I know it is the middle of winter, but I want to tell you about something this past summer that I did with Canon David Link, our music director. In August, the two of us set forth f to climb Mount Hoffman, an 11,000 foot peak in Yosemite National Park. Now, as peaks go, it is certainly not the highest in Yosemite, but it has its challenges, and it also has the advantage being in the exact geographic center of Yosemite, giving it spectacular views into every corner of the park. We gave ourselves three days to climb Mount Hoffman.
I know we don't exactly look like Olympic alpine athletes, but I assure you that we were physically up to the task.
When I say Mount Hoffman has its challenges, not all of those challenges are physical. One of the challenges is finding the trail to the top. The higher you go, the less obvious the route up. And that is another way of saying that we somehow missed the mountain. Oh, we got to the top of a peak alright. We looked down on Half Dome to the South, and over to Cathedral Peaks and Tuolumne Meadows to the East, and to jagged peaks far in the distance to the north, and to the hazy Central Valley to the west.
But it wasn't until later, when we got back to our base camp and looked at the topographic map, that we realized that whatever we climbed wasn't Mount Hoffman. We somehow zigged when we should have jagged and we ended up on top of a different peak.
Mount Hoffman was over there, one peak over.
I mention all this because climbing mountains is tricky business, and I am in full sympathy with the disciples who climb a high mountain and discover Jesus standing before them, dazzling white. I can just feel how disorienting and strange this must have been to the disciples, and they did not have the benefit of a topographic map to help figure this out. When they got up there, they may have wondered if they had missed the trail, if they had zigged when they should have zagged.
So Peter says the first thing that comes to mind: "Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." But Peter is fumbling for words. Mark, the Gospel writer, tells us: "He did not know what to say, for they were terrified."
I'll bet they were. Let's give Peter a break here.
Peter is trying to make sense of what must have been an indescribable experience. When he sees the shimmering vision of Jesus, Peter goes to the only reference point on the map he knows, the words of the prophets. For those who might be unsure what these dwellings are about, it would make perfect sense to a first century Jew. The dwellings are "tabernacles" - the tents that devout Jews erect once a year for the Festival of Tabernacles. Peter is declaring his devotion and respect for Jesus and putting Jesus on the same par as Moses and Elijah, the two greatest prophets of Judaism. But even doing that misses the mark, as Peter is soon to find out.
The categories Peter uses - the dwelling places - aren't big enough. The categories of religion are not quite up to the task. Instead of tabernacles, a cloud appears, and God tells Peter, ever so simply, and maybe in just whisper: "This is my son, the beloved. Listen to him."
I 've been pondering all week, why do we hear this story? Why do we hear this particular story today, just before the beginning of Lent? What's it got to do with us?
Please let me offer a few observations:
First, I want to take the experience of the disciples on the mountaintop seriously. I believe this really happened. There is no reason to think that it didn't. I think the disciples came face to face with the Holy, and this awesome experience absolutely changed them forever.
But I also think the story is told to us through the filter of the ages and the limits of human language. The disciples really witness this extraordinary vision of the Risen Christ standing right in front of them, and they tell us about it with the only language they have. I think they share this vision with us out of their own radical, generous love, to give us strength, to remind us that Easter really awaits all of us. Jesus gives the disciples a taste of Easter on the mountaintop, and they share it with us. Jesus is telling them - and us - don't despair, you will get to Easter and the Risen Christ.
We hear this story on this particular Sunday for the same reason: As we enter the introspective season of Lent, a season that can try the souls of women and men and children, we get a glimpse of the peak in the distance, the transformation of death into life. Easter will come, and it will be bright, so do not despair if life sometimes seems like an endless Lent. Today we are on top of the mountain with the disciples and Jesus, but next week we will descend into the dim valley of Lent. Life is full of valleys, but at the end of the valley will be the highest peak of all, Easter. Today we have the vision of Jesus glistening on the mountaintop to give us the strength to walk through the valleys of life below, and Jesus will be with us when we are in the low places.
I am convinced that all of us encounter these moments of the holy, though maybe not always with such brilliant force on top of a mountain. But I do believe each of us encounters the Risen living Christ many times, in many places, in many ways. Maybe we don't always notice these moments, but the Living God in Christ is present with us.
It takes practice sometimes to notice, to see God right in front of us, whether in the smile of a stranger or the kind words of someone close to us. That is the purpose of Lent, to intentionally put ourselves into a space of noticing the presence of God. Those experiences, I think can, and will change us forever.
But there is a cautionary note in all this, and that is the next observation I want to make. The cautionary note comes from the mountaintop experience of the disciples: Sometimes faithful, well-meaning people offer to build a dwelling place for the Holy, and they end up trying to put God in a box. It's as if we think God somehow needs to be protected by coming in contact with the "wrong" people so let's protect God by putting God in a box. Every religion can be like that, and every religion seems to have factions within factions that claim to be more pure than the other; witness the bombing of a major mosque in Iraq this week and the retaliation and bloodshed that is following by Muslims against Muslims.
Make no mistake: Christians are not immune from this kind of hideous warfare. Nor is the urge to keep God in a box always bloody. Sometimes good church people assume that everyone who ought to be here, is already here, so close the box, let no one else in. And that can easily morph into mindset that my religion is the only religion, and my brand of the religion is the only true religion, and my kind of people are the only people who count.
Christians do it as much as anyone else. It's as if we feel the need to protect Jesus, as if Jesus needs protecting. If we aren't careful, we can box up Jesus so tightly that, in the end, we will have locked ourselves out of the box.
So what do we do about this? We can keep opening the boxes by practicing the radical generosity of God's love listening to his Son. That kind of radical generosity has always been the strength of Trinity Cathedral. We are practicing the radical generosity of God's love right here this morning. In a few moments we will share prayers for healing and the laying on of hands with all who come forward. And then, a few minutes later, we will celebrate Holy Communion at the Lord's Table. Please know that in this church, all are welcome to fully share in the bread and wi Sne. So come, bring your worries, your hurts, your wounds, whatever is troubling you, and exchange it for prayers, and the bread of new life and the vision of Jesus on the mountaintop.
And in the days and weeks ahead, keep the vision in front of you, don't let it go - look for the Holy in all that you do, and in everyone you meet, and share God's radical love for all of God's Creation. And may you go from mountaintop to mountaintop, and strength to strength forever.