Transform Us

Matthew 17:1-9
February 3, 2008

I can't believe it. It was right there, in front of my eyes, all this time, and I never saw it. As many times as I have read this text, thought about it, preached it even, I never saw this until now. The story we read this morning begins "And after six days…." I participated in a women’s retreat two weeks ago during which I was invited to read a scripture of my choice to open the Taize service led by my friend Barbara Hamm. Picture it. We are in a (to me) huge Catholic sanctuary, following the mysterious pattern of an ancient basilica church with high stone walls and stained glass, dimly lit choir stalls, a soaring ceiling full of mystery and shadows, picture the darkness sparked by a few flickering candles, and behind me a set of three banners glowing with the waters of creation. And I chose—how could I not—Genesis I—and it begins—"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the spirit of God was moving over the waters. And God said—let there be light, and there was light. And God saw the light that God had made, and it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning, the first day." And the great rolling poetic words wash down over us, ending with the sixth day, the final day of creation, the glorious and light filled day when God created humankind, gave birth to God's offspring, created in God's image—God's beloved children of humanity. On the sixth day, and it was good, it was really good, it was all good.

I whipped back to Exodus, and there it was again—Moses, up the mountain, cloud that covered the mountain, and the light—the glory like devouring fire appearing after the sixth day. So here again, six days have passed and we stand with the completed creation, we are at the point of decision, here it is, here it all is, here is all life, all light, all law. And in this story God roars, and thunders, and tries to get the attention of a beleaguered and confused and mutinous humanity that just can't see the light any more. They see the light, the text tells us, from a distance. The light is not yet shining on their own faces. Fascinating that the following narrative, during which Moses (we never hear what Joshua felt or thought or saw), Moses during the next forty days receives from God, along with the law, detailed instructions for building the ark of the Covenant, and the lamp stands and the cups and goblets made of gold and copper, and the tabernacle to house all this, bronze and blue and purple and scarlet linen, oil and precious stones—Moses is instructed to build a sanctuary for God.

So here I am, this week, between that retreat and the transformation crossroads event in Woodland, trying to carve out a little time for this text, and suddenly there it is right in front of me: After six days-- a dazzling light--a voice celebrating the goodness, the perfection of creation--"This is my son, with whom I am well pleased." My friends, we are back again at the creation, we have climbed this mountain with Jesus to re-experience the creation—or is it, rather, to see the creation transformed in the person of Jesus, the transfigured one? Is it to see creation, once perfect, now perfect again—perfect in the transfigured person of Jesus who so completely embodies what it is to be a child of God, created in the Divine image, the beloved.

We tend to focus on the ones who accompany Jesus on this journey to the heart of creation. And well we should, for we see them as our entrance into the story, particularly in Mark and Luke’s versions of the story—for you will remember, as they tell it, James and John and Peter are all overcome with sleepiness, and nearly miss the whole thing!— We, after all, we are the ones, are we not, who reluctantly keep on climbing up the mountain, the mountain that seems to lead us nowhere, get us nothing, just there all the time, demanding that our tired feet set out and our tired hearts keep on pumping enough blood and energy to get us up there. Are we not the ones who, having climbed, are tired, are weary, and do we not nod our sleepy heads and long to rest? Matthew's text leaves out the sleepy part, and focuses on Peter, as usual, in there pitching but apparently missing the point. He sees Jesus, sees Moses and Elijah, and wants so desperately to say something, to do something—he tries to do it, he offers to do it—"I'll build a booth, yeah, yeah, that's it, one for each of you, let me, please let me—I have to do something to mark this glorious, amazing, unexplainable mountain-top experience, this vision, this sense of being in the actual, light-filled, speaking presence of the creator God! So I'll build you each a booth—you, Moses, who led us out of slavery and were our conduit with God and the law, you who forged us into a holy people, and you, Elijah, touched by God, messenger of God, who taught us how to remain God’s people in the face of trial and sorrow, who taught us the mystery and power and endless faithfulness of God—and you, Jesus, friend, mentor, somehow taking your place here with these to former messengers of God's love, bringers of God's light, I'll make each of you a place for you to stay in, I'll enshrine you."

Well, apparently God has other plans. This time God does not want a building for Moses, or for Elijah, or for Jesus, of even for God's own sanctuary. Out of the bright cloud, gossamer and dazzling, comes the voice of God—not the thundering voice of God from Zion or Horeb, not that voice, but a tender voice speaking not of law but of love—do not be afraid, this, this is my beloved child, this one is the pinnacle of creation, the sixth day is finally here, it is complete, it is perfect because I have created the one who will reveal me to the rest of my children as no one has ever been able to do before, not even Moses, not even Elijah. They stand here with Jesus, those bringer of the early light, light that seems to have been a progression from that first moment of creation when God summoned light, first of all light, then the light growing and filling the void and then illuminating all that God brought about, and that light of God going out into all the stories of the Old Testament, now dim, now bright, marching with Abraham and Sarah so they could see to walk away from all they held dear and embark on an unknown path, light leading Moses and the children of slavery out of Egypt and into the wilderness, light leading them to their identity as children of God, into the land of the promise, light leading Elijah and the other prophets who all were sons and daughters of God, feeding, leading, healing, bearing the light of God to all who would listen. And here, now, on this mountaintop, is the transfigured one, Jesus, the beloved, who is so filled with that perfect light of creation that to see him is to see God. And Jesus is, God seems to say, my sanctuary.

No wonder Peter felt he had to do something, say something. What can your response be when you are suddenly confronted with the infinite loving healing light of God's presence, shining onto your very own face? Shouldn't you—don't you want to say something, do something to share, to bless and to acknowledge the gift you have received? So it is easy for us to enter this story as Peter, or as the sleepy ones who nearly miss the whole thing.

But what about Jesus? What did this experience mean to him? We probably can't expect to ever know—until our turn comes to receive that pure, unfiltered divine light in the face and know that we, our very selves, see God. But I think Jesus completed what he began at his baptism—that process that transformed him into the living, breathing son of God, bearer of the light to all humankind. I think he became fully the son of God, and saw himself standing in the company of those light-bringers who had gone before. He knows he has to go down the mountain, and face the people that wait for him there, good and bad, loving and hating, singing and hurting, faithful and betraying. He may not linger in a booth. He may not be enshrined, We may not enshrine him, in a text, or in a picture, or in a little gold cross around our necks. We must let him go down that mountain, transformed into the Word, the creative light and breath of God, into whatever waits for him there, into pain, into loss, into understanding, into service. And we, my friends, along with James and John and Peter, finally know what it is we must do. We must go with Him.