Monday, February 20th, 2012
The Rev. Dan Puchalla, Assistant Rector
1 Kings 19:8-12; Mark 9:2-9
One of the more transformative moments of my life occurred on a mountaintop. Or, rather, on the way up to a mountaintop.
It was a June day, the summer after my sophomore year of high school. I was hiking a part of the Appalachian Trail in northern Georgia with my fellow Junior ROTC cadets. It was the second day of our battalion’s week-long trek. The first day had been pretty easy, but on the second day, we were getting into some serious climbs. When we stopped for lunch, one of our instructors cautioned us to make sure our canteens were full and to take our time that afternoon because we were about to start a particularly steep and long climb.
I remember feeling my stomach clench at that warning – it was the same feeling of dread I got just before being tested on the 1-mile run. It was not so much the fear of doing something hard – it wasn’t fear of the shame of failing at these fitness tests. In my 11 years of schooling up to that point, after countless 1-mile run tests, I had never completed one of those tests without having to stop to walk. I was kind of a pudgy kid, I wasn’t good at sports, and I didn’t like sports – more than didn’t like, I just didn’t get sports.
And the more times I felt that … inadequacy … the more I would dread the next opportunity to feel that way again. So I avoided that kind of physical activity, which of course put me in worse shape, and on and on.
But on that June day, up this imposing mountain I climbed. Not only did I make it to the peak without needing to catch my breath, I made it without ever even feeling like I needed to stop – in fact, I felt like climbing another one right away, even as my compatriots were huffing and puffing when they caught up with me.
I don’t know what it was about that trip or maybe what it is about mountain climbing in general that imbued me with a hitherto unknown athleticism. But whatever it was, it certainly felt great finally to feel in my body a sense of accomplishment and power – to discover that there was at least one athletic activity that I could be good at.
That’s a nice story, isn’t it? And then … what? Well, it would probably be an even nicer story if I could say that mountaintop transformation changed the rest of my life, that I became a champion mountain climber (is there such a thing?) or at least that from that day forward I lived a life of excellent physical fitness. But I didn’t: from that day forward, I continued to struggle to find ways of staying just fit and active enough to stave off obesity, diabetes, and heart disease.
In other words, my mountaintop experience was deeply transformative … but it didn’t really make any difference in my life. Nothing really changed as a result of it.
I have to wonder if that was also the experience of Simon Peter and James and John as they came down from that mountain in today’s gospel. Here they were, seeing this earthly man – a man whom they had met on the shore as they earned their living as fishermen – here they were seeing him transfigured into this heavenly being. They didn’t only see, but they heard the very voice of God say, “This is my Beloved Son – Listen to him!” All of their hopes about this man, Peter’s own confession of him as the Messiah, which occurs just before this episode: On this mountaintop, they are given final proof that the Messiah has come, that he is the very Son of God, that they have not been abandoned by their God! God has finally set their people an anointed Savior! All the faith that the people of Israel have put into their God, and all the faith that Peter and James and John have put into this traveling preacher is vindicated in as convincing a way as it could possibly be! – and then, what …?
“Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone!” Jesus orders them.
What? Jesus, don’t you know how important this is? Don’t you realize the significance of what we just witnessed up there? “Don’t tell anyone”? How could we not – and why? Jesus, if we don’t tell anyone, then what difference did this make? Why did you take us up that mountain in the first place? Why did you come to us in the first place? If we can’t tell anyone who you really are, then what difference does any of this make?
That is the question for the season before us. The 40 days of Lent that begin this Wednesday are when each of us comes down from the mountain. Most of you in this room have at least one story of God doing something amazing in your life, and that is why you are here. Lent, as much as it is a season of personal introspection, it is also a time of posing hard questions to God: “Lord, you have shown me amazing things and done amazing things for me – and now what? Are you still with me? Am I still with you? And what difference does it make?” Such fierce questions draw us closer to God when they express those feelings of – is it disappointment? – that feeling you get when the Christmas tree finally comes down. I heard John Waters being interviewed on NPR once, and he said: “Is there anything sadder than a Christmas tree the day after New Years?” Well, maybe a Christmas tree on Mardi Gras. The star over Bethlehem fades, Jesus clothes return from dazzling white to flaxen dullness.
These not-so-nice feelings of coming down from the mountain are pushed aside in a society where the Targets and the Walgreenses hop directly from Christmas to Valentine’s Day to Easter to the 4th of July. Celebrating is important – it’s oh so important to celebrate and praise and give thanks – but it’s at least as important what we do with ourselves afterward. And if today’s story about Elijah is correct, it is in that deafening silence after the party is over that God really starts speaking to us.
So, this Wednesday and in the following weeks, be intentional about coming down from the mountain – but do not disengage. Lent is such an important time for intentionally sitting with these difficult feelings of loss and disappointment and bringing them to God: “God, what am I supposed to do with this?” There are precious few opportunities for making the space and time to hear that sheer silence, wherein we allow those difficult questions to lead us from the peak down into the valley of the shadow of death, where we will know ever more deeply the presence, abundance, and joy of the living God. Amen.
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