Hope in a world of violence
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale
February 19, 2023—Last Epiphany, Year A
Exodus 24:12-18; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9
They went up a mountain; heaven broke through in a dramatic way; and they heard the voice of God say, "This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased."
As I observe every year when we get to the Transfiguration, it’s a story that comes at the narrative hinge of the Gospel. Right before this, Peter proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah, the Lord. Which Peter clearly thought would be just good news and nothing else for the rest of time. But in response to this declaration, Jesus pointed them all toward the suffering that was soon to come: I will come into conflict with the authorities. I will be put to death on a cross. And I will rise again.
Clearly, he knew how badly the news of the cross would land, and he tried to point them beyond it to the resurrection which was to come. But it’s so hard for us to see past such an awful, traumatic event. Our vision tends to tunnel, and all we can see is the death.
So … he brings them up a mountain, where they come face to face with the Law and Prophets. And, as if that wasn’t enough, there are dazzling signs of God’s presence, and they hear the voice of God.
And once again, time folds back on itself, and forward on itself, collapsing what seemed to be separate events into one spiritual reality. All at once, as we stand on the mountain, gazing up at the glory, we are also there (once again) at the Baptism, with the voice declaring “This is my beloved Son,” and the Spirit of God descending and sending Jesus into his ministry. And we are also there on another hill, this time gazing up at the cross. This time hearing the voice of Jesus, as he berates the God who had declared him so beloved, for having forgotten him.
All three stories. All at once. Because none of them is fully true or actually bearable without all the others. Glory by itself is too easy, and too isolated without the ministry and community that Baptism calls us into … let alone without the sacrifice that full engagement with the world will require of us. And the suffering of the cross is too terrible to bear without the presence of the Spirit, and the glimpses of heaven that break through into our world sometimes. They are inextricably linked, because it is only when they are taken all together, that they can bring us to a full appreciation of resurrection. Of the raising up that will, as Jesus promises, be God’s final word.
Which is to say that the story of the Transfiguration, this beautiful vision of the glory of God, is not meant to be taken all by itself. It doesn’t just speak to those who have had such experiences, or even those who simply yearn for such an experience. It stands at the center of the gospel, reaching forward and reaching back. Drawing us in and sending us out.
This week, many of us are approaching this story from the direction of the cross. With the shootings at Michigan State on Monday, the violence of this world has once again drawn too close to deny. We cannot shield ourselves from the reality, from the ways in which hatred and fear can come together with access to deadly force and make a world in which no-one is safe. Our hearts are broken, and our spirits are raging, and we are there, tossed to the foot of the cross once again.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” For that matter, why have we forsaken you? How can this be happening again? Month after month, century after century, millennium after millennium. So much brokenness and suffering. So much damage done by the powerful and the powerless, and so much looking away done by those who are just trying to get by.
My God, WHY?
In this, we are fully present on the hill at Calvary. Alive to the reality of the crucifixion. But the gospel invites us to see beyond that story, which feels so close to our very visceral present, and see also the underlying, co-existent story of the Transfiguration. Beckons to us with a glimpse of forever in the midst of now (as Sam Wells put is, HeartEdge Sermon Workshop video, 2/24/22). Reminds us that in the midst of the terror and suffering of the crucifixion, there also exists a mystery that promises to flare our hearts with awe and wonder … and even hope, when we least expect it.
And just maybe, that can raise us up. As Jesus came and touched the disciples after they had been overcome by fear, saying, "Get up and do not be afraid" (Matt 17:6f). I will raise you up, and we will go back down the mountain.
Back down the mountain, to face back into the reality of the cross, yes. But also back down the mountain into the third level of the story, which is the baptism. With the descent of the Holy Spirit, and the belovedness, and the call to ministry. As our bishop likes to quote, “Today we pray; tomorrow we act.” Because action is one of the best antidotes to fear and despair. So we go with Jesus into the world to do something, even if it seems only a small thing against something as huge as the cross.
In the face of the continued violence of our world, we perhaps lend our voice to the fight for laws and policies to curb the unlimited prevalence of guns in our country (and there’s a little info in the narthex if that’s something you’d like to do). Or work with kids to help them help each other, so that our schools are safer, stronger, more compassionate places. Or do any number of things, huge and small, to help foster more understanding, more compassion, a little bit of healing in a world that feels so fragmented, such a breeding ground of alienation and resentment.
The world into which the Spirit sent Jesus, and then in turn sends us, needs us so very much. That is the truth that underlies every glimpse of glory, and every experience of the cross that we have. None of them is ever truly separate from the others, and together, they move us toward resurrection.
My friends, it has been a very hard week. The cross has drawn painfully, terrifyingly near. But the gospel assures us that this also means that glory is nearby (is always nearby), reaching down to raise us up from where we’ve been cast to the ground. And that our Baptism calls to us too. Sending us out for our own healing, and for that of the world. May it be so, Amen.