“Glory in the Valley”
Transfiguration Sunday
February 27, 2022
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
Luke 9:28-43
Some of my favorite memories in high school were the summer church gatherings, usually bringing together high school youth from all over Kansas and Missouri. I loved the friends I made there. The songs we sang were fun and full-bodied. The activities made me feel useful and important. The evening games were a blast. And the free time was filled with silliness and deep conversations about anything and everything. In those moments, I was part of something bigger than myself. I was a small but powerful piece in an experience that was changing lives—even if it was usually our own. It was a mountaintop experience. We sang, “Awesome God” and “Father, I Adore You” and “I Will Call Upon the Lord.” And I wanted to extend that feeling back home—to sing those songs in my home church—to have that energy every day.
But it doesn’t work that way, does it? We can try to describe those types of moments using words, but it never quite gets at it. We can try to re-enact those moments, but imagine 15 older, traditional Lutherans in a rural church in Kansas scowling while stumbling through a poor rendition of “Shout to the Lord.” Like trying to capture a photo of a sunset. Eventually, we simply fall into the common phrase—I guess you just had to be there.
One of the problems with these experiences is that we connect them with holy moments and holy places. I’ve been guilty of finding myself disappointed in worship when I’m not moved to tears or left with some new epiphany or knowledge. And without those feelings, worship just doesn’t feel like worship. It doesn’t feel as holy. It doesn’t feel quite like a God-moment. You know what I mean? Have you ever felt that?
But what if God-moments don’t always feel like glory shining and voices speaking from the clouds? What if holy experiences aren’t necessarily meant to leave us feeling uplifted and excited all the time? Because I keep thinking about the disciples that stayed behind when Jesus and the three went up to pray. I wonder what their God-experience looked like. While Peter wanted to stay on the mountaintop and keep the glory shining, I imagine the others at the bottom struggling to meet the needs of the people on the ground and getting antsy about when Jesus would return.
Which is why Jesus doesn’t stay on the mountain. Jesus doesn’t allow Peter and James and John to get too comfortable. Because that’s not where Jesus’ ministry happens. It’s great that they got to see for themselves this great unveiling of God’s glory. But it means Jesus keeps having to remind them that what they saw is only part of the story.
If you open your Bibles to Luke 9, you’ll notice today’s passage is nicely nestled in between two passages in which Jesus tells the disciples about his upcoming death and resurrection. And it’s nearly impossible for them to grasp. Not to mention the conversation Jesus has with Moses and Elijah—discussing his departure—literally his ‘exodus.’ Jesus didn’t come to lead a small nation to victory. He came to release all of humanity from captivity—to create in himself the way out of sin and death. This isn’t done in the relative safety and comfort of nice words, sparkling mountaintops, and inspiring music. It isn’t accomplished in a Sanctuary from which everyone leaves content and filled.
No, it happens in the dark and scary places of this world. The holy moments are meant to strengthen us to go out into life ready to meet our demons with the power of the Holy Spirit. The holy moments create in us a longing, a discontent with the status quo of life. They establish in us a holy fire meant to burn within us for justice and peace for those who have no voice, no power, no spark for themselves.
This is Transfiguration Sunday, and a friend asked me this week: “So what?” Meaning, what is the point of it? What does it mean to us as Christians? Why should we care? I imagine some of you wonder the same thing. What makes today any different than any other Sunday? Well, today, we get to hear this story of Jesus changing before the disciples’ eyes. He shows them the power of God’s glory. And while they want to keep it for themselves, he leads them back down the mountain, where he addresses the needs of the crowds—again and again. From this point in his ministry, he steals himself toward Jerusalem, toward the cross, toward his death.
He shows us that following him isn’t for the faint of heart. That going into the depths of death will cost him everything. And that his glory isn’t about how beautiful, how exciting, how powerful, or how amazing and awesome and shiny he can be. His glory about how humble, how welcoming, how generous, how compassionate he is. Always. To the point of death.
Pastor Philip W. Martin, Jr. tells of Mennonite pastor, Ryan Dueck, who lives near amazing mountains in Alberta, CA. Pastor Dueck confesses to frequently skipping worship in community and finding sanctuary in the vast expanse of God’s creation. And yet, Dueck admits, “The God of creation can inspire me, but creation cannot demand that I die to myself and become ever more alive and attentive to all the things that are ugly and easily ignored in the world.”[1]
This demand comes from the God who chose compassion over might; this attentiveness from the Spirit who calls us down from the mountaintop and into the crowd of those seeking healing and wholeness; this abundant life from the Christ—the Chosen One—who chose a cross over a crown. May God grant us the vision to see their glory in unexpected places.
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
[1] Ryan Dueck, “Nature is My Sanctuary, but Jesus Keeps Dragging Me Back to Church,” in The Christian Century,
October 26, 2018. https://www.christiancentury.org/blog-post/ccblogs-network/nature-my-sanctuary-jesus-
keeps-dragging-me-back-church
