The Climb Back Down

The summer of 2017, my family took a week-long road trip to New England. We tasted maple syrup in Vermont, saw lighthouses in Maine, stood near the Boston Tea Party harbor, and filled our camera rolls with pictures:) It was one of the best trips I can remember, but the most memorable part of the trip was our hike up Mount Washington in New Hampshire.

My dad found the trail online, and while my siblings and I—ages 7, 9, 11, and 13—grumbled and groaned, he assured us, “The website says it’s family-friendly.” So... we prepared like any other family would: We brought no food, no water, and no sunscreen.

But the hike was beautiful—green mountains, gorgeous water, scattered flowers, and tall trees… Or, tall at first. Around hour two, we began to realize that our brief stroll might not be brief after all. The rocks were getting steep, and after each hill, it seemed like three more appeared. Despite my mom’s constant, “We’re almost there!” the end seemed nowhere in sight.

...

Six hours and forty-two minutes after our departure, my weary family stumbled to the top of the mountain… And I promise you, as a kid, that visitor’s center glowed:) My

siblings and I raced toward the concession stand, and immediately, I grabbed a Twix—its gold wrapper glimmering; its chocolate and caramel combo calling out to me. 

To this day, it is the best candy bar I have ever tasted, and as we rode down that mountain, I knew: With this, I could go on. With this, my life was changed:)

Transfiguration Sunday

As you read, we too are climbing a mountain, and while a shining Twix bar doesn’t rise to greet us, a shining Jesus does.

Yesterday, churches around the world honored Transfiguration Sunday: the last Sunday of Epiphany, the week before Lent, and, as we just read in Matthew, one of the greatest mountain stories of all time.

It’s been nearly ten years since my family braved Mount Washington, but I still think of this story every time I think about mountains. I’m sure we all have our go-to mountain stories. We go to the mountains for retreats, hikes, proposals. We talk about “mountain-top experiences” or our faith “moving mountains.” In English class, we draw plot diagrams resembling mountains, connecting rising action to the climax to falling action.

Mountains are a symbol of connection—connecting people, stories, and even the heavens and earth. And here, in this story we see connections. We see connections between Jesus and his disciples. We see connections between God and God’s people. And we see a connection between Jesus’s public ministry and the crucifixion. From this point forward, Jesus sets his sights on Jerusalem.

This is a transition story. A connection story. A climax story. And these mountains are our first clue: Hey, they tell us. This is Big. Pay attention.

So, hey. This is big. Pay attention.

Matthew 17:1-9

Our story begins with Jesus taking three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John, up a high mountain. Now, maybe it’s my Mount Washington flashbacks or the noticeable inclusion of the word “high,” but I can’t help but laugh.

Jesus spending time in the wilderness or inviting his disciples to do the same is nothing new. He’s taken them all over God’s creation. Near lakes and trees, valleys and gardens. Up hills, down hills, near hills. In storms, on the ocean. And now this: a high, high mountain...

In the valley, tensions are building. The Roman government is not happy, and Jesus’s

name is first on the radar. In the Jewish world, too, the Pharisees and Sadducees are getting a bit tired of this preacher-guy. But besides all that, there’s the real-life stuff: people are sick. Women are exploited. Children are orphaned. Wanderers have no place to go. 

I wonder, then, why climb now? And why Peter, James, and John? Did Jesus extend his invitations to the other disciples, and were they up for the long hike? Or were they too busy caring for the sick or feeling bogged down by everything around them: fear, anticipation, anxiety, death. Maybe now’s not the time to climb, Jesus. Save your weird adventure for another day.

Whatever the reason, though, the fact remains: This hiking parade is a group of four… And this group of four is about to witness a miracle...

After a long, difficult, and sweaty hike, the disciples reach the top. I can imagine their relief. We’ve made it. The valley was dark. The climb was difficult, but now we’re here.

Instead of just enjoying the view, though, God has different plans. As the disciples settle down, Jesus transfigures. He transforms. His face shines like the sun. His clothes dazzle. 

It’s the ultimate mountaintop experience: God in the flesh, radiating light. And soon, God appears too. But it’s not just God! Elijah and Moses join in this holy reunion, reminding us that this mountaintop is not just limited to the New Testament. God’s story is a long one, and everyone is included.

And for our dear, sweet friend Peter, it’s all too much. Still trying to figure out how to domesticate the divine, Peter interrupts this miracle to make his own suggestion. “Let’s build three dwellings.” 

Peter’s instinct is so painfully human. Let’s contain this. Let’s freeze this moment in time. In making a dwelling, Peter hopes to mark this place—to leave this experience on the mountaintop so that, one day, he can return and remember.

We like our dwellings, right? Our monuments. Our statues. Our names carved in trees. But to God, that’s not the point. Jesus does not transfigure to mark the mountaintop as holy ground. He transfigures so that every place the disciples go afterward will be holy. With his transfiguration, the disciples have hope. They have light. They see Jesus in all his glory, and this light is not meant to be confined to a dwelling. It will go with them, down the mountain, into their lives below.

In her book An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor speaks to houses and dwellings like Peter’s, “As important as it is to mark the place where we meet God, I worry about what happens when we build a house for God”—or, I’ll add, a dwelling. “Do we build God a house so that we can choose when to go see God? Do we build God a house in lieu of having God stay at ours. Plus, what happens to the rest of the world when we build [a house] and designate that the House of God? What happens to the riverbanks, the mountaintops, the deserts, and the trees?” What happens to the valley?

So God interrupts Peter. Put down your rock and “Listen to Jesus.” Listen to Jesus.

Expectations

Sometimes, I think we forget that besides loving us, God also expects something from us. God expects us to listen to Jesus—to encounter the world differently. To see the image of God in each other. To open our eyes to injustice and not be numbed by it.

And then… God expects us to climb back down...

The light of Christ is comfortable. It’s warm. It’s where I want to be:) And, Advent People, I’ll admit to you all: I’ve never been so tempted to stay in the light and on a mountaintop than I am right now. 

Our world and our country break my heart in new ways each day. It’s not normal to see this amount of violence on the news and then just move on with our day. It's not normal for some of my friends to feel afraid to be themselves. It’s not normal for one of my students to struggle with anxiety because his father was deported. It’s not normal for another one to see his assigned seat and complain, “I got the shooter seat.” …It’s the closest to the door. 

Sometimes, the valley does not feel normal… I crave the light. I crave a retreat to make it go away, a Jesus-high to help my heart feel lighter, a dwelling to remember the moments that do exude light. But while the mountaintop feels good, and it is certainly necessary to remember and experience, the mountains are not where most of life happens. The valley is. 

Whether we like it or not, transfiguration is not an escape from the world—an escape from the valley; it’s the preparation to re-enter it. We are called to re-enter it.

But we don’t re-enter alone. Because, like the disciples, the light cannot stay on the

mountain either. The same glory that shimmered in Christ flickers in every act of mercy, every risk taken for justice, and every brave word spoken in love... This light, this miracle, is present in us—in hospital rooms, in protest lines, in classrooms, in tears, around kitchen tables. We cannot build shrines and stay, but we can carry the light down until the whole world shines.

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Some days, I am still heartbroken. I know many of you are too. But I’m learning that the darkness is not dark to God, and we can carry the light down. 

So, Advent People, like the disciples, now we descend. And I’ll go ahead and warn you: the climb down might not be family-friendly. It might take everything out of us. But when we reach the bottom, even there, there will be a shining Jesus. There will be a loving God who calls us to listen. And, somehow, even in the valley—even in the darkest of places and the worst of our imaginations—we will carry the memory of light together… With this, we can go on. With this, our lives are changed. Amen.

This blog is adapted from a sermon I wrote for Transfiguration Sunday at First Baptist Church of Christ at Macon. I am grateful for FBCX's support, kindness, and affirmation of young women in ministry.