Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood
First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS
February 26, 2017- Transfiguration Sunday
As Sean said last week, early January may seem like a very long time ago. But if you can, try to reach back in your mind to the beginning of Epiphany season. Sue gave a brilliant sermon on the baptism of Jesus and she called it a liminal moment, a threshold moment. Before John baptized Jesus he was an unknown nobody from the backwoods town of Nazareth. After the heavens opened and voice from the sky pronounced Jesus beloved, his public ministry began and the rest was history.
During Epiphany season - that season of the church year where we bask in the dawning of new light - we’ve traveled through parts of Matthew’s gospel, focusing primarily on the difficult work of loving. Now we arrive at another threshold of sorts.
In today’s passage the inner circle of disciples - Peter, James, and John - have a mountaintop experience with Jesus. Now, you know when people in the Bible start climbing mountains, you’d best pay attention, right? And in case we missed that clue, the author notes that something very mysterious happened on that mountain. Namely: Jesus was transformed in front of their very eyes into a shining, glimmering figure. He face was shining like the sun itself and his clothes were a dazzling white (which, I’m guessing, was pretty rare in Biblical days. They didn’t have Oxy Clean back then, you know).
Biblical scholar Warren Carter notes that this passage can be easily divvied up into three sections. First, Jesus’s transfiguration. That magnificent moment in time where he was transformed in front of his friends and Moses and Elijah appeared next to him. Peter, so awed by the fortune of finding himself on a mountaintop with these three greats, offers to build tents, perhaps so they can extend the moment just a little longer.
Next, says Carter, there is the middle section - the portion of the story where a voice in a bright cloud booms from the sky. He refers to this as the part of the story where “God talks Peter down.”
Finally, in the third and final section, the disciples respond. Falling on their faces to worship, they cower in fear. Eventually, they pick themselves up and begin to descend the mountain.
You know, we get to hear some version of the Transfiguration story every single year on this Sunday before Lent. The star, which begins to shine over the little town of Bethlehem at Christmas grows brighter and brighter through the season of Epiphany. As the days grow longer, the light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot consume it. And on this Transfiguration Sunday, the light explodes like a supernova on a mountaintop.
And as we, like the disciples, begin to travel down the mountain into the depths of Lent, we find ourselves looking for light to guide our journey. Lent has traditionally been a season of penitence and reflection for Christians. The forty days before Easter have historically been a time of purification, confession, denial and asceticism. I know some of you likely get a bit twitchy about Lent because you may have grown up in traditions where you didn’t fully understand why you were being asked to give things up or heard lots of language about how awful you were.
I’d like to humbly invite you to give Lent a second chance.
Because the word Lent comes from the same root word as “lengthen.” As the days grow longer and the sun warms the earth, we are invited to center ourselves deeply in our faith. Lengthening our roots down into the warming soils, seeking the sustenance of spring showers, and stretching ourselves up up up to the sun. Growing, stretching, lengthening down down down into our holy foundations as we reach up up up to the heavens.
Lent is a time for growth. And growth happens in many ways. Not just through self-denial or rigid spiritual disciplines. Though, if those work for you, go for it. I have personally found the practice of giving things up for Lent to be sometimes mundane, sometimes meaningful, sometimes downright transformational. Seven years ago I gave up being pregnant for Lent! Our oldest son came earthside on Ash Wednesday. I can promise you the only thing I gave up for Lent that year was sleeping through the night.
I have also found that the practice of adding things in instead of taking them away can be another way of stretching and growing. There have been years when I’ve added in a new way of connecting with the Holy. And, of course, there have been years when my life has been so chaotic that Lent has slipped by virtually unnoticed.
This year at First Congregational, we’re going to be journeying through the season with a sermon series where we'll explore communal spiritual practices - intentional ways of connecting with God - that place us on firm, holy foundations so we can reach out into the world around us from a place of strength, truth, grace, and courage.
David Lose says that the liminal moment of the Transfiguration connects three separate seasons of the church year. There is the fading memory of Epiphany’s bright light. There is a foretaste of Lent as we follow the disciples down those mountain paths and begin to journey towards Jerusalem and the cross. And there is even a faint hint of Easter as we rise up off the ground with the disciples, remembering the power of Resurrection that we claim as our birthright as followers of the one who was undeterred by death.
Most of the sermons I’ve heard on Transfiguration focus on parts one the three of the story - the Transfiguration itself and the reaction of the disciples. It’s always fascinating to ponder how Peter wanted to stay in the moment just a bit longer, building those tents, and how the disciples fell on their knees before their friend, the Messiah.
But this week I found myself drawn to the middle section. The part where God speaks. As Peter excitedly tells Jesus of his plans to build little tents, a bright cloud appears overhead and he is interrupted by a booming voice from heaven. Now if you remember back to the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan, this is like a repeat. Bookends. The voice says the exact same thing that is did back when Jesus was baptized: “This is my Son, the Beloved. With him I am well-pleased.”
It’s important to note that this is a political statement. Warren Carter says that this statement, that Jesus is the “son of God” both “imitates and contests.” It imitates because the emperors of Rome, that occupying force, were often referred to as “son of God.” To say Jesus is the “son of God” is to put him in the same league as the Roman elites. It’s an imitation. It’s also confrontations. Because by claiming him as the son of God, his followers were intentionally usurping Roman authority. If Jesus is the son of God, perhaps the Emperor is not.
Last week in confirmation class, we talked about the claim that James Cone, father of Black Liberation Theology, makes about Jesus. Cone says that Jesus is “a liberating event.” And that whenever and wherever people are being freed, the power of Christ is at work. For an oppressed people being asked to give total and complete allegiance to an oppressive, occupying regime from Rome, Jesus came to liberate. And for all who continue to live under the oppression of Empire, Jesus still offers liberation. Jesus is a liberating event. The claim that he is “God’s son” confronts the powers of Empire with this simple and bold truth.
The voice that booms from the bright cloud claims Jesus as beloved, just as it did back at the Jordan. But this time, the voice adds one more thing: “Listen to him.”
“Listen to him,” the voice says. The disciples fall on the ground. We are told they are terrified.
Jesus comes up to them, touches them, and says just a few simple words. Listen, now. Remember, we are supposed to listen. What does he say?
“Rise up. Don’t be afraid.”
David Lose says that these simple instructions: “Listen to him,” “Rise up,” “Don’t be afraid,” carry within them a world of meaning all these thousands of years later.
For there is much to fear. And we live in a world where our fears are constantly being stoked and manipulated. Sometimes the very act of getting up each morning, opening up the newspaper, doing one simple thing like calling our elected officials or checking in on a friend who is hurting right now seems almost impossible. I’ve heard many friends say in the past few months that they feel like they’ve suddenly acquired a new job moonlighting (with no pay, of course) as activists. They feel like they’ve been thrown off the deep end, trying to figure out how to hold steady in the storm and use their limited time, energy, and resources to help protect those who are being threatened.
When you hear reports from schools that there are children who are fearful that their parents will no longer be waiting for them at the bus stop because they are worried they’ll be deported...when you wake up to the news that Jewish people in St. Louis have had the graves of 200 of their ancestors desecrated....when you pray at night that the transgender youth you know will remember they are beloved, even as some in the highest halls of government debate their basic human rights….when the news of detentions in airports is now a daily occurrence...when brown people are being targeted and murdered while just having a drink after work in Olathe, Kansas....well, there’s a lot to take in. It can seem overwhelming.
There are times when I feel like falling down on my face like the disciples did. Because the immensity of the moment we are living in right now is overwhelming. The stakes feel very high. It’s a mountaintop moment, but not the kind most of us ever wanted to live through. We are at a liminal place, a threshold. And when we pause from time to time to remember the immensity of it, sometimes it seems all we can do is fall down and wait for someone to come along and pick us up again.
Which is, of course, exactly what Jesus does for his disciples.
Seeing them collapse under the immensity of the moment, he comes to them, touches them - gently, I imagine, perhaps as a loving parent would help up a toddler who is throwing a fit on the floor - and says these simple words: “Rise up. Don’t be afraid.”
And after he speaks those words, the disciples look up. Rubbing their eyes, they see one thing and they see it clearly. Jesus. Jesus is all that’s left.
And so we journey carefully down the mountain with the disciples, towards Jerusalem, towards the cross, towards death and new life. We whisper among ourselves, “What are we supposed to be doing right now?” And “What is Jesus talking about? I’m trying to listen but it’s not making sense.”
We tend to our holy foundations, sharing with one another tips and tricks for staying grounded in the midst of chaos. Using the opportunity of this holy season of lengthening to sink our roots deep into the fertile soil and reach our spirits high to the heavens. We tend to one another, carrying the load for each other when we become tired. Picking each other up when the immensity of life seems overwhelming.
And all along the rocky path, we keep our eyes firmly fixed on our leader. Jesus. And we listen to him, remembering the feel of his warm, strong hand on our backs as he helps us up, “Rise up. Don’t be afraid.”
SOURCES:
Warren Carter - http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3172
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