This sermon was preached on Sunday, February 15, 2015 for the Feast of the Transfiguration at Grace Episcopal Church in Medford, MA. The texts for this sermon were: Exodus 34:29-35, 2 Peter 1:13-21, and Luke 9:28-36.
I don’t know about you but I’ve gotten pretty tired of things getting transfigured by dazzling whiteness. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my darndest to stubbornly hang on to my childhood wonder and joy at the sight of each new snow-covered world storm after storm. But the enormous effort that takes has somehow robbed me of my ability to connect to Christ’s transfiguration with emotions of awe and astonishment. Then I came across some writing by an Episcopal theologian named Martin Smith that made me question if that was the only way to access this story.
Martin Smith wrote about his experiences as a spiritual director—a kind of life coach who helps people grapple with their spiritual practices and beliefs. Part of his job was to ask people the right questions, and this one particular one he learned to ask stuck out to me. “Who do you want Christ to be for you, just now?” Brother Martin writes that many people are so resistant to that question that they simply heard a different one whenever he posited it. He writes about the first time a man had a reaction Martin soon learned to come to expect—the man began praying in earnest about the question “Who does Christ want you to be for him?” instead and was completely shocked when Martin revealed it wasn’t the question he had asked at all. “Who do you want Christ to be for you, just now?”
Based on what we know of Peter from this Gospel passage, I think the eager disciple would have heard the question wrong, too. Mark tells us that Jesus takes Peter, James, and John hiking up an isolated mountain and when they reach the top, Jesus transforms before their eyes. He’s suddenly dressed in a dazzling, impossibly white robe and what’s more, casually conversing with the most famous and authoritative prophets of the Jewish faith. So what does Peter say? Let’s stay here, Jesus, in fact, let’s stay so long we’ll need to build dwellings for the three of you. And yet, Mark tells us that Peter and the others were terrified. That those words came from a place of not knowing what to say.
Could it be that Peter believed that it was good for Jesus to stay in that place? That he sensed his teacher deserved the best of clothing, the company of the holiest of men, and proclamations from God affirming his divinity. Maybe that’s why Peter wanted Jesus to stay. It certainly wasn’t because that place felt good—he was scared out of his mind---or because he understood what was going on. He didn’t suggest they built six dwellings, one for each of the men on the mountain. He was instead thinking about what he guessed Christ would want Peter to be in that moment, what Christ’s magnificence and glory might need in that moment.
The powerful part of Christ’s transfiguration on the mountain is not the astonishing spectacle of long-gone prophets or the miraculous beauty of an immaculate robe. The amazing part of Christ’s transfiguration is that the Son descended from that mountain, shrugged on his old stained and dusty robe, and walked through the dirty streets of the poor towns at its foothills. It’s that he bent down to touch the lepers crawling with disease and befriended the rejected prostitutes. And most of all, it’s that a little more than forty days from now, we’ll see Jesus don an entirely different sort of robe. He won’t be in the company of Moses and Elijah, he’ll be mocked and beaten by Roman soldiers. He’ll be left to hang bloodied, bruised, and broken on the cross. For us. Not for him. For us.
Today on the Feast of Transfiguration, we celebrate Christ’s ability to transfigure himself into who we need him to be. We recognize God’s willingness to enter into the cesspool of humanity despite his divine nature, because that’s precisely where we needed him to be.
The Feast of Transfiguration also stands on the threshold of Lent, our forty-day journey to prepare ourselves for the mystery of Easter. Over the years, I’ve used Lent as a convenient period to fix everything about myself I haven’t managed to get around correcting. I’ve mainly used it as an excuse to finally get a handle on those pesky bad habits that don’t fit into my idea of what God wants me to be. But here’s my challenge to myself and to you, for this Lent. What if this time we ask, “Who does Christ want to be for me, just now?” What if instead of giving up the parts of you you want to hide from God, you adopt a spiritual practice, one that works for you, that invites Christ into being what you need him to be, just now.
After all, Christ didn’t stay up on that mountain like Peter suggested. And he doesn’t stay in the perfectly ironed linens on the altar or the glorious colors of the stained glass windows. Maybe there’s a part of you that needs him right there in the intimate and messy parts of life, where his robe won’t stay gloriously white. What if we accept that Christ doesn’t need us to all dressed up and put together to meet him? What if we allow ourselves to want him to meet us where we are, just now?
So read scripture on your long slog of a commute home in the snow. Pray on hold with the cable company. Meditate on the toilet. Find the way that lets you be where you are and calls God to meet you there—and stick to it. Allow yourself to think, “Who does Christ want to be for me, just now?” Just for forty days.
Humble Christ and exalted Lord,
You come to us in so many forms, and you speak to us in so many languages. Grant us the courage to ask you to be who we need you to be, just now. Be with us and we journey through these next forty days. Prepare us for your transfigurations and the raging storm to come.
In your son’s name we pray,
Amen
I don’t know about you but I’ve gotten pretty tired of things getting transfigured by dazzling whiteness. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my darndest to stubbornly hang on to my childhood wonder and joy at the sight of each new snow-covered world storm after storm. But the enormous effort that takes has somehow robbed me of my ability to connect to Christ’s transfiguration with emotions of awe and astonishment. Then I came across some writing by an Episcopal theologian named Martin Smith that made me question if that was the only way to access this story.
Martin Smith wrote about his experiences as a spiritual director—a kind of life coach who helps people grapple with their spiritual practices and beliefs. Part of his job was to ask people the right questions, and this one particular one he learned to ask stuck out to me. “Who do you want Christ to be for you, just now?” Brother Martin writes that many people are so resistant to that question that they simply heard a different one whenever he posited it. He writes about the first time a man had a reaction Martin soon learned to come to expect—the man began praying in earnest about the question “Who does Christ want you to be for him?” instead and was completely shocked when Martin revealed it wasn’t the question he had asked at all. “Who do you want Christ to be for you, just now?”
Based on what we know of Peter from this Gospel passage, I think the eager disciple would have heard the question wrong, too. Mark tells us that Jesus takes Peter, James, and John hiking up an isolated mountain and when they reach the top, Jesus transforms before their eyes. He’s suddenly dressed in a dazzling, impossibly white robe and what’s more, casually conversing with the most famous and authoritative prophets of the Jewish faith. So what does Peter say? Let’s stay here, Jesus, in fact, let’s stay so long we’ll need to build dwellings for the three of you. And yet, Mark tells us that Peter and the others were terrified. That those words came from a place of not knowing what to say.
Could it be that Peter believed that it was good for Jesus to stay in that place? That he sensed his teacher deserved the best of clothing, the company of the holiest of men, and proclamations from God affirming his divinity. Maybe that’s why Peter wanted Jesus to stay. It certainly wasn’t because that place felt good—he was scared out of his mind---or because he understood what was going on. He didn’t suggest they built six dwellings, one for each of the men on the mountain. He was instead thinking about what he guessed Christ would want Peter to be in that moment, what Christ’s magnificence and glory might need in that moment.
The powerful part of Christ’s transfiguration on the mountain is not the astonishing spectacle of long-gone prophets or the miraculous beauty of an immaculate robe. The amazing part of Christ’s transfiguration is that the Son descended from that mountain, shrugged on his old stained and dusty robe, and walked through the dirty streets of the poor towns at its foothills. It’s that he bent down to touch the lepers crawling with disease and befriended the rejected prostitutes. And most of all, it’s that a little more than forty days from now, we’ll see Jesus don an entirely different sort of robe. He won’t be in the company of Moses and Elijah, he’ll be mocked and beaten by Roman soldiers. He’ll be left to hang bloodied, bruised, and broken on the cross. For us. Not for him. For us.
Today on the Feast of Transfiguration, we celebrate Christ’s ability to transfigure himself into who we need him to be. We recognize God’s willingness to enter into the cesspool of humanity despite his divine nature, because that’s precisely where we needed him to be.
The Feast of Transfiguration also stands on the threshold of Lent, our forty-day journey to prepare ourselves for the mystery of Easter. Over the years, I’ve used Lent as a convenient period to fix everything about myself I haven’t managed to get around correcting. I’ve mainly used it as an excuse to finally get a handle on those pesky bad habits that don’t fit into my idea of what God wants me to be. But here’s my challenge to myself and to you, for this Lent. What if this time we ask, “Who does Christ want to be for me, just now?” What if instead of giving up the parts of you you want to hide from God, you adopt a spiritual practice, one that works for you, that invites Christ into being what you need him to be, just now.
After all, Christ didn’t stay up on that mountain like Peter suggested. And he doesn’t stay in the perfectly ironed linens on the altar or the glorious colors of the stained glass windows. Maybe there’s a part of you that needs him right there in the intimate and messy parts of life, where his robe won’t stay gloriously white. What if we accept that Christ doesn’t need us to all dressed up and put together to meet him? What if we allow ourselves to want him to meet us where we are, just now?
So read scripture on your long slog of a commute home in the snow. Pray on hold with the cable company. Meditate on the toilet. Find the way that lets you be where you are and calls God to meet you there—and stick to it. Allow yourself to think, “Who does Christ want to be for me, just now?” Just for forty days.
Humble Christ and exalted Lord,
You come to us in so many forms, and you speak to us in so many languages. Grant us the courage to ask you to be who we need you to be, just now. Be with us and we journey through these next forty days. Prepare us for your transfigurations and the raging storm to come.
In your son’s name we pray,
Amen
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