Sermon delivered by The Rev. Tina Rathbone
Gospel for Sunday, February 27, 2022: Luke 9:28–36 …Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah”—not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.
Light in the Wilderness
Here we are again, teetering on the edge of Lent, and some of us might be wondering perhaps, or hoping, or worrying even, whether this year might be the one when we dare plunge into it. It is a huge gift the church offers us, this business of the seasons, I believe. And for me, this one, the forty days that lead up to Easter which we call Lent, is the most gracious gift of all.
But it is a complicated gift, right? A difficult invitation because it is not to a party or a celebration, the way Christmas or Easter are, but to a journey of the heart, undertaken alone, in the wilderness.
Modeled on the 40 days Jesus himself spent in the wilderness, and on the 40 years long before that during which Moses led his people through the same, Lent is our own invitation to a place that we fear. A place with no props. No distractions. No meetings. No TV or newspapers or books. No meals to prepare or houses to clean or children to look after or drinks to look forward to, no anything in fact that usually keeps you busy — just you. You and maybe God, all alone, unseen, unrecorded, un-applauded. Just you. And God. And space. And quietness. And hunger likely too right, and thirst, and loneliness, and sorrow — and regret maybe also.
It’s a difficult invitation, as I said, and so one which many of us respond to by saying something like: ‘Yeah, thanks for the invite, I wish I could come but I’m just so busy…’ And this is fine, of course. There will be another opportunity, and then another, and another. But here’s the thing: the wilderness will not be denied — and turning our backs on it no more makes it go away than closing our eyes removes whatever danger we are confronted with when we close them.
No matter how much, or how far, or how imaginatively, or how elegantly we run, the wilderness within our own hearts remains very real for most of us, I think, specifically, if secretly, part of our lives. And the point is that as long as we run from it, for just exactly that long, we will we remain afraid of it.
But the fear starts to dissolve when we turn to face it and then dare enter it, step by step. It is true, the wilderness really does strip us of our illusions about who and what and how we are. But what we fear will remain when all that falls away – nothing, essentially – turns out not to be true at all, at least if Jesus has anything to say about it. Instead, He teaches us that as we stay, as we breathe in and breathe out, as we allow ourselves to notice the space that is wide open all around us and the emptiness and the stillness and the beauty, we begin see that instead of diminishing with each illusion lost, we are instead increasing, losing perhaps our grandeur, or our status, or our security, but gaining access through each of these losses to the truth which doesn’t annihilate us but instead sets us free. Which is to say, the Gospel truth of who we really are: Wounded, yes. Finite, yes. All messed up some of the time, yes – but beloved nonetheless, and essential nonetheless, and with a place nonetheless in the ongoing scheme of creation just as we are right here and right now.
This is a very different reality from the one we are used to striving for most of the time, of course, which is why, I think, it can seem so frightening to us. Again, we’re unlikely to find ourselves ‘successful’ in the wilderness. Nor will there be much power, or glory, or even recognizable effectiveness to be gathered or claimed there. But if we believe the stories the Bible contains even a crumb, there will, in the wilderness, be God. Which is really just another way of saying there will be love, and mercy, and holding, and healing. And what could we possibly need, any of us, more than these?
Rather than run or try to hide from the wilderness of Lent then, perhaps, this year we could instead turn and run into it. The way Moses did, whose face shone with the life force of God encountered over and over again. And the way Jesus did, not for 40 days at the start of his ministry only, of course, but throughout his life – up to and including his death on the cross. Moses knew how afraid his people were of life on these terms, and he was kind to them about it in a way, right? When they panicked at the sight of him fresh from an encounter with God, he veiled himself so he’d seem more normal and less threatening, less on fire, less alive.
But Jesus did no such thing. Jesus lived continuously out of the wilderness reality of complete vulnerability. And when it came time to share with his friends and his followers the truth that he was headed not towards triumph but to an open embrace even of death on the cross, he drew them all into that reality along with him. It’s odd. The first sentence of our passage from the gospel today actually begins with the phrase: “Now about eight days after these sayings…Jesus took with him Peter and John and James” and whenever a passage begins this way I can’t help turning the page back to check out: What sayings? Well this time, on the day we hear about the visible glory of God made man, they are these: ‘He said to them all, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it.”’
Surely what he is talking about here is exactly this letting go of illusions, and props, and defendedness that the wilderness both requires and allows.
Surely, with these words, and so many others, Jesus is inviting us in – not as some kind of penance, but rather as a way of release, of liberation, of life-with-Him-in fullness whose result is not death, but a way of being so over-brimming with love that it glows…..
So what do you think? Is any of this possible? Could it be that underneath all our posturing and protecting what lurks is not death but life? That what the transfiguration shows us is a glimpse of the reality we all share in, all the time – or could do – if we only stopped running away from it?
There’s only one way to find out, of course: to try it and see. And this seems to me to be our call for today. To say ‘yes’, in obedience to love and to truth, to the reality of the wilderness for just one hour a day for just 40 days, beginning on Wednesday. There are many ways to do this: you could walk or sit in silence, or gaze at an icon, or sing, or come to our simple Lenten eucharist, or simply breathe in and breathe out, breathe in and breathe out. The only essential thing is that every day – for that one hour – you let go of the busy of your everyday lives and dare descend into the wilderness of your own hearts instead.
Most of the time, it’s true, it feels as if, if we let go – we will die. But there’s a chance the exact opposite is the case. Perhaps, just perhaps, letting go leads to life. Perhaps, just perhaps, letting go leads to light. Perhaps, just perhaps, letting go leads to being disarmed — yes — but at the same time to being internally, and eternally, upheld and restored. On thing is sure: You will not be alone – our brother and teacher Jesus is there, the very son of God, waiting for you.
So….if you turn to page 4 in your bulletins, perhaps we can end with us all praying our Collect again together? Perhaps it sounds a little different now than it did at the beginning of the service…
Let us pray: O God, who before the passion of your only begotten Son revealed his glory upon the holy mountain: Grant to us that we, beholding by faith the light of his countenance, may be strenghtned to bear our cross, and be changed into his likeness from glory to glory; through Jesus Christ our lord, who lives and reigns with you and the holy spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen