Transfiguration of the Lord/March 6, 2011/Exodus 24:12-18; 1 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9
Having preached through all three lectionary cycles many times now, the challenge is to find something new to declare. I tend to adhere to the discipline of the lectionary because it encourages me to be authentic, and sometimes even to preach on a text from which I might otherwise shy away. More than one mentor has cautioned against re-cycling sermons, for reasons that I embrace as genuine, not the least of which is the reality that spiritual and theological growth often expose the folly of re-working a message that might be several years old.
Nonetheless, I remember the first time I preached on Transfiguration Sunday and how pleased I was with my [unique?] interpretation of the texts. While it might be nice to stay up on that mountain and to forever enjoy the elation of that experience, I suggested, life is more commonly lived on the level plain and in the valleys. The emotional thrill of the mountaintop moment must inevitably give way to coping with life as it happens down here. Peter’s urging about building three structures–one each for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah–is born of a desire to savor a spiritually poignant moment beyond its time rather than merely to embrace the moment for its instructive value and let it go. Oxygen deprivation does strange things to the brain; the real work is down here, I declared.
To borrow a lyrical phrase from another writer, who grew up in my hometown, “I was born with the Ohio River at my feet and the mountains at my back.” Such was my birth and my formative years in Huntington, West Virginia. My eyes beheld the glory of the mountains (Appalachian foothills, actually) each time I walked out my front door. The aesthetic effect of the fall colors was especially striking, looking as though God had dumped cans of paint of various hues on the trees that graced the mountainsides. I spent my share of time on some of those mountains as a youngster, and many of my experiences involved breathtaking vistas. The memory of those adolescent ventures remains strong, and each autumn, the slightest whiff of wet leaves takes me back to those glory days in the land John Denver aptly described as “almost heaven.”
The view from the summit is often awe inspiring, and the very notion of having ascended a mountain peak is itself noteworthy, if for no other reason than the accomplishment of having done so. The Matthew text combines the mountaintop experience metaphor with a more overt narrative, i.e. the appearance of Moses and Elijah in a magnificent scene in which the transfigured Jesus is observed talking with them. The voice from heaven is reminiscent of the same voice that is heard on the occasion of Jesus’ baptism. The three disciples witness this, and predictably it is Peter who suggests the construction of the three booths. The wisdom of such a project presumes that their mountaintop stay would be extended. The pericope concludes with Jesus ordering the disciples not to share what they had witnessed.
So what do I say this Transfiguration Sunday? If all preaching is context-specific–and I believe that it is–I will remind my congregation that those moments of clarity, such as Peter and company experienced, are indeed blessed events. I will ask them to recall the glory of our recent sesquicentennial observance wherein we celebrated the work of the past and looked forward to what God has yet to do with us. I will tell them that the giddiness of mountaintop experiences is a matter of grace, not intended as a terminal event, but divinely useful for spurring us on. Having been called to be the body of Christ in our time, our task is to draw sustenance–perhaps even inspiration–from our time up where the air is thin. And having been so nourished, we make our necessary descent to the place where our ministry continues. Sounds familiar.
Did I get it right the first time? I would be interested in hearing your thoughts.
Raising Basileia 