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There is
something deeply reassuring about Peter. Because whenever something extraordinary
happens, Peter says the wrong thing.
Just like me. I do that.
Jesus is
transfigured before him. His face shines like the sun. Moses and Elijah appear.
The cloud of divine glory overshadows them. The voice of God speaks. And Peter says, essentially: “Shall I put up
some tents?” It is the spiritual
equivalent of standing gazing in awe at the Northern Lights and then someone
asking if anyone’s brought sandwiches.
But before we laugh
at Peter too quickly, we should admit something uncomfortable: Peter is doing
exactly what we would do. When something
is beautiful, we, also try to freeze it.
When something feels holy, we try to contain it. When something gives us goosebumps, we want
it to last. It’s why certain TV shows
last for season after season. Most of
them are pretty run of the mill stuff. They
are Strictly-speaking, a bunch of people dancing round a floor. Skillfully, beautifully. But we’ve seen it all before. But just occasionally, there will be a
transcendent moment – when a personal history of struggle is conquered. A blind dancer who triumphs. A young woman with Downs Syndrome who shows
she’s at least as good as everyone ‘normal’
Or someone who thought they were out
gets a 10 from the most critical judge. That’s
what we want to experience. That’s what
keeps us coming back for more. That’s where
we would like to build our tents.
‘Lord, it is good
for us to be here.’ Yes, it is. It is good to be on the mountain. When
worship lifts us, when the music carries us. It is good when prayer feels alive,
when faith seems dazzling and uncomplicated.
It is good when faces shine. But
here is the problem: Mountains are not
permanent addresses.
The Exodus reading
tells us Moses went up into the cloud, into the fire, into the terrifying
presence of God. Forty days and forty nights. The glory looked like a devouring
fire. It wasn’t cosy. It wasn’t something
you could share on instagram. It was awesome, surreal, magnificent. But that mountain moment was not the end of
the story. Moses had to come down again — to grumbling people, administrative
disputes, and the complicated business of living faithfully in the real world.
So Moses discovered
that transfiguration is not a holiday brochure for heaven. Rather, it is a kind
of strengthening before suffering. That’s
what today’s Collect quietly reminds us: Christ was revealed in majesty before
he suffered death upon the cross. The glory is not instead of the cross. It is before
the cross. Which means this Sunday —
shining, singing, radiant with transfiguration — sits right on the edge of
Lent. It is good for us to be here. But we may not remain.
That thought is
captured in the second communion hymn we will sing: “‘Tis good, Lord, to be
here… Yet we may not remain.”
And why is
this. Why can’t we stay in ecstasy, our
hands lifted to heaven, our faces shining. Listening to one of the Rector’s sermons for
eternity! Because faith is not about
building tents around our favourite moments.
It is about following Jesus down the mountain. And notice this: when the disciples are
terrified, when they fall to the ground, when glory overwhelms them — Jesus
does not lecture them. He touches them. He says, “Get up. Do not be afraid.”
And when they look
up, they see no one except Jesus himself alone.
The cloud lifts. Moses and Elijah are gone. The dazzle has faded. The light show is over. And what remains? Jesus. Not the experience. Not the spectacle. Not
the spiritual high. Jesus. That
is the point of the mountain. Not the brightness — but the Beloved.
And perhaps that is
what we most need to hear as Lent approaches.
Because Lent will not feel like shining garments. It will feel like self-examination. Like ashes.
Like “remember that you are dust.”
Like the slow, unglamorous work of repentance.
But the same voice
speaks in both places – to those disciples, and to us: “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.” Listen to him when he shines, AND when he
suffers. Listen to him when he says
“Follow me,” AND when he says “Take up your cross.” Listen to him when he says
“Do not be afraid.”
Peter wanted to
build three dwellings. But God wants to
build something far more daring. Not
tents on a mountain. But transformed
people in the valley. People whose
faces, over time, begin — just begin — to reflect what they have seen. The Offertory hymn – one of Graham Kendrick’s
greatest - puts it so well: “As we gaze on your kingly brightness, so our faces
display your likeness, ever-changing from glory to glory.”
That is the real
miracle. Not that Jesus shone. But that ordinary, muddled, sometimes
clueless disciples might slowly begin to shine too. Not with spectacle. But with love. With
courage. With patience. With forgiveness. With hope. With prayer. With that
quiet radiance that comes from having been touched by Christ and told not to be
afraid. It is good for us to be here. But
we may not remain.
So when the final
hymn ends; when we step back into Havant High
Street and the week ahead. We go down the mountain.
Not to escape the
glory. But to carry it…in the name of
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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