One More Mountain
A homily preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at St. Matthew’s UMC on March 6, 2011, Transfiguration Sunday.
Text: Matthew 17:1-9
I recently had a conversation with a woman who, as we talked about all she was facing—the emotional, spiritual, and logistical challenges in her life—she said simply: “It’s a mountain.” What I heard in that statement is that the way forward is steep, dangerous, and often feels insurmountable. We talked about how in the face of it, the temptation is often to do nothing, to just turn on the television and tune out. I’ve been thinking about mountains this week, the mountains that loom large and overshadow us, sometimes blocking the sun, sometimes tempting us to despair. I think of the man who’s been furloughed due to the congressional budget delays who is trying to support two grown children who are also out of work, the folks who are waiting for a cure that is in no way assured, the families who are at their wits end as they deal with children who are struggling, the couples whose relationships are strained almost to the breaking point with little idea of how to relieve the pressure. I think of sea levels rising and whole species being lost due to human choices and consumption, I think of the seemingly endless supply of oppressive dictators in countries around the world, the strife and hopelessness of people who struggle for their most basic human needs, wars that never end, a healthcare system that is deeply broken, cycles of greed, prejudice, and violence that poison our culture and cultures around the world.
Psalm 121 begins this way: I lift up my eyes to the hills— from where will my help come? Once, as I was praying this Psalm, I had the overwhelming realization that for me at that moment, the “hills” were not a place of hope, but of challenge. That same thought has weighed heavy on my heart this week. As we look to the hills, who will help us climb those mountains? How do we get to the other side of these looming, dangerous obstacles?
Jesus had a habit of climbing mountains. We have been on one mountain with Jesus for weeks and, today, we find ourselves on yet another. These past several weeks, we have been reflecting on Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. We have been challenged by the teachings of our Rabbi, our guru, the one whose wisdom and Way provide guidance for how we are to live and love in the world. As challenging as these teachings are, however, they may be easier for us to deal with than what we are given today. Today we don’t get any wise words, no direction for how to live or serve, no new interpretation of the Law. Those are the sorts of things that we know what to do with. But what do we do with what we receive from the Gospel today? “And [Jesus] was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.” (Mt. 17.2)
What we see in this moment on the top of this high mountain is the glory of the Lord, like a switch got flipped that lit up Jesus like the sun. The implication is that Peter, James and John were, in this moment, granted a vision of what was always true—that the very light of God “was pleased to dwell fully” in Jesus. (Col. 1.19) In John’s gospel account, we are told that “we have seen God’s glory, the glory as of the Father’s only Son, full of grace and truth.” (Jn. 1.14) St. Irenaeus once said that “The glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Could it be that Jesus of Nazareth was the one person who, from start to finish, was fully alive? What does it mean to be “fully alive?” If, as we claim, God is the source and sustainer of all life, then to be “fully alive” might mean to be “fully in God”—immersed in God, saturated with God, even one with God. Such a God-saturated life would be a life that is free of so many of the things that bind us most of the time.
A friend and colleague of mine once asked me, “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” This question shimmers with freedom—freedom from fear, freedom from thinking small, freedom from the ruts of life, freedom from cynicism. What occurs to me is that in Jesus we have been shown both who God is and who we, as humans, can be when we are “fully alive.” And what we see in Jesus is an extraordinary freedom to live as though love cannot fail. What we see is a freedom to have courage, a freedom to care, a freedom to give, a freedom to challenge the status quo, a freedom to keep on keeping on even in the face of certain danger, a freedom to trust God’s love absolutely. This is what we see in the person of Jesus who, upon seeing the fear of his friends, reaches out to touch them and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” (Mt. 17.7) He says this knowing full well that he is headed into Jerusalem to face his own death. And yet, his affirmation is that he trusts God, the source of love and life, so completely that he proclaims that he will be raised from the dead. He just knows that love and life—that God—will bring him through. That is believing that love cannot fail. That is being fully alive. That is freedom.
As we stand at the foot of the mountains we face looking for help, perhaps fearful and overwhelmed, the astonishing message that we are given is that God loves and cares for us so completely that the Christ of God has come into the world, in flesh like our own, not only to teach us how to live and to serve and to love, but also to set us free from all that we fear—failure, loss, pain, wasting our time, not having enough, not knowing what to do, death. Jesus the Christ passed through death and lives—not just one time long ago—but lives and moves within us, setting our hearts on fire with love and care, burning away the cynical, fearful, and small-minded ways of being that keep us from taking a step up whatever mountain is in our path. The Christian confession is that when we “raise our eyes toward the mountains” our “help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.” (Ps. 121.1-2) And that help is Christ, alive with us through the presence of God’s Holy Spirit of love. In other words, it’s not up to your strength alone—or the strength of our best efforts alone—to surmount the challenges of our lives. The season of Epiphany begins with the visit of the Magi who followed the light of the star of Bethlehem to the place where Jesus was. And the season ends with this extraordinary revelation of Emmanuel, God with us, shining forth in radiance from Jesus himself. God is with you. You are NOT alone.
Jesus did spend lots of time on mountains…he seemed to know that being willing to climb a mountain would bring some blessing. And as we turn with Jesus toward Jerusalem, we know, as he does, that there is at least one more mountain to climb: in our tradition that hill is known as Calvary. You see Jesus doesn’t turn on the television and tune out. He goes all the way, one step at a time, up the highest mountain, into the deepest darkness, so that the light of God might shine even more brightly—for us, in us, and through us. Forever.
At least one person who stood on that hill with Jesus that day was compelled to say, “Truly, this was the Son of God!” (Mt. 27.54) What difference would it make in your life to say the same?
