"Mountains Beyond Mountains" – Luke 9:28-36

Luke 9:28-36

Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah"—not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!" When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

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As many of you know, Haiti is on the horizon for a group of mission trippers from Cross of Grace. We leave a week from today, for a week in the mountains of Fondwa. So, I have Haiti on the brain. This will be my sixth trip and I’m looking forward to it, just as much as ever. But I’m also excited and anxious this time around in a different way, because my son, Jackson, is going along with the group.

To be honest, I’m a little more excited about all of it than he is, but he’s warming up to the idea, I think, and he’s playing along like a champ. And, to be honest, his mother is starting to get more and more nervous as the date for our departure gets closer, but she’s still on board and hasn’t changed her mind yet. (She told me the other night that half of her heart was about to climb onto a plane and head for a third-world country, without her, and that she’s not at all convinced she’s ready for that.) 

And in a strange way, it made me think about this Transfiguration story again, because Peter’s reaction to what he experienced on that mountain was something like what Jackson, and Christa, and myself – to be honest – are considering as our trip to Haiti draws near. What I mean is, Peter doesn’t want to let Jesus go.

Jesus takes three of his disciples – Peter, John and James – up to the top of a mountain for a prayer vigil of some kind. And while he prayed, something magical happened… something mysterious…  something mystical: his face changed (it “shone like the sun” is what Matthew’s Gospel tells us) and his clothes became dazzling white (“such as no one on earth could bleach them,” according to Mark’s version of the same story).  Then the disciples realize they’re not alone on that mountain top – that they have guests.  And not just any guests, but Moses and Elijah, prophets of God they’ve heard so much about and read so much about and learned so much about, presumably over the years.

That’s why Peter wants to keep them around.  That’s why Peter’s first reaction is to savor the moment – to hold onto whatever miracle and magical and mystical experience they were sharing.  “Master,” he says to Jesus, “it is good for us to be here.  Let us build three dwellings – one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.”  “Let’s cherish this moment.”  “Let’s set up camp so the three of you can stay right where you are.”  “Let’s keep this mountain-top thing going – with all of its dazzling white miracle, majesty, and prophetic power.” 

Maybe Peter wanted the rest of the disciples to see what he’d seen. (Who would have believed it, after all, unless they could see it for themselves?) Maybe he had some questions of his own to ask Moses and Elijah about when their time with Jesus was done. Maybe, Peter just didn’t want a good thing to end because deep down, he knew he may never get those precious moments back. Whatever the reason, Peter wanted things to stay just as they were. 

And then comes a voice from the cloud that covers the mountain, “This is my son; my Chosen.  Listen to him.” 

What Peter wasn’t hearing; or seeing; or willing to accept just yet, perhaps, was that God had very deliberately set Jesus alongside these prophets from the past.  We’re told they were talking about “his departure,” which is a very nice way of saying they were talking about how Jesus was headed for the cross; how he was about to be betrayed; how Peter, himself, would deny he even knew Jesus; how he would be beaten and abused and crucified and left for dead. 

What Peter wasn’t hearing; or seeing; or willing to accept just yet, was that Jesus was the one the world had been waiting for – the Messiah he had proclaimed himself to be; that Jesus was the last in a line of prophets like Moses and Elijah and that his power and prophecy would be revealed in a way no one would believe until they had seen it for themselves.  What Peter wasn’t ready for, as we’ll hear again in the days of Lent that are coming, was the deadly destination of this discipleship journey they’d been traveling with Jesus. 

Who wouldn’t want to stay safe on the mountain top when what lies ahead in the valley is so dark and scary and painful and hard to swallow – or, at the very least, so uncertain?  Who can blame Peter for being scared of what Jesus was about to do – and ask him to be part of?  Who can blame Peter for wondering if there might be some way to avoid all of that struggle and suffering and sacrifice? 

I don’t think Jesus blamed Peter, any more than he blames us when we try the same – and we all really do try the same a lot of the time, don’t we?  It’s more tempting to be comfortable, than to embrace the call of discipleship to give more of our selves and our stuff away.  It’s more tempting to stay safe – to stick with what we know – than it is to try new things for the sake of God’s grace.  It’s easier – and more fun a lot of the time – to keep a good thing going, to avoid taking risks, to stay up on the mountain tops instead of stepping down into the valleys where God’s love is waiting to be shared. 

But today reminds me that Jesus is up on the mountaintops and he’s down in the valleys, too. And real transfiguration, true transformation, and meaningful change happens in both places. Through the life and death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, we are promised that God is already in whatever future awaits us, even if we’re unsure of just what it may take to get there.

Did you know that “Haiti,” as a name for the country, means something like “land of high mountains,” or “land of many mountains?” And there’s an old (Debbie Downer kind of) Haitian proverb that says simply, “Déyé món gen món,” which means, “beyond mountains there are mountains.” It’s kind of a downer because, if you walk everywhere, and if you live in the poorest nation in the western hemisphere, mountains are something other than just nice to look at. Mountains are also difficult to climb… and obstacles in the way… and hardships to be overcome. “Déyé món gen món.” “Beyond mountains there are mountains.”

And the people of Haiti, surrounded by mountain after mountain in every way, live with the kind of grace and faith and courage and generosity and strength I’d like to think I could find, if/when I need it.

And that’s why I love taking people to the mountains of Fondwa, in Haiti. It’s why I want my son to go. It’s why I’m proud of Christa for letting it happen. And it’s why I feel compelled to spend time there, myself. Because it’s an opportunity to step away from what’s comfortable; it’s a chance for some real perspective about what matters and what doesn’t in our lives; it’s a gift of grace to see God alive and well on the mountaintops and in the valleys of this world where we live. 

So that’s what I hear from the Transfiguration story this time around. God is always calling us to something bigger and better and more holy than we may even recognize if we always do what’s familiar and stay only where we’re most comfortable. And I’m not just talking about getting on a plane for someplace like Haiti. It might mean ending a relationship or beginning a new one. It might mean asking for forgiveness or saying you’re sorry. It might mean leaving a j.o.b. to respond to a calling or embracing a loss you never thought you could do without. It might mean saying goodbye, watching your children grow up and go away, whatever. There are mountains beyond the mountains of our lives for each and every one of us. 

So our call as beloved children of God, and as faithful followers of Jesus, is to hear the Good News of God’s invitations to us, to step down from the mountaintops of our experience every once in awhile – or to climb a mountain we never thought we could – and to trust that new life in Jesus Christ awaits us with every step.  And when we live with this kind of courage and faith and openness and humility, our eyes and our lives will be opened, and our world just might be changed… transformed… transfigured by grace in Jesus’ name.

Amen

"God With Us In the Flesh" – John 1:10-18

John 1:10-18

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to him and cried out, "This was he of whom I said, "He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.' ") From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father's heart, who has made him known.

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Maybe you've heard this story about a pastor who was called to serve a new congregation in a town and in a place far from where he’d ever lived or served before. And on his first Sunday on the job, he dressed up – or dressed down, I guess you’d say – to look and smell like a homeless person, and then set up camp outside the church’s front door. (Or maybe it was out in the parking lot by the dumpster, or inside the warm vestibule, between the double doors, depending on the version of the story you heard.) Maybe he had a sign asking for money. Maybe he jingled a paper cup, looking for handouts. I don’t remember.

The point was that on that particular Sunday morning, parishioner after parishioner got out of their car (I imagine them to have showed up in mini-vans and SUVs and Cadillacs, just like you and I) and one by one, family by family, they walked by or stepped over or rushed passed the homeless beggar who had taken up residence on their church’s property. Some avoided him altogether. Others stared at him sideways. None of them dropped a coin in his cup or offered him help or invited him inside for worship or coffee or to use the bathroom. You get the idea.

So, as worship began, imagine the congregation’s surprise when they watched that same homeless vagrant stroll down the aisle during the Prelude or pre-service music or whatever, climb up to the altar, take the microphone, and introduce himself as their new pastor. And, if I remember correctly, because of their lack of attention to the needs of the needy, I think the point of his message and introduction that day was something like, “Boy do we have some work to do, people!”

And it made me think of John’s gospel for today: “He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.”

That’s the bit of the Gospel – John’s version of the Christmas story – that got my attention this time around, and that made me think of this modern day church story/fable/myth/legend or whatever it is.

“He came to what was his own and his own people did not accept him.”

See, the Pastor in that story did, on a smaller scale, something like what God does, in Jesus, on a cosmic scale at Christmas. God showed up, in the flesh – humble and lowly and weak and needy – on the world’s doorstep; in the parking lot of the planet; out by the dumpster, in Bethlehem, if you will. And the message was the same – without all the guilt and shame that likely came upon everyone at church in that new pastor’s congregation that day. The message was – the message is – “Boy do we have some work to do, people.”

So why is it that we have such a hard time recognizing – or responding to – the God we see in the world around us? We may not step over or around Jesus in the church parking lot, but it happens in other ways all of the time. Sometimes it is the beggar on Washington Street. Sometimes it’s the colleague or the classmate or the neighbor or the in-law we don’t have time for, or patience with, or sympathy toward, for a whole host of really good reasons. Sometimes it’s the bigger-picture, too… the nameless, faceless, “hypothetical” refugee we only have to hear about on the news or imagine as a political issue, rather than act on as a person of faith.

The holy challenge of the Christmas story is the same as it’s always been, according to John’s Gospel. Jesus is in the world, he comes to what is his own and we miss it, we don’t accept it, we avoid, deny, dodge and dismiss him, because deep down, apparently, we can’t believe or conceive of a God who would look like that or behave like that or be like that – that humble or that lowly or that weak or that needy, or that different from ourselves.

Because showing up in the flesh is cute and cuddly and fun when it looks like a baby in the manger on Christmas day. But humble and lowly and weak and needy isn’t so cute or all that fun, when it comes in the form of a homeless guy in the church parking lot; or an addict on the corner; or a foreigner at the border; or the last person we would choose to spend time with, let alone spend our energy or our resources on, or risk our safety caring for.

But as hard as this is to admit – as embarrassing as this can be to acknowledge – there is hope. There is always hope, where there is Jesus, after all. Because John’s gospel goes on to remind us that, “for those who receive him, who believe in his name, he gives the power to become children of God.” “Children of God!”

Do you see what he does there? “He gives the power to become children of God.”

God becomes like us, in Jesus. And we are invited to become – and to see others – as God’s own children, too. We are all, then, born … of … God.

By showing up in the flesh, himself, Jesus confers worth and value and love and purpose upon every human being. Every. Human. Being. And God invites us, then, to see and to respond to that worth and to that value and to that love and to that purpose for the sake of every human being. Every. Human. Being.

It means the guy in the parking lot, by the dumpster matters. It means the woman working the street matters. It means black lives matter, Syrian lives matter, refugee and immigrant and our own veterans’ lives matter. And please hear me say this: white, middle-class, Christian lives matter, too, I get that. But what Christmas – and that new pastor’s stunt on his first day on the job – remind us, is that you and I aren’t the ones – as a rule – getting overlooked in the parking lot, or shot at the park for carrying toy guns, or driven from our homeland, or persecuted for our faith.

When Jesus – the Word – became flesh and lived among us, he did so so the world would see God in new ways and in different places and in extraordinary circumstances. The Word became flesh – the flesh of a poor, outcast, homeless, refugee, born to suspicious, disreputable parents – to show once and for all that God becomes weak in order that all might be made strong; to show that God becomes lowly so that all might be raised up; to show that what is perishable might become imperishable; what is sick might be healed; what is lost can be found again; what dies will be raised to new life, even.

And vice versa, too, to be fair. God, in Jesus, became flesh and lived among us to show that the powerful (God) could become vulnerable; the mighty (the creator o f the universe) could become humble; the rich could do with less; the winners could share their victory; the privileged could do with being a little less so…and so on.

So, if we’re to really embrace Christmas this time around – the gift of Jesus alive and well among us – we’re being called to stop stepping over him in the parking lot; to stop pretending he’s not on the corner or at the border; to look for him in people and places where we least expect to find him – so that we can welcome and care for and love him, well. And that may just be the easy part, if you ask me.

Because we’re also called to look for this Jesus in the mirror, too: to humble ourselves when we want to be proud; to be generous ourselves when we’re tempted to keep more than our share; to lower ourselves when we want to be powerful; to risk our own safety or comfort or privilege, so that someone else might experience their fair share; to become less, so that someone else might become more; so that the loser can win for a change; so that the lost can be found; so that the glory of God’s grace and truth will be made known – through each of us, for the sake of the world.

Amen