Soberton, St Peter
Sung Eucharist
22nd February, 2004.
Readings: Exodus 34:29-35/2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2/Luke 9:28-36
I’m no great mountaineer, but even I feel some sense of excitement at the events which have just been read to us: Jesus takes his ‘inner cabinet’ of Peter, and the two brothers, James and John, for an away-day. We don’t know where it was, but it was probably one of the spurs of Mount Hermon, about 9,000 feet high, which will have taken them about six hours. On the few occasions when I’ve gone hill-climbing with other people, I’ve been aware of the way in which the small group walks in single file, spending most of the time in silence, except for the odd break here and there. Of course, the four people in question knew each other already, but we can be sure that this particular experience bonded them – even before the remarkable happenings when they reached the top.
What do we read about? It’s an event recounted in Matthew, Mark and Luke, and each has particular touches to bring. This year, it’s Luke’s turn; he takes care to say at the start that they went up there in order to pray (he’s keen on Jesus’ life of prayer, as at the cross, when he prays for forgiveness for those who are crucifying him, Lk 23:34); the cloud which descends on Jesus (mountain mists are not unusual) also envelopes the other three, including them in the experience; the conversation which Jesus has with Moses and Elijah, the main figures of the Jewish faith, refers to his death as an ‘exodus’, a ‘going out’ of this world; and, perhaps because Luke is writing from the perspective of the outsider, he says that Jesus’ appearance was changed, but he doesn’t use that word ‘transfigure’ which Matthew and Mark use, and which has provided the term ‘transfiguration’ to that mountain-top experience.
So what really did happen up there? Strange things are associated with mountains, as any mountaineer will tell you. There can be a sense of unreality – because the people concerned feel so detached from their normal lives; perhaps that’s one of the reasons why some people just have to climb mountains, and also sometimes cause a great deal of worry to their families and friends! Clouds do move around; they can suddenly close in, and there’s nothing that can be done – rather like driving into fog. Time and distance can seem to stand still. And there we could leave things. Perhaps a journalist might come along and try to stir things a bit, driving your patron saint, Peter himself, up the wall (or perhaps back up the mountain!) in order to ‘get at the truth’ in the public interest.
But we don’t read this mountain-top experience now every year on the Sunday before Lent just to make ourselves feel a bit giddy, safe in the knowledge that Jesus – like the rest of us – not only did a bit of fishing, and some caring gestures here and there, not leaving out the occasional argument about the two forbidden subjects, religion and politics, but also did some climbing as well. If we want to enter into the life of Jesus, then we have to be prepared to realize that things are seldom what they seem. Every important event in his life, however ordinary it may appear, and however easy it may be to give a ‘rational explanation’, can take us further and further, deeper and deeper, into the life of faith. We are reminded of this truth in this morning’s two other readings, with Moses’ face shining as he came down another mountain, Mount Sinai, with the two tablets of the Law; and when Paul, who (we can remember) first saw Jesus in a flashing light, on the way to Damascus (Ac 9:3 22:6, 26:13), points out to us that even Moses was not allowed to see God, whereas we can, and do, in the person of Jesus himself, the human face of God.
To look into someone’s face is one of the great privileges of being human. There will be special moments when we do so, and see, perhaps in a loved one, something new and fresh, the mark of joy, or even the sign of pain. On that mountain-top, the three members of Jesus’ ‘inner cabinet’ (they were the first to be called, and they alone were present at the raising from the dead of the synagogue leader Jairus’ daughter, Lk 5:1-11, 8:51) saw Jesus in a new and different way; they saw his glory.
Which leaves us with the question: what are we to make of all this, especially if, like me, mountaineering is not attractive, and perhaps being at close quarters with a few other people is something only raving individualists like submariners get up to? The answer is that we do not need to climb mountains to see Jesus’ glory, nor to have our discipleship strengthened in its fellowship with others. What we can do is start where we are, and not think that following Jesus is like climbing, not a mountain, but into a heavy, ancient suit of armour that not only doesn’t fit, but is intended to insulate us from attacks from the world, and other people. Following Jesus Christ begins here, around his table, where the cloud of his presence hovers, and we are enveloped in it; where time and distance stand still, in the holy quiet, as well as the words and (sometimes restless) actions that surround our daily lives. Transfiguration, after all, means a change of form; and just as the bread and wine change their form, their significance, their meaning, their function, their focus, into the Body and Blood of Christ, the food and drink of new and unending life in him, so our lives are changed – and we are enabled to walk away from this holy place, just as the disciples walked down the from the mountain-top with the Master, in order to face another round of discipleship, until next time.
+Kenneth Stevenson
