Festival of the Transfiguration (A)—Exodus 24:12–18; 2 Peter 1:16–21; Matthew 17:1–9
Come up the mountain.
In Exodus today, God’s people have already left Egypt, following God’s directions to the mountain called Sinai. Wondrous things happen on mountains. People believed gods lived there. It makes sense; it climbs into the sky, reaching up to the clouds, into heaven, beautiful and breathtaking. The perfect place for God’s splendor, or at least God’s unreachable-ness. The Israelites at Sinai knew they stood in the presence of the Almighty.
And Moses into that presence. Only Moses. Nobody else is called; nobody else is willing. It’s too frightening. “Moses, you do it for us.” Joshua tags along for a bit—he will become leader after Moses dies—but Moses finally goes up alone. Up, into the cloud, into the thick darkness, into the blazing fire that appears when God settles on the mountaintop. The story says Moses went up three separate times.
It’s hard to imagine what that looks like. Moses goes up the mountain. We’re told what he said before he left, and then, since he’s on the mountain, he goes up the mountain. And then the cloud comes and covers the mountain, and after seven days, God calls out to Moses, who is on the mountain, and says, “Come up the mountain,” so he does, even though he’s already there.
The confusion in the story deliberately tells us to slow down. Pay attention. Something important is happening. More important than the wandering and whining in the desert so far. God himself arrives, shows all the power and authority and wonder, and time itself seems to stop, to overlap, because even it cannot contain the fullness of God’s presence. And Moses gets the smallest glimpse of the true Glory of God.
Come up the mountain.
Not long after Jesus finally says that he is the Messiah his disciples expect, he goes hiking in the mountains with Peter and James and John. Wondrous things happen on mountains, and this is no exception. Jesus is transformed into light, shining, too bright to look at, and stands talking to Moses and Elijah.
Of course Peter wants to set up camp. To gaze upon the fullness of the Glory of God, to see Jesus transfigured before them, must have been a sight that made time itself want to stop, and watch, and never look away. But a thick cloud, brighter still, came, and a voice said what everyone at Jesus’ baptism already heard: This is my Son, the Beloved. With him I am well pleased. These words bookend our season of Epiphany, and we had better slow down, and pay attention.
The disciples don’t just know who he is now. They see his Light. They hear the heavens shout his name. The feel the wetness and heat of the cloud around them, and feel Jesus’ hand on their shoulder, comforting them, “Do not be afraid.” All their senses are involved, and now it is not just their lips that confess Christ is Lord, but their whole body and mind and soul and being witness proclaim it. They have seen an overwhelming glimpse of the true Glory of God.
Come up the mountain.
Many years later, the second letter of Peter describes that moment. “This is not just my words,” he says. “I have seen it, an eyewitness to his honor and his glory, heard the voice, confirming this truth.” Jesus is who the prophets said he would be, and who the community of faith witnesses even today.
It’s odd, this letter in Peter’s name. Lutherans especially might think Jesus should be the point here. Peter saw him, truly, fully. But the letter talks very little about Jesus himself, and focuses mostly on calling us to climb up the mountain of holiness ourselves. Earlier in the chapter, this list tells us how to grow: When we have faith, we should add virtue, and then knowledge, self-control, steadfastness, godliness, affection, and finally love.
On Jesus’ authority, Peter wants his listeners to move toward a life of greater holiness, not just doing good or being obedient, but truly turning us into love. He is saying that loving God, loving each other, loving our world, loving ourselves— these are not easy things. They require real work, real growth. Love isn’t something we do; it’s something we become. It is a journey, and a long one.
And Peter should know. He stood on that mountaintop and saw the Light and heard the Voice and knew with his whole being. And then, not long afterward, Peter stood outside Jesus’ trial, and said he didn’t know him. Peter denied him three times. Peter who swore he knew better, broke faith with Jesus.
In Matthew, Peter’s story mostly ends there. But elsewhere, he takes on a new role. He races with excitement to the empty tomb. He eats fish with Jesus on the shore. He leads the early church, preaching and healing with authority and power. Peter has been changed, transformed, transfigured. When Christ, the true Glory of God, is resurrected, so is Peter, the witness, and the Light shines through him too.
My internship congregation had a major conflict, that split the church in half, people filled with anger and hurt. One afternoon I got a phone call from Bob, an older, stubborn kind of guy, chair of the property committee, on one side of the conflict. He was coming to speak with the pastor, his main opponent. She was a strong-willed person, and he was afraid to meet her alone, and asked if I could be there to support him.
Minutes later, Pastor Janet walked into my office. Bob was coming to speak to her, and he was a strong-willed person, and she was afraid to alone. Could I please come and support her?
It was nice that they wanted my support. I felt valued, and trusted, and terrified. What was I going to do? I had no idea how to handle this situation. How would they accuse each other? How would they fight? What terrible things would they say? And they both relied on me. I had a huge job, and no idea how to prepare.
That afternoon I listened as they said everything they needed to say, everything on their hearts. It all came out. They hurt they felt—that is pain Janet knew she’d caused Bob, the pain Bob knew he’d caused Janet. Apologies for what they said in anger. Acknowledging mistakes. Remembering their care for one another over the years. Valuing one another’s presence in the community Loving each other enough to break through conflict.
It was not what any of us expected. Certainly not me. I was so worried about what I would do, how I would transform the vitriol that was coming so that it didn’t tear them apart. Instead, they transformed me, my expectations, my worries, my concept of the possibilities that could happen in human life and Godly action. I thought I would have to change them. Of course, they changed me.
Peter wants his readers to be holy. But he knows this depends on Jesus and his holiness shared with us. The prophetic word in each of us comes not from us, but from the Holy Spirit, spoken by God.
Moses goes up into God’s presence where time and space collapse. Which means he comes back down later. When he does, he brings the Law, the way these whiny people are transfigured into God’s people. And his face, too, shines so bright that he wears a veil for the rest of his life. Some of Jesus’ brightness must have rubbed off.
Jesus is not changed in today’s Gospel story, not in any way. He has always shone like the sun. He has always been the Beloved Child with whom God is well pleased. But Peter and James and John— they are definitely changed by what they witness. And so are we, who have been baptized into that radiant light, who are now his witnesses, who shine him into the world. You are also God’s beloved child, with whom God is well pleased.
Come up the mountain, Jesus says. Come and see what I truly am, see a glimpse of the true Glory of God. Hold my body in your hands, see the blood poured out, taste and see that the Lord is good. And when you do, know it is for you, for your transformation, for your transfiguration. Amen.