Matthew, Mark and Luke all tell the story of this mountaintop encounter, what we commonly call “the Transfiguration Sunday”. Over the years most of the sermons I have read, heard or preached on the Transfiguration have taken one of two tacks. One has been a focus on the glorification of Jesus as he becomes dazzlingly radiant before Peter, James and John. It is a foreshadowing of Jesus’ eventual glorification as the Son of God. Another approach, also faithful to the text, has had as its focus on the threats, challenges and suffering that awaits Jesus and the disciples at the end of this wonderful mountaintop experience.
But what I want to focus on this morning is the ascent. What about the trek up the mountain? Exodus says the Lord summoned Moses to the top of Mount Sinai and Moses simply "went up." (Ex. 19:20) Luke says that Jesus took Peter, James and John and went up on the mountain to pray. (Lk. 9:28) I've hiked up several hills, mountains and passageways of varying heights and degrees of difficulty before, and I have to say that there's more to it than these texts suggest. And, indeed, if we think of the mountain as a metaphor for the human encounter with God--and Scripture offers plenty of warrant for such an understanding--the climb up the mountain in itself is a worthy metaphor for the human approach to God.
I am drawn this day to the ascent--not so much to the clouds and the light and the mystery at the summit, as central as they are, nor to the descent at the other end of the experience, as important as it is to Christian discipleship, but to the climb itself as a way of talking about our approach to the experience of God. Robert Morris writes that the mountain ascent is:
A particularly apt symbol for the challenge of changing vistas, climates, and dangers the psyche is likely to face as our…capacity for God is stretched and strengthened. As in climbing a mountain, the conscious encounter with spiritual reality may begin easily. The unskilled mountain climber setting off into the foothills with naïve excitement at this "wonderful" experience quickly discovers, upon reaching [even] the lower slopes of the mountain, that the body has limits and the soul has fears brought out by the very climbing itself. Both body and soul need to be challenged, stretched, and strengthened for the journey to continue.
One of my first experiences with a long hike occurred during my Boy Scout years, our fearless leader took us several miles into the deep woods, ending up at a large camp. It was late fall and the temperature was cool, in fact it poured rain the entire weekend. My dear mother packed my knapsack, it actually weighed more than me! We trekked through the woods, soaked to the bone and when we arrived our leader had us sleep outside on the first night. We erected a lean-to out of tree boughs, put our knapsacks inside and slept in these small tents. When we awoke our clothes were soaked, the rain came through the tent and our sleeping bags were soaked and all of our food was wet. Long hikes and treks up the mountainside are not really my kind-of-thing.
As we marched along, soaked to the bone, I was coming to terms with the constant dispiriting discovery that there is always more hill. The thing about being on a hill, as opposed to standing back from it, is that you can almost never see what's to come. Between the curtain of trees at every side, the ever-receding contour of rising slope before you, and your own plodding weariness, you gradually lose track of how far you have come. Each time you haul yourself up to what you think must surely be the crest, you find that there is in fact more hill beyond, sloped at an angle that kept it from view before, and that beyond that slope there is another, and beyond that another and another, and beyond each of those more still, until it seems impossible that any hill could run on this long. Eventually you reach a height where you can see the tops of the topmost trees, with nothing but clear sky beyond, and your faltering spirit stirs--nearly there now!--but this is a pitiless deception. The elusive summit continually retreats by whatever distance you press forward, so that each time the canopy parts enough to give a view you are dismayed to see that the topmost trees are as remote, as unattainable, as before. Still you stagger on. What else can you do?
I could also be describing metaphorically the journey of human life or of human faith…at least the kinds of life and faith journeys many of us have experienced. When we are young, our lives may seem most of the time like level paths, smooth-going with scarcely a tree root or an icy patch to trip us up. But as we grow older and the plots and treks of our lives get more complex, our lives and our faith are more often defined by the hills we must climb, by the sweeping upslopes, the sometimes steep and rocky mountain paths, the strenuous treks we must take, fraught with perils and pitfalls. There are times in such hikes when not only reaching our destination, but even our survival is in question. In our advanced years, the climbs may seem relentless, wearying. We may find it easy to ignore God in the flatlands where everything is smooth and we are betrayed by our own progress into illusions of self-sufficiency. When the path gets steep and treacherous, in anxiety and fear we are more likely to cry out to God. Ultimately, in those times when we do reach the summit, when we do come to the end of an arduous and frightful journey, or at least to a plateau or resting place, there…there is where we may catch a glimpse of grace and even glory…there where we may experience profound gratitude.
It's no wonder that when one does finally reach the high ground, one wants to stay. That was surely the case with Peter in Luke's story today. Having reached the summit--not just the top of the mountain, but a profound experience of holiness and mystery and glory--he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay, to freeze the moment in time.
The Bible portrays mountains as settings for God's self-disclosure. Moses receives the Law and looks upon the Lord on Mount Sinai. On Mount Horeb, Elijah communes with God in a mysterious silence. From a wilderness rise, Jesus teaches the blessed ways of the kingdom. Atop [a mountain] Peter, James and John see Jesus in the fullness of his divine glory. Mountaintops are regions in which discernment sharpens and contemplative visions crystallize, but only after the rigors of the ascent.
I can't say for certain how long it takes to see a dazzling sight, to be awed by the Holy, to know in some deep and profound way that you are not alone. I only know that it is worth the climb, and that at the end of the path we may well see the glory of God, that we may well know God as never before. But such a goal surely does not reduce the dangers or difficulties of the ascent. There is so much to learn and understand about our limits, so much to grasp about proper discipline and preparation, and so much strength needed beyond our own perceived strength if we are ever to reach the summit.
The fourth-century mystic Gregory of Nyssa said, "The knowledge of God is a mountain steep indeed and difficult to climb." I know first-hand that it's a difficult climb. That much I know. How long it will take, or what kind of effort, I don't know and can't say. I don't know because, like most of you, I am still climbing. And some days the ascent is treacherous and demanding, not to mention being soaked to the bone! I would prefer a trek that lasts an hour and ends at my warm, secure and dry home. But that is not how it usually goes. Often our trek involves illness, worry, disappointment, hardship, sorrow and rejection. And along the way I need to keep my eyes open for the dazzling sights and glowing witnesses who point me to the Truth, to the Way and to an experience that reminds me who I am and whose I am.
But it is worth the relentless climb; of that I am absolutely convinced. It is worth the climb.
Go the journey with us, O God, for the path is steep and our breath is short. Accompany us, we pray. Accompany us with your grace. Amen.