer someone belongs to a church, the more often they can be found saying, “Well, when Father So-and-so was here, we used to…”  Whether the experience was a beloved mission trip, a particularly meaningful spiritual event, or even the old softball team, those events become legend among a parish – and become a sort of measure or even icon of how good life can be in church.  Anything new that happens is measured against this old, significant experience.

This habit can create all sorts of challenges.  For those who lived through the experiences, they become something that we cling to as so good and holy that we cannot open ourselves to something new.  In fact, nothing will ever match up to the memory because we have built up the memory so large in our minds that we probably block out anything negative about the older experience.  This kind of habit is a challenge for newcomers too.  Since the newcomers to church can never relive the event with us, they are forever excluded when someone starts telling these stories.  Sure, they enjoy learning something about the parish through these stories, but eventually they come to see these stories as a reminder of how they are still new, never fully belonging to the group.  Finally, the glorification of these old experiences tends to prevent us from lifting up the incredible experiences that are happening right here and now – hindering us from seeing the sacred experiences in our midst.  And lest anyone think I am picking on the long-timers in church, know that no one is exempt from this tendency; I have even seen children and teenagers catch on to this practice.

This same very experience happens to Peter on the mountain today in Luke’s gospel.  Tired and weary from an exhausting schedule, Peter, John, and James go up the mountain with Jesus to pray – and maybe even get a bit of rest.  In this exhausted haze, they see the glorious transfiguration of Jesus and the appearance of Moses and Elijah.  Blown away, Peter does the first thing that comes to mind – suggests they stay there, building dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah.  Surely something this incredible should be held on to and preserved, remembered and treasured.  Peter’s idea is not inherently bad.  Mountaintop experiences are blessed gifts from God, meant to be savored and enjoyed for years to come.

But what Peter reminds us today is that holding on to mountaintop experiences with a desperate clinging does not actually feed us forever.  As one pastor reminds us, “if we build a booth to [those mountaintop experiences], erect a frame around them and enshrine them, we can end up worshiping those moments or memories or persons to the extent that they become a hindrance, a stumbling block or even idolatry – rather than unmerited gift from God and resource for service to others.”[i]

This is one of those lessons that keeps coming back to us.  A few years ago, I was brought into a parish’s mission program to reform and revitalize the mission trips they had been taking to the Dominican Republic.  I immediately recognized all sorts of missing components – preparation and formation before the trip; fundraising that brought others into the experience; and meaningful worship and reflection during the trip, just to name a few.  I pulled from the myriad resources I had gathered from years of doing mission trips, including what I thought was a pretty dynamic daily worship liturgy – one through which I had had a few mountaintop experiences.  So imagine my surprise when half-way through the week, one of the teens approached me and explained that the liturgy was not working.  He wanted something a little more fresh, and had some suggestions if I was open.  I winced, realizing how I had become Peter once again – building a booth around a liturgy, instead of noticing the new ways that the Spirit was moving on that trip.

We have choices about how we respond to the many mountaintop experiences of our lives.  “We can ruin them with ‘if onlys’ (if only I could stay here longer; if only things would never change; if only I could relive that experience).  We can reminisce about our experiences, caressing and massaging them as an excuse to disengage from the world.  Or we can allow them to prepare us for what God calls us to do next.”[ii]  We always have a choice.

The great thing about our gospel text is that the text gives us some clues about what Jesus wants the disciples to do with their mountaintop experience.  The lectionary gives us the choice of ending the gospel lesson at the end of the Transfiguration event, cutting out the next seven verses of Luke’s gospel.  But the story of the Transfiguration loses some of the story’s power if the story does not include the experience of coming down the mountain.[iii]  The text tells us two things.  First, the disciples keep silent about what they see.  They do not run around boasting about the story or lingering there too long.  Instead, they go back down the mountain and continue Jesus’ work of healing.  This is the second thing the text tells us.  Sometimes the best way to share our mountaintop experiences is not to rehash them, but to simply serve those who we encounter, our actions being the greatest way to multiply our mountaintop experience.

As we celebrate our fifty years of ministry in Plainview this year, our gospel lesson today challenges our patterns.  Those moments of baptizing individuals in this building when the walls were not yet finished, of finally obtaining parish status, of bowling leagues, of Cursillo groups, of conquering dark times, and yes, even of welcoming our first female rector – those moments are not moments where we invited to linger today.  Instead, as we look back at the last fifty years, we celebrate those moments not as “the good ol’ days,” but instead as the mountaintop experiences that keep pointing us back down the mountain.  Those experiences remind us of times of great intimacy and joy so that we can continue to name the presence of the sacred in our midst at this moment, and the ways that we are being transfigured everyday.  There will be moments, when like the disciples, we will need to keep silent about those times so that we can go down the mountain and let those moments manifest into the service of God in new and life-giving ways.  Our invitation today is to come down the mountain, celebrating the ways that our mountaintop experiences enable us to see God right here and now.  Amen.

[i] Phyllis Kersten, “Off the Mountain,” Christian Century, vol. 118, no. 5, February 7-14, 2001, 13.

[ii] Kersten, 13.

[iii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 456.