Fourth Presbyterian Church: A Light in the City

February 27, 2022 | 10:00 a.m.

Sermon

Matt Helms
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 104:1–4, 31–34
Luke 9:28–36

Before we turn back to scripture this morning, we do need to address Russia’s ongoing invasion of Ukraine as the threat of war that had been building these past several weeks did come to pass on Thursday.

There are well-founded fears about what this invasion means both for our country and the wider geopolitical climate, but this morning, what is most important is to remember and hold the Ukrainian people in prayer and to support whatever ongoing humanitarian efforts that we can, because it is everyday citizens who end up paying the price.

That millions would suffer over these next weeks and months because of the decisions of a few is unthinkably tragic, so our prayers are with all those who have lost their lives, loved ones, homes, or livelihoods and all those who have been forced to flee or go into hiding and all those who are on the frontlines of this crisis.

It is impossible to know right now what the outcome of all this will be, but may whatever response we have, both as individuals and as a country, be one of compassion for those who are being harmed, supporting humanitarian efforts, and helping Ukraine rebuild, because that is what our faith calls us to.

We, like Isaiah 2,500 years ago, long for the day when “swords will be beaten into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks,” when a “nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, and they learn war no more,” but this week is a tragic reminder that we as a world have not arrived there yet. So, let us pray:

Holy God, you who came to us as the Prince of Peace, we lift up a prayer for our world as it faces the horrors of war once more. We pray for the millions who have been hurt by this war: those forced to flee, those whose lives are upended, those who have lost or will lose loved ones. We pray that you remind us that you have called us to be a people of peace, modeling our lives after the witness of your Son, and we pray that you move us to respond in compassion to those affected in whatever ways that we can. May your dream for this world one day be realized when the madness of war would indeed cease and swords would indeed be beaten into plowshares. We pray all of this in Jesus’ holy name. Amen.

· · ·

There is no easy transition away from that heavy reality, but we turn to scripture, listening for God’s word to us this day and in this moment.

Psalm 104:1–4, 31–34

Bless the Lord, O my soul.
O Lord my God, you are very great.
You are clothed with honor and majesty,
wrapped in light as with a garment.
You stretch out the heavens like a tent,
you set the beams of your chambers on the waters,
you make the clouds your chariot,
you ride on the wings of the wind,
you make the winds your messengers,
fire and flame your ministers.

May the glory of the Lord endure forever;
may the Lord rejoice in his works—
who looks on the earth and it trembles,
who touches the mountains and they smoke.
I will sing to the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to him,
for I rejoice in the Lord. (NRSV)

Luke 9:28–36

Now about eight days after these sayings 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. (NRSV)

· · ·

Today is known as Transfiguration Sunday in our liturgical year, a day that traditionally highlights this passage that we just read and, in some denominations, provides a bookend to the wider season of Epiphany that began in January.

Jesus’ transfiguration stands alongside his ascension as one of the harder passages to wrap our minds around; to be honest, I was tempted to make a late change from this reading to a passage that felt more immediately relevant as we grieve and process the ongoing invasion of Ukraine. But despite those misgivings, there is a reason that this text has become baked into our liturgical year. There are profound lessons to take away, both about who Jesus is and also what his identity means for our lives and our world today. And so with that in mind, let us return back to what the disciples saw on that mountaintop.

It should be noted from the start that the setting is important to Luke and the other Gospel writers. Mountains are frequently the sites of theophanies, or appearances of God, in the Old Testament, and two of the most notable mountaintop theophanies are with the two figures Jesus appears alongside in this passage: Moses and Elijah. The book of Exodus speaks of Moses asking to see God’s glory while up on a mountain, the same place where he received the Ten Commandments. And in 1 Kings, the prophet Elijah discerns God’s presence amidst chaos in the sound of silence up on a mountaintop. Moses and Elijah were regarded as Israel’s greatest leader and greatest prophet respectively, and many have understood their presence as representing the Law and the Prophets, but it is clear that in this miracle there is more than that. For a fleeting moment, Peter, James, and John witness the glory of God in Jesus. That word glory appears twice in this passage, and for Peter, James, and John this was a moment of clarity about Jesus’ identity. They are shown, just as the magi were in Epiphany, that Jesus is Emmanuel “God with us.”

We aren’t given much of a window into their thoughts aside from one line from Peter, who proclaims that it is good for them to be there to witness this and who proposes making three dwellings for each of them (though the text makes clear he doesn’t fully understand what he is saying). One way to understand Peter’s proposal is that he was somehow trying to hold on to this vision, recognizing how life-changing it was and needing that moment to stay.

Who among us cannot relate? I can think back to a handful of moments in my life when I suddenly felt I had clarity or inspiration on something that had been beguiling me. Those moments are something of a miracle, a sentiment beautifully expressed by the poet Sylvia Plath in her poem “Black Rook in Shiny Weather”: “I do not expect a miracle or an accident to set the sight on fire in my eye,” yet, she continues, “Miracles occur, if you dare call those spasmodic tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again; the long wait for the angel, for that rare random descent.”

Plath’s words capture what Peter was likely experiencing in that moment: there are moments of joy, moments of gratitude, moments of inspiration that we wish we could hold on to forever, moments when it feels like our hearts and souls are singing out in praise and thanksgiving to God. Surely this was such a moment for him and the other disciples. And yet Peter knew, as we all know, that our faith lives aren’t lived in a constant state of inspiration and praise. In Plath’s words, we know there is a “long wait for the angel,” and so Peter wants to grab on to this moment and not let it go.

It would be easy to blame or chide him for this, but I would argue he’s not wrong for doing so. We need those moments of mountaintop clarity and praise in our lives, because they help guide us in those times when our faith requires dedication, commitment, and practice. Becoming the people that God has called us to be requires both inspiration and dedication, a recognition of who God is, who Jesus truly is, and who we are and a commitment to shape our lives around what it means to follow Christ.

In a few days we will begin the season of Lent, a season that begins on Ash Wednesday with a reminder of our mortality yet ends with a proclamation of resurrection and new life. The forty-day Lenten season is one of repentance and renewal that sets into sharp focus the ways that our lives fall short of our call to be disciples and our world falls short of being the kingdom of God, but it can also be one of transformation.

I’ve always loved a research study done by University College London on habit formation: researchers were looking to discover the average number of days that someone needed to practice something in order to create a sustained habit to the point that it was automatically ingrained in their lives. I do wish for the purposes of this sermon illustration that their research had discovered it took exactly forty days, but I’m sad to say it was a bit longer: seventy-two days on average, although the length of time obviously varied from person to person. Nonetheless, the fundamental point stands: if we wish to truly make changes in our lives, those changes can only bear out through a combination of inspiration and commitment, of recognizing where our lives need change and transformation followed by practicing those changes for a season repeatedly, even when we feel like giving up.

Interestingly, we see a similar movement at the end of our scripture passage as Peter is proposing that they build three dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. There is another theophany, although this time spoken rather than seen. Using highly similar language to what was proclaimed at Jesus’ baptism, God tells Peter, James, and John, “This is my Son, my Chosen. Listen to him!”

But while God’s words are spoken directly to Jesus during Jesus’ baptism, the subject has now shifted. Jesus’ identity has now been made clear both to the disciples and to us. And with that revelation comes a clear command: listen!

One would hope and assume that the disciples had been listening to Jesus throughout his ministry to this point, but after this moment there was no turning back. They knew they were listening to God’s Son; they knew that all that he was teaching and preaching was not merely academic or merely pushing back against the religious leaders of their day. This was God’s invitation for them to follow. This was God’s invitation for them to truly listen and learn what they were being called to do in their lives. This was God’s invitation to transform their very lives, to invite them to be among those trying to build up the kingdom of God in this world while also witnessing to that kingdom in the next.

As we exit this time after Epiphany, filled with a greater understanding of who Jesus is, we enter this Lenten season hoping to be reshaped and remade by what that means for our lives.

We are constantly going through seasons of transformation, perhaps now more than ever, as we have witnessed the myriad of ways that the pandemic has reshaped our family lives, work lives, social lives, and also our faith lives. But if you are anything like me, I would describe so much of how my life has been reshaped during the pandemic as passive reshaping: there are habits and patterns that I have not chosen as much as I have just fallen into them, whether out of convenience or necessity.

If it takes seventy-two days, give or take, to form a habit, then this lengthy season in our lives has undoubtedly shaped me and us. But as we enter this Lenten season, we are invited into a time of active reshaping as well of not only hearing God but truly listening. We recently concluded a sermon series on things that Jesus didn’t say, and as Shannon put it last week, there are things that we wish Jesus didn’t say, but we are once more being called to live lives that proclaim the message, ministry, hope, and love that Jesus has shared with us.

Listen to him: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy’ but I say to you, ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.’” Listen to him: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Listen to him: “Truly I tell you, just as you have done to one of the least of these, you have done it to me.” Listen to him: “For everyone who exalts themselves will be humbled, and everyone who humbles themselves will be exalted.” Listen to him: “I give you a new commandment: that you love another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

I don’t know about you, but I know that I have not always lived out those commands. And so with the disciples this Transfiguration Sunday, I hope to enter this season of Lent clear-eyed about who Jesus is and the times I have not listened while forever believing and trusting that God is actively reshaping us.

I have always loved Mary Oliver’s short poem “Don’t Worry.” “Things take the time they take,” she writes. “Don’t worry. How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?” We are constantly being called to walk the road God sets for us: the road of love, the road of compassion, the road of peace.

These things may feel at odds or even downright insufficient in a time when Russian aggression is causing so much suffering, when the pandemic is still affecting countless lives, when it feels like our world keeps getting upended again and again. The cynical part of our brain tells us, “What does any of this matter? We’re just one person and cannot change the world by ourselves.”

But while that may be true, we know that we are still one person and can change the world more than we imagine. And we do this not for our own sakes but to witness to the love and grace and glory that was shown not only to Peter and James and John but to us as well.

As we prepare to begin this forty-day Lenten journey in a few days, hoping once more to be reshaped by Christ’s love, compassion, and peace, I pray that each of us might newly discover what Jesus is asking of us in our lives, that we might be struck by a moment of revelation that leads to an ongoing dedication and commitment. And even if the way is winding, even if we slip up, we come once more asking God’s vision to be our own. So may it indeed be so. Amen.