...Ash Wednesday 5pm, Mar 5, Distribution of Communion and Imposition of Ashes, The Rev. Deacon B.
Encountering the Holy
2 March 2025
Christ Episcopal Church
Last Epiphany, Year C
Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-43a
Who could not love Peter
in this Gospel story? He is so very human, even child-like, in his offer to
build dwellings on the mountain in order to hold on to a glorious moment.We have all been there.
We have all had a moment or two in our lives, moments so perfect and beautiful,
that we have yearned to stop time in its tracks.
We call them
“mountain-top moments” for good reason. They are typically moments bathed in
holy love and holy light, like the one described by Luke, and like Peter, we
want to stay in that moment forever.
Artists throughout the
ages have represented the transfiguration scene in a variety of ways, but my
favorites show the disciples tumbling down the mountain in disarray, sandals
flying off their feet. Moses would approve. They are all on holy ground.
Today is the last Sunday
after the Epiphany, and we end this holy season of “showing forth” the way we
began it…, with a theophany—a human encounter with God. We—and the world in the
persons of the Magi—saw the star, followed it to the infant Jesus, and knelt in
wonder before God Incarnate.
That was eight weeks ago.
Today we are with the disciples on the mountain top witnessing the glory of God
Incarnate once again.
Soon, the vision will
end—as all mountain-top experiences must. We must put our shoes back on, head
down the mountain, and with Jesus, turn our faces toward Jerusalem. I don’t think the disciples had
much of a clue about what was coming, but Jesus did. He has tried to tell them
and will try again, but… we see little evidence in their words or actions that
they understood.
Who can blame them? We
understand—to the extent that we do—only with the help of the biblical record
and two thousand years of hindsight.
“To the extent that we
do.” I put that phrase in that sentence very purposefully.
We regular church goers
are very familiar with the progression of the church year. We prepare for
Christmas with advent, we celebrate the holy birth with gusto, and we give at
least a nod to the showing forth on Epiphany. We mark the transition between
Epiphany and Lent by gorging on pancakes and King Cake, and then get down to
the serious business of ashes and fasting, perhaps a bit of extra alms giving,
maybe even giving up chocolate or beer—in the fond hope that we can honor Jesus
and lose a little weight at the same time!
So, yes, we get it. And
we have organized our church life around these events in the life and death and
resurrection of Jesus the Christ. But I’m directing our attention to something
deeper.
Jesus knew what was ahead
in Jerusalem. I
like to think that he gained strength and courage and resolve for the agony to
come from his glorification and moment of complete unity with God the Father
and God the Holy Spirit on the mountain top.
Matthew tells this story
as well and says that, on the way down, Jesus and his disciples have a brief
theological discussion about what has happened. Luke tells us that, whatever
they might have said to each other, they told no one else, which must have been
a bit of a strain. We’re usually rather anxious to talk about mountain-top
experiences.
But the very next day,
something quite important happens. We are used to hearing that people followed
Jesus and hung around waiting for him, so it’s not surprising that they
encounter the crowd they had left behind to go up the mountain to pray.
Immediately, a man steps
out of the crowd and presents himself to Jesus—and not just “a man,” but a
distraught and desperate father. Teacher, I beg you to look at my son, he
pleads. [A] spirit seizes him, and all at once he shrieks. It convulses him
until he foams at the mouth; it mauls him and will scarcely leave him.
Now Jesus, in my mind,
has every right to stay focused on the larger mission. He has bigger fish to
fry. He must go to Jerusalem
to fulfill all things, to become, through his passion, the salvation of the
world. Big, big orders, just confirmed again in his glorification on the mount.
But Jesus does what we
have come to expect Jesus to do. He responds to the human need and pain in
front of him. He pauses. He puts his own agenda aside. Go get your son, he says
to the father, and the father does and Jesus heals him.
How do we encounter God
in our own lives? What do we do with those encounters? Are they turning points
in our relationships? Not only with God, but with the hurting world of which we
are a part?
At this point in writing
this homily, I felt that I needed a story, a personal experience of
encountering God in my everyday life. And of course, I could think of some, but
they involved me alone out in the woods or a swamp or a beach somewhere. I have
lots of those kind of encounters with God!
But I particularly wanted
a story about God coming to me in the form of human suffering that I was able
to respond to and perhaps make a difference in someone’s life. I could think of
one from a number of years ago when I helped an asylum seeker with
transportation after he was released from Richwood Detention
Center. It was a powerful
experience and I got to witness a bit of a family reunion and it certainly
affected my view of people who have had to flee their home due to war and
violence. But that was at least 5 years ago.
I’m reminded of a
conversation among a group of women I was part of a couple of weeks ago. One of
them shared that she didn’t feel like she did much in the way of making the
world a better place. Her confession made me think then, and again while
writing this homily. What am I doing to relieve the pain and suffering of my
neighbors, the nearby ones and the more distant ones?
How am I living out the
way Jesus shows us—of coming from our encounter with God on the mountain top,
or in church, or in the woods or wherever… and finding and responding to God in
the pain and suffering of the world?
Here's what I know: We
are poised in this moment between Epiphany and Lent. Jesus walks among us in
the form of our fellow human beings, even the ones who don’t look like us or
think like us, and who might not even like us. Our encounters with God through
being a neighbor are waiting.
Here’s what I don’t know:
Are we open to them? Are we willing to find God, not only in a beautiful
sunset, not only inside this beautiful worship space, but even more
compellingly disguised in the very brokenness of our world? Are we willing to
be transformed by our encounter with the Holy in the most unlikely people?
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, AMEN.
