O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
About two weeks ago, I got a frantic call from my brother at 8:30 in the morning. It took me a little by surprise because he is a freshman at the University of Kentucky and I remember my freshman year, so I wasn’t quite sure why he was awake and calling me before noon.
“Hello?” I said.
“Marshall!” He yelled! “Is today Ash Wednesday?”
“No,” I said, “You’ve got two more weeks. It’s later than normal this year.”
He was relieved. He was supposed to serve at the morning Ash Wednesday service at his church and he was afraid he’d missed it.
I’m sure many of you have also noticed how late Ash Wednesday is this year, as well. The Church’s liturgical calendar makes the season after Epiphany a little flexible. It can have as many as nine Sundays, but we almost never get to the ninth one. Last year, we got through six Sundays, seven the year before that, and only four in 2008.
But this year is different. We get all nine Sundays. And so here we are: the ninth and last Sunday after Epiphany—and the last Sunday before Lent.
All of today’s Scripture readings point to a place of transition and transformation in the lives of God’s people: the mountaintop.
Moses goes to the mountaintop to be with God and to receive the Ten Commandments.
Second Peter retells the Gospel account of Christ’s transfiguration on the mountaintop.
And Matthew tells us of Jesus, Peter, James, and John journeying to the mountaintop, where Jesus is transfigured before their very eyes.
On this last Sunday before Lent, we gather at the mountaintop for a transformational experience with Jesus, before we begin our Lenten journeys to Jerusalem, and at last, the cross.
By next Sunday, our church will appear quite different, making a transformation of its own.
We’ll trade in our bright and festive green vestments for deep purple, red, and sackcloth. We’ll exchange the brass candleholders and missal stand for plain white candles and a plain white pillow. The altar cross will be shrouded with a heavy cloth. Our children will make Alleluia banners that will be buried in the garden outside, a symbolic gesture that marks our move from the festive “Alleluia” to Lent’s “Lord Have Mercy.”
And on Wednesday, we will gather to mark our foreheads with ashes, hearing the fateful words, “Remember that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Lent weighs heavily on us. We hear and see things during Lent that are hard for us. With each passing week of our Lenten journey, we get closer and closer to Jerusalem, where on Palm Sunday, we greet our Lord with palm branches, singing “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” and then seal his fate, shouting “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
For many of us, the violence of the cross is too horrific, too difficult, and we’d much prefer to ignore it and go straight to Easter Sunday, replete with the beautiful music, the lovely baptisms, and the fragrant flowers.
But as much as we might like to try, there is nothing we can do to change the fate of our Lord. Resurrection cannot come without death. Redemption cannot come without suffering and loss.
And so, Lent beckons us to recall the suffering and loss of our Lord Jesus. Lent beckons us to travel again to Jerusalem. And yes, Lent beckons us to come face to face with the horrifying reality of the cross.
And so we begin our preparation for the journey today: with the somewhat familiar story of Jesus’ glorious transfiguration on the mountaintop. The gospel tells us that his face shone like the sun and his clothes became dazzling white.
But that’s not really the whole story. Although it may be easy to imagine that Jesus and Peter, James, and John went happily to the mountaintop, the reality is that their journey to the mountaintop was shrouded with fear, anxiety, and even a bit of anger.
Matthew chapter 16 reveals that before Jesus leads Peter, James, and John to the mountaintop, he foretells his own death on the cross. Peter, stricken with fear, says, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you!”
But Jesus’ death is imminent and there is nothing that the disciples can do to stop it.
And so, the reality of the transfiguration story is that Jesus is leading Peter, James, and John to the top of the mountain, as they come to grips with the fact that their beloved Lord will soon die an excruciating death and that their lives as his disciples will never be the same.
When they reached the top of the mountain, the Gospel tells us that Jesus was transfigured before them and Moses and Elijah appeared. As the disciples beheld their Lord, they realized they were in the very presence of God.
But even in this incredible moment of divine revelation, Peter could not forget what Jesus had told them before they came to the mountain. “Lord, it is good for us to be here,” Peter said, “If you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
I wonder if the reason Peter offered to make three dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah lay in the fact that he wanted desperately to stay there on the mountain, where it was safe, protecting Jesus from what was to come?
Just then, the disciples heard a voice from a cloud, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”
At this, the Gospel says, “They fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.”
But then, something happened. In the midst of their horror, their fear, and their sense of loss, Jesus reached out and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
About a year ago, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She has always been a fiercely independent woman. She went back to school in her fifties, raised six children, and had a hand in raising five more grandchildren, including my brother and me. But my favorite thing about her has always been her infectious sense of humor.
After we learned of the diagnosis, I went to visit her. As I sat in her living room, I was struggling to talk about her prognosis without weeping. I was afraid for her. I was afraid for me.
But in that moment of immense fear and anxiety, she reached over and grabbed my hand and said, “Marshall, don’t worry about me. As long as I keep my sense of humor, I’ll be fine.”
While facing her own mortality, she reached out to comfort me in my moment of fear and loss. She, the one who had been diagnosed with this terrible disease, reached out her hand to comfort me.
In that moment of deep anxiety and fear, I found myself in the same place that the disciples found themselves: confronted with the life-giving reality of a God, who, even in the face of death itself, will not let us stand alone.
The Reverend Maryetta Anschutz is a priest of the Church who refers to this as the “paradox of the transfiguration.” On the one hand, the disciples can do nothing to shield themselves and to shield Jesus from the sorrow and suffering of the coming days.
But on the other hand, there is also no way that the disciples can shield themselves from the blinding love of God that sheds the light of hope on their very darkest moments.
On any given day, we may come to a place where we are utterly broken. Whether it is the loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, or the anxiety of mounting financial burdens, every single one of us will find ourselves, at some point or another, in desperate need of hope.
The miracle of the transfiguration is that our God does not remain on the mountaintop. The light of Christ dwells within each of us and, while we may from time to time feel as though we can go no further, that we are broken beyond repair, the words of God ring down from the mountain, falling upon each and every one of us: “You are my children! My beloved, with whom I am well pleased!” God reminds us that there is nothing in this world that is beyond God’s redemption.
Transfiguration occurs for each one of us when we realize that the love of God is beyond our wildest understanding and that there is nothing we can do to escape it.
God will find us in our homes and in our workplaces. God will find us when our hearts have been broken, and God will find us in our moments of greatest joy.
God will find us in the moments that we try the hardest to run away.
And God will find us when we are in the deepest depths of despair.
And God will reach out God’s hand and say, “Get up and do not be afraid!”
Amen.
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