Reflections on our First 350 Years

 

1 Corinthians 3:1-11  

It is not known how many Presbyterians there were in this area 350 years ago. What was then all called Somerset County. But we know there were some.

There is one name that appears in records from that time – a David Brown. He came here from Glasgow, a self-affirming Presbyterian. His name appears in records dating back to 1670, as he served on several juries and grand juries, as a justice of the peace, a member of the Lower House of Assembly, and a militia officer.

Although I cannot give you their names, there is no doubt that David Brown had the company of other Presbyterians in Somerset County. Because there were enough in 1672 to form four worshiping communities alongside the rivers, which were the primary routes of travel back then.

It was a ruling of the Somerset County Grand Jury in March of 1672 that gave permission to Presbyterians to worship. Saying, “It is the opinion of us grand jurors that sermons be taught four several places in the county – the first Sunday at the house of William Stevens at Pokomoke, the second Sunday at the house of Daniel Cussix at Annamessix, the third Sunday at the house of Christopher Nutter in Manokin, and the fourth Sunday at the house of Thomas Roe at Wicomico.”

A man named Robert Maddox was assigned the responsibility of preaching at these four locations. Of him, we know little. He may or may not have been a Presbyterian, he may or may not have been an ordained minister. We don’t even know exactly what his name was because we find it spelled at least six different ways. But he seems to have handled the responsibility reasonably well, because we know that the number of Presbyterians in Somerset County increased dramatically by 1680.

And it isn’t hard for us to imagine that one preacher to manage four growing congregations – that would be a challenge. William Stevens recognized this and felt the need to do something.

Stevens was not a Presbyterian – he was a member of the Church of England. He was called a “liberal-minded churchman,” meaning that he believed that there should be religious freedom for all sects of Christianity. And so Stevens took it upon himself to send a letter to the Laggan Presbytery in the north of Ireland, pleading for a godly minister to come and lead the flock of Presbyterians in Somerset County.

It was Francis Makemie, freshly ordained, who was sent. In fact, it is likely that he was ordained for this purpose. Three other, more experienced ministers, came with him – William Traile, Thomas Wilson, and Samuel Douglas. These were men who had been in ministry long enough to have experienced the oppression that Presbyterians in Northern Ireland were subjected to at that time. They might have come to preach in Maryland to avoid prison in Ireland.

Together these four men provided the spiritual leadership and order that was needed here, but it is Makemie we remember most. Although the youngest of these men, he stood out as a leader. He organized these worshiping groups as churches and went on to plant more churches elsewhere and to establish the first presbytery in America – the presbytery of Philadelphia. He served as its first moderator.

Makemie’s name is still famous in this region. But just as important as he is to our history, it is important to recognize that he was building on the work of others who came before him – Maddox, Brown, Stevens, and others whose names did not make it into the official records. Each of these men – and even some women, I would dare say – had a common purpose, each played a part.

As Paul says, one planted, another watered. But God gave the growth.

One laid a foundation, another built on top of it, and another built on top of that – All of them building on the foundation that is Jesus Christ.

We Presbyterians have 350 years of history on the Eastern Shore because of all the faithful and skillful builders. If you look at the walls over by our offices, you can see the particular line of builders we have known at Wicomico Presbyterian Church. It is our wall of fame – hopefully not infamy. It goes back to 1855 – but, of course, there were many before whose pictures we don’t have.

But as we look back on all this history, let us not neglect to look forward – and to do it with hope – as much hope as our forebears surely had. We can be sure that over the past 350 years our churches have had more than a few moments of wondering how they might survive, what their future might look like. They didn’t know, just as we don’t know. The first Presbyterians on the Wicomico River never would have dreamed of building their church up here in Salisbury. Salisbury was nothing! Nowhere! But 150 years later, Salisbury looked like a good place to be, and so they went.

The world changes constantly, and so the church has changed as well – in ways our forebears could not imagine. But because they were faithful, keeping their faces turned to Christ and their hearts open to God’s call and direction, we are still here.

On this 350^th anniversary we look back with appreciation for the energy, intelligence, imagination, and love of the ones who led and the ones who followed. But let us never be nostalgic for what is past, or afraid of what lies ahead, for God is with us.

Beloved, let us look to the past with thanks, look to the future with hope, and look constantly to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who is the ground beneath our feet, the light that leads us on the path, the sustenance that feeds our souls.

As the Apostle Paul wrote to a young man Timothy – one of the next generation of Apostles, “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but a spirit of power and love and self-discipline.”

Let us look to our future with the same spirit.

Photo: Tichnor Brothers, Publisher, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Worthy of Love and Grace

Luke 15: 1-3, 11b-32  

This is a parable we love, love, love. Unless, that is, Jesus is telling it to us. Then it is another matter.

You know what I mean? It’s a really nice story in the abstract way. Like saying, “I love people. Only, not that particular one, or that one, or that one either.” It turns out that we mean a very specific and relatively small set of people.

The first time I realized how hard this parable is was when I was reading it to an adult Bible study group. I looked up at the faces around me and they said, “I don’t like that one.” They didn’t like it because they had taken it personally (which is good.) They had asked themselves, am I as forgiving as this father? Do I want to be that forgiving? And their answer was no.

Parables that talk about forgiveness in a personal way are very off-putting for many of us. The parable of the prodigal son is about forgiveness. But even worse, it is about who is acceptable. What people are worthy of love.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son is an exemplar of the form, because it does such a great job of drawing us into it. and compelling us to feel it.

It begins well enough: a man had two sons. Splendid! Fortunate man. Then his younger son hands the father an egregious insult. Terrible! Now we have to choose a side, and most likely we choose the father. We are angry on his behalf. We are offended for his sake.

We have scorn for the foolish young man who is wasteful and dishonors his father. We are glad when we see him suffer for his mistakes. We can’t wait to see him get what coming to him. But he doesn’t. Something odd happens.

His father runs down the path toward this pitiful son dragging himself home. He runs – hiking up his robes, skinny legs showing, sandals flapping. He throws his arms around this sorry son, crying tears of joy.  We wonder, what happened to his dignity? Where is his self-respect? We are embarrassed for him.

At that point we wander over to see what the brother is saying; the elder brother – the one who has been nurturing his resentments for a long, long time. Out there in the fields, hitting that earth with a vengeance, muttering under his breath things that he would never say aloud to his father – until now. He tells his father exactly how he feels.

And what he feels is this: he agreed with his brother when he said, “I am not worthy to be called your son.”

But here is the question we must face: Is this true? Is this younger son worthy of love and grace? Are the people we call sinners worthy of love and grace?

This is a tremendously uncomfortable story for us, because it asks us these specific questions: Who are the people who have been banished from our community? and are they worthy of love and grace? Before you say there is no one who fits that definition, please stop and think. There are people who have been made to feel unwelcome by the church. We cannot deny this.

Someone recently said to me, “My son was far from home for the first time in his life, lonely and longing for community. I wanted so much to tell him to go find a church, because church has been the loving community surrounding him his entire life. But I could not tell him that because there was a huge risk that the church he walked into would condemn him for his sexuality. Imagine how it feels to know that your beloved son, who is so lonely and vulnerable, might be told by the church of Jesus Christ that he is not welcome.”

The people whose sexuality does not conform to our ideas about what is acceptable – are they worthy of love and grace?

I read a story last week about a young woman who became pregnant in high school. She decided she wanted to keep her baby, and so she became an unwed teen mother. Her church did not banish her, but they didn’t run out to show her love either. She tried to join the church’s mother’s group, but it just wasn’t welcoming to her. The other women’s lives were so different, and they clearly had no interest in the struggles of her particular life. 

The ones who didn’t do marriage and babies in the way we find acceptable and proper – are they worthy of love and grace?

There are so many others. The children of divorce who cannot meet the demands of weekly confirmation classes because every other weekend they are at mom’s house, and mom doesn’t go to church. The ones with mental illness which makes them maybe too loud or too emotional, and they have been told, maybe with words, maybe just a look, that they should probably not come. The ones who don’t have the right clothes, something they notice the moment they walk in the room.

Are these ones worthy of love and grace? Are they welcome, really? We don’t even have to say anything, because they can tell by the way we act.

The best quality of church is also its greatest liability: we become this close-knit community. But then we stitch ourselves together so tightly that there is no room for someone different to come in and be a part of this community.

There are people who watch our service on livestream who do not dare to step into our sanctuary and sit with us, because of how we might judge them.

It hurts to hear these things and it hurts to say them. But there is something else that should be said, something we probably don’t say often enough, and it is this: It can be very hard to open your arms in love and grace to all the others if you, yourself, have felt unwanted, unloved.

Perhaps you are a prodigal, yourself. Maybe you have felt the ache inside you of being judged. Rejected.

The Pharisees and the scribes grumbled quiet criticisms of Jesus because he welcomed sinners and sat at table with them. And in response to that, he told them this parable, which asks: Who is worth of love and grace?

The father believes the prodigal is worthy. And it seems very clear to me that Jesus also believes that he is worthy of love and grace. The question we have to ask ourselves is, do we?

A wise person once told me that when someone judge others harshly, you have to know that he judges himself just as harshly. I pray that we treat ourselves and all the other real, flesh and blood, actual people in the world with love and grace. 

Photo by Kyle Glenn on Unsplash

Good Medicine

Luke 13: 1-9                

About six years ago I bought two houseplants at a supermarket. I took them home, repotted them, and found what I thought would be good a spot for each of them. But they did not do well. They both seemed sickly.

I tried different things – a location with more sun, less sun; more water, less water; a different pot. Nothing seemed to help. They didn’t look healthy. But they didn’t die, either. I couldn’t seem to make them thrive, but I wasn’t killing them, either, so I kept doing my best to care for them.

After a few years, one of the plants started perking up. For no apparent reason. It started putting out bright new leaves, it grew full and bouncy, like it just decided one day to pull itself out of this funk and show some self-respect. And I am pleased to say, it has continued that way ever since.

But the other plant? Nothing. It is still the same as ever. Not dead, but not really vibrant. I still feed it, water it, make sure it gets enough sunlight. But I feel frustrated, disappointed with it, and I wonder: Is it time to give up on this plant? When would be the time to give up?

The parable of the fig tree asks us to consider this question: when is something no longer worthy of our care? When is something no longer worthy of life? When do we give up on something – or perhaps even this: when do we give up on someone?

Because anyone hearing this parable cannot help but think that this pathetic little fig tree is standing in for us – fallen humankind. Because immediately before this point, they weren’t chatting about horticulture. Jesus was teaching his followers about sin and repentance.

The conversation he was having seemed to be focused on why bad things happen to people. I don’t know how they got on this topic but they did. It is something that seems to happen on the regular – in fact, we talked about it just last week, didn’t we? It is a matter that we often find ourselves thinking about; it makes us uneasy to think that these things happen for no reason at all. It would be so much better to think there is a cause and effect for all bad things in the world; that we have some control over everything. And so we look for a reason when things go bad. This person had an accident, we say, because he was careless. That person got cancer, we decide, because she ate the wrong foods. Those people who were in the Twin Towers on 9/11 … well, clearly they did something to deserve their fate even if we don’t know what it was.

But it’s wrong, isn’t it? And Jesus rejects it – this idol of absolute control. Jesus’ message is this: You say these people who suffered were sinners, and this is true. But you are sinners too. You say that these people who were victims of that tragic accident were sinners, and this is true. But you are sinners too.

And by the way, you should repent, Jesus says. Repent.

Repentance is also a familiar topic. We are Presbyterians, who confess our sins together every week. We are pretty well trained to put our flaws under a magnifying glass so we can feel the cringe of knowing we are not, and probably never will be, perfect. And still we expect ourselves to keep trying and trying harder. That, also, is part of the fabric of our faith.

Repent is not a new idea to us. When Jesus says his follows should repent, we don’t question it. (It’s like your mother always said to you, what everybody else is doing is not your concern, you just mind your own behavior. The warning to repent is always lurking in the background.)

But do you mind if I ask – repent of what? I don’t mean to be cheeky when I say this. I don’t mean to make the irreverent suggestion that we are without sin – because we know that is untrue. I am only asking if, in this case, there is something particular that Jesus would have us repent of?

What if Jesus wants us to repent of this kind of idolatry, this way of thinking? The notion that there is a one-to-one correspondence between sin and circumstances?

Because, if there were such a strict correspondence, then surely every one of them would have been killed by Pilate. At one time or another. Every one of them would have been crushed by the tower of Siloam. Or some other tower some other time.

If God were such a rigid and harsh task master, then every one of us would have suffered as much, for we are all sinners. But God is gracious and merciful. God is forgiving.

Again and again, people ask Jesus to connect the dots for them. Why is this man blind? Was it his sin or his parents’ sin? Why did these Galileans get killed? But Jesus won’t draw that line for them.

Jesus, instead, tells a parable. A fig tree that will not bear fruit. Perhaps it appeared healthy in every other way, but would simply not bear fruit. The owner of the land says to his gardener, “Cut it down. It’s useless and taking up space.” But the gardener, who has been tending it – watering and feeding it, pruning it – he says, allow me to keep trying. Let it go for another year. Just give me one more year, the gardener asks.

Don’t give up on it yet.

The best thing, and the worst thing, about this parable is that Jesus leaves it unresolved. It is as though the last pages of the story have been torn out.

And because of that, there are wildly different interpretations of it. It seems to serve as something like a Rorschach test, where you are given an inkblot and whatever you see in there says something about your psychological and emotional state.

Of course, I have to say that I could probably offer different understandings of this parable on any given day. But for today, I want to shine a light on this one thing.

When the gardener says to the landowner, “Let it alone,” the Greek word used there has different facets. The word has different meanings, and one meaning is forgive.

In fact, it is the very same word that Jesus uses two chapters earlier when he is teaching his disciples to pray. He says forgive us our sins. As we forgive others. The very same word – forgive them.

Or, let them go.

Let it go, as in, let go of that insult. Let go of that loss, let go of the fact that you did not meet the expectation you set for yourself or the expectation someone else set for you.

Let it go. Forgive yourself. Forgive another. Forgive this fig tree for, once again, not bearing fruit.

Because we, like the fig tree, are far from perfect. We, like the fig tree, might be slow bloomers, we might have long seasons of not meeting our potential, of not meeting expectations, or however you want to say it. But, still, it is good and right to do our best. We don’t measure up, maybe. But we don’t give up.

It is good and right that we seek to bear spiritual fruit. But not by climbing that ladder, rung by rung, beating our sin by our hard work. We take care of ourselves and one another by nurturing our souls the same way the gardener nurtures the tree. feeding the soil around the fig tree. We do well to always feed our spirits – with prayer and scripture, with the fellowship of the community of Christ, together practicing love and service to others – all of this is good medicine. So that we too might bear fruit.

But even in the barren seasons…even when we fail for any of a long list of reasons…God is patient and merciful. God is forgiving.

I say to you today, God will not give up on us.

Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash

Out of Control

Luke 13:31-35   

Chickens are not really built for flying – at least not much, not anymore. I’ve seen them on occasion make a sort of extended jump into the air, but it’s not as if they can go anywhere. Back when they weren’t as heavy as they are now, they were somewhat better at flying. But they were never very good at it – which makes you wonder why they even have wings.

Well, I will tell you this: a chicken’s wings are useful in several ways, but most importantly, a mother hen’s wings can offer protection for her chicks from predators. And most hens will be glad to do it. They will protect their chick, even some other hen’s chicks, and put their own lives on the line when the fox comes prowling around.

Chickens are brave and courageous; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I love that, in this gospel passage, Jesus identifies as a chicken. A mother hen. Who could easily and happily gather the chicks together around herself, under her wing. I don’t know if he arrived at this metaphor because he started by calling Herod a fox, or if he called Herod a fox because it fit his own self-image as a protector of the brood. In any case, it is a great image, isn’t it?

As lovely an image as it might be, though, the fact remains that the chicks are refusing to be gathered. At least, they refuse to be gathered by Jesus. As though they don’t recognize their mother. And, in fact, they didn’t – for all the same reasons we sometimes don’t.

Jesus didn’t fit the description of the Messiah they were looking for. Jesus didn’t promise the things they wanted right then, right there. And, what’s more, there was another “mother” offering them shelter; that was Herod. The empire. At least the leadership of Israel – the Pharisees, Sadducees, and priests – had decided to go that way. They felt there was some safety in staying close to the empire, with all its power, the power to give and the power to take away. This they could see with their own eyes. This was a mother hen who could offer some real protection.

But Jesus said to them, that’s no hen. That’s a fox. And we know about foxes, don’t we?

The fox would like to devour the chicks and the mother too. The fox will break in and leave behind a trail of blood and bones and feathers. The fox will evoke fear, but never love. And as much as they wanted the protection, the shelter, they thought the fox could offer, the leaders of Israel could not see just how hollow that protection was.

They were operating out of fear, drawing close under the shadow of power. And from that position, they grew fearful of their true mother hen – Jesus.

They said to Jesus, “A word to the wise, my friend. You should leave before Herod has a chance to kill you.” As though they were doing him a favor. Which they were not.

Jesus replied, You go tell that fox – because that is what he is – that I will do what I will do. I don’t have the time to run away nor the desire to huddle in his shadow. I know what is of true value, I know what is truly needed. I will do that. And I wish so deeply that you would let me show you. O, dear ones, how I wish you would leave the fox and come with me.

O how I wish you did not succumb to your fears.

But that is the fox’s specialty. Evoking our fear. That is how the fox controls us.

Those leaders of Israel thought that if they could just walk that narrow line, keeping Herod appeased, they would be safe. If they could just avoid doing anything that would enflame his anger, things could be fine.

There are foxes in this world who are very good at using the weapons of fear and intimidation. And then, when we are afraid, we think, we hope, that we can control what happens by appeasing the fox.

And so we will say to the fox, “I want to be good. I want to get things right, so things will start going right for me.” We think to ourselves, “If I am good enough, my life will go well.”

And this will work…for a while. But there are times in life when something so terribly awful happens that there is no amount of being good that can fix it.

A man named Belden Lane wrote about such an experience in his life. His son died of cancer. And in his grief, he went into the wilderness. the canyons of northern New Mexico.

The wilderness is the place for seekers. Looking for truth, for healing, for God. The Israelites went there, Elijah went there, Jesus went there. Seekers still go to the wilderness where there is no place to hide from truth.

Belden spent four days and nights alone in the high desert, fasting and praying and wondering just what it was that plagued him. And on the third night it came to him: it was the god of absolute control.

He was raised to believe in a harsh god who meted out punishments for every perceived sin and rewards when and if they were warranted. This was truly a god to be feared. This god was a fox.

This god of Belden’s childhood is a god we all have some amount of familiarity with. It was and is the expression of absolute power that our culture adores.

It is a god of cause and effect. In this kind of theology, there is a sin that is behind every hardship, and a virtue that is the cause of every blessing. It is not a mystery why we would be drawn to this power, as the leaders of Israel hoped to harness some of the empire’s power for themselves. The god of control is our idol. We want that control too.

Out in the wilderness, Belden knew, finally, he needed to let go of this god once and for all. But he wondered what there would be left for him. What would take the place of this idol, the god of absolute control. And what came to him was the image of Jesus.

Jesus, who walked away from absolute power, again and again. Jesus who stood with the wounded and broken ones, the outcasts, the condemned, the powerless. Jesus, who offered his body on the cross, like a mother hen who puts her life on the line to protect her chicks.

Jesus, who chose vulnerability over power. This is love.

The scriptures say perfect love casts out fear. I believe that. I also believe that my love is nowhere near perfect – at least not yet. Because I, too, harbor fears of not being enough, or good enough.

I, too, want to have some control over things. At least to be able to protect my loved ones from harm, to ensure that they will be happy and successful. To fix all the things that need fixing – this I desperately want to do.

But things are out of control, and that gives me fear.

We worship the idol of control. But Jesus embodies the opposite, for the sake of love. It was necessary, we know, for him to surrender for the sake of love.

Wait for the Lord, the psalmist says. Be strong and let your heart take courage; Wait for the Lord! 

Our fear makes us desperate to fix things, to take control. But wait for the Lord. Let the Lord gather you under his wings and there you will know life.

There you will know the deep, mysterious power of God’s love. 

Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash. You will never catch me on this ride. Ever.

Holy, Ordinary Lives

Luke 4: 1-13

Do you remember the show, The Music Man? It’s about this man, Harold Hill, who travels from town to town in the early 1900’s convincing the townspeople that they need a local band. So he sells them musical instruments and uniforms. And he teaches them what he calls the “Think System.” You don’t need to bother with learning to read music, he tells them. You just think. Think!

He has the people convinced that if they think it hard enough they will somehow acquire the skills of playing music. It didn’t work very well, though. Only their mothers and fathers could love hearing them play. And maybe that was enough.

This show was written during the 1950’s, but it harkens back to a time in America when things like the think system were hugely popular. It went by a variety of names – mind-cure, positive thinking, self-help, and others. All of this based on the idea that we can, by our minds and our words, harness the power of God to get what we need or want.

There were a lot of faith healers around then, using these ideas of mind over matter, and they developed it into a theology that claimed perfect health was available to all of us, through faith. That it is actually our right to enjoy perfect health. God promised it. God is ready and willing to give it, so we just have to ask for it.

In fact, they said that if you don’t ask, it won’t be given. But when you do ask, God has to give it to you. They would never be caught saying in their prayers words like, “if it be your will,” because to them it was a given that God wanted to and would heal them, if they asked.

So the ask was really more of a command than a request.

And it is not surprising that pretty soon this theology of health led to a theology of wealth. Because if God can be counted on to bless us with the riches of health whenever we ask for it, why not material riches too?

It just goes back to the power of the mind to make it happen. To think it into being – to use the power of positive thinking to bring you everything you should have in life. The good life.

This is the history of something that is often called the Prosperity Gospel. Popular among televangelists, who sit on their TV couches and tell us to call the 1-800-number on the screen and make a donation to their ministry; that if you make that donation then God will bless you, too, with health and wealth and all that you need. You, too, can have the good life.

And some of them have a lot in common with Harold Hill, I am afraid. Con artists.

They prey on our insecurities and our desperate hopes for something better. They want to convince us that we need not submit ourselves to the will of God and the timing of God. But that, instead, we should submit ourselves and our resources to the supposed powers of these evangelists to utilize God’s will.

Harold Hill in preacher’s clothes.

We may laugh about it and roll our eyes. But it is a risk that any of us might fall for because we want the good life, too. And we might have trouble staying clear in our own minds about just what makes life good.

We seek perfection. Perfect health, perfect homes, perfect families. We have notions about what this perfection looks like – we see it on TV and movies, magazines and advertisements. Social media is the worst, because there we see the curated images people put out there which make us think these folks have it all together. And then we wonder why we can’t seem to get it all together too.

They have the good life. I can see it in their instagram pictures. Why can’t I seem to have that good life as well?

The problem is that we get confused about what it is that makes a life good.

When Jesus went into the wilderness, for some reason the devil thought he knew what Jesus would be looking for. The devil thought that he could con Jesus into making a deal with him. Take the bread – after all, he was starving. Take the power and glory – after all, he was nothing, merely a carpenter’s son in a backwoods town. Somehow, the devil thought that Jesus wanted the same things the devil wanted.

But he was wrong on every count. Jesus had a different sense of what made a life good. and these were the things he lived and taught to his followers, too.

Most of all, this good life involves seeing the gifts that God is offering you in the time and place where you are right now. See the blessings God is offering here and now.

I know not every situation feels particularly blessed. Not every time and place looks very “gifty.” Lots of times we feel stuck in something that somehow happened to us, and we think, “I just need to get out of this, through this, done with this.”

I have done that more times than I care to say. In circumstances where I am feeling too much anxiety or too much sadness, I just want out.

I have found myself wishing my days away – wishing my life away – because I just want out of the discomfort of the current situation.

But what if glimmers of the good life are present, right beneath the surface, in every second of our trials and tribulations, our daily grind and worst nightmares?

Isn’t that the essence of the gospel of Jesus Christ?

Through Christ we see the way God broke into the world using very ordinary people and things. Sure, Jesus was a backwoods hick, a nobody from no place. That was the point. Yes, he lived a common life and gathered around him a motley crew of common, unimpressive people. That was intentional. He taught deep and precious and powerful truths based on the most ordinary things and people and rituals of daily life.

And God continues to use the ordinary stuff of life to show us what is good and true and holy. Water. bread. wine.

Whenever you eat this bread, remember me. Whenever you drink this cup, remember me.

God will take us, hold us, feed us, and use us. Just as we are.

We actually do not need to make ourselves perfect, good enough for God, because God will use us just as we are.

There is a saying, “Bloom where you are planted.” This is a valuable thing for us to bear in mind, because too much of our time is spent worrying about getting somewhere else. Getting to the next level, making certain improvements, and getting things just right. Whatever that is. But if we consider that perhaps God has placed us here for a reason, that there is something here for us to see, and some response for us to make, then there are riches to be found. You might be surprised. God specializes in surprise.

Whatever rung of the ladder you find yourself on, this is where you are. Look around at the place God has planted you. See what God is offering you right there.

Holy, ordinary lives. 

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels

Strength for the Journey

Exodus 34:29-35

Luke 9:28-36     

Kim and I have been watching a TV series recently on Netflix, and at the beginning of each episode a narrator tells us everything that has happened up until this point – very briefly, in about a minute. It feels weird. Because when you binge-watch shows on Netflix or Amazon or other streaming services, it feels unnecessary to have a voice telling you everything that happened on your TV screen five minutes ago.

The way we read the scriptures in church, though, we could use some of those narrations. Someone to say, “Previously, in the Gospel of Luke…” so we know what happened eight days before.

Because that is how this passage from Luke begins: Eight days after he said these things, Jesus took Peter, James, and John up to the mountain to pray. Well, what were those things he said eight days ago? We might decide it’s not worth the trouble of looking backward to see what happened eight days earlier, I think the words were put there for a reason. It helps our understanding of this text significantly to know what Jesus said.

All we have to do is look back a few verses. Jesus told his disciples that he must undergo great suffering and rejection by the leaders of his own people, and that he would be crucified and on the third day rise again.

Now, let us not be in a hurry. Let us take a moment to acknowledge the weight of these remarks. All of this would surely be more than his disciples could absorb in the moment.

There are certain things that humans find to be unacceptable, unfathomable. It makes no sense for his own people to reject him, and the mere notion of crucifixion is their worst nightmare. And that he would rise again? This would be incomprehensible.

But, even worse, he goes on to say that if any would follow him, they too must take up their cross.

Take up their cross.

When we use this phrase, we always mean it figuratively, not literally. But for the disciples, this was a very real, physical thing. Crucifixion was the Romans’ instrument of torture and terror. To these disciples, taking up their cross did not mean encountering some hypothetical challenges or hardships. It meant something very specific; it meant death.

The disciples apparently made no response to Jesus’ statements. I don’t know if I would have anything to say in response to such a thing. There are moments in life when we are confronted with something so impossible that we simply deny it. Something we cannot bear, so we allow our eyes, our ears, our hearts to resist the knowledge. They say that denial is the first stage of grief. When you are confronted with the death of someone you love, or your own death, everything in you wants to resist the truth of it.

The disciples said nothing in response to Jesus’ words. Perhaps some quietly left. The rest continued on their way. And eight days later, Jesus took a few of them up to the mountain to pray with him.

Up on top of the mountain, as Jesus prayed, the disciples saw him change – become transfigured. His clothing took on a whiteness that was blinding. His face somehow changed. Perhaps it was similar to the appearance of Moses’ face when he came down from his mountaintop meetings with God, when the brilliance of it was more than the Israelites could bear to see. The presence of the almighty God, in a mere reflection of its brilliance and power, is too great for the human mind to comprehend.

And as if summoned by this similarity, Moses himself appeared beside Jesus, along with the prophet Elijah. The three of them spoke about his departure, Luke tells us. And so we know that what they were speaking about was in line with the things Jesus had told his disciples eight days earlier; the great suffering to come.

Peter, James, and John were weighted down with sleep – and yet awake. A puzzling remark, but I think it must indicate to us that they were not, mentally, at their best. It may have been grief that weighed them down – a grief from which they desired to escape, and sleep was the only escape.

Yet still they tried to be present for Jesus, to understand what was happening right before their eyes – the transfiguration of their teacher, the presence of Elijah and Moses in all their glory. And Peter had an idea: to make a shrine, three little shelters for Jesus, Elijah, and Moses. It didn’t really make any sense. And in case we should be misled, Luke says, He didn’t know what he was saying.

But even while he was speaking this nonsense, a cloud overshadowed them and the voice from heaven was heard, saying: This is my Son, my chosen. Listen to him!

Then it was quiet. Elijah and Moses disappeared as inexplicably as they had appeared. And no one said a word.

This episode in the gospel story, the transfiguration of the Lord, is profoundly mysterious. There is no logical explanation for the dazzling whiteness, the changed appearance of his face, the presence of Elijah and Moses. We cannot understand them – we can only notice how these things make us feel. And the feeling they evoke is one of awe, of being in the presence of the divine.

And we cannot, must not, lift this out of the text and isolate it from the words that Jesus spoke to his disciples just eight days before. Just as we cannot, must not, try to erase the great suffering in the world, or isolate it from our worship, praise, and adoration of God. They are all a part of the same cloth. The voice from heaven said, Listen to him! We must not dismiss his words.

The truth that Jesus suffered death on a cross is an essential part of our faith. And the words he spoke to his followers, that we each take up our cross and follow him, through death and toward life are also essential to our faith. Time and history have not made these things less true. We know that there is great suffering in the world. Yet, as Christians we do not shy away from this truth, because we know that there is no place we might walk where Jesus has not already made a path for us to follow. And there is no suffering we would have to undergo without him beside us.

In this episode on the mountaintop, we know what came before. And we also know what is yet to come. But in this particular moment Jesus shares with us a brief view of the full glory of God that is ours to know through him. In this episode we are shown that although we may have understood glory in certain ways before (and maybe wanted to do things like build little shrines or golden calves), through Christ, God is redefining power and glory for us. Through him, we have a deeper, stronger, more lasting knowledge of glory.

We always revisit this transfiguration story before we enter the season of Lent, and it is for good reason. Our Lenten journey is difficult. If you submit to the demands of the season, you open yourself up to challenges but also new truths. You might become more acutely aware of the suffering of this world but also the beauty that is always there. You might experience some pain, but also receive the gift of joy.

The Lenten journey is not for the faint of heart, because true rewards do not come from taking the easy way. But here in this moment on the mountaintop, we are given a glimpse of glory; we are offered strength for our journey.

And know that we embark on this journey together, one step at a time.

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