The awesome power and glory of God – and the terror of beholding it. The power and majesty of very God is bestowed upon God’s beloved Son – witnessed by Jesus’ own disciples. A terrifying challenge to faith and obedience – and yet an assurance for his disciples, if they dare receive it, that this their teacher, Jesus, really is the Christ, the Holy One of God.
What is this singular event about? We need to put it in its context to get a fuller picture. Exhausted by his mission, both the following and the opposition it has aroused, Jesus has taken his disciples north
to the villages around the Roman town of Caesarea Philippi, a safe haven from the prying questions of the Pharisees ever out to trap him, a safe haven where he can teach his disciples a little more of who he is, and God’s purposes for him – and for them. “Who do they say that I am?” he had asked his disciples.
‘John the Baptist, Elijah, one of the prophets’, came back the reply. “But who do you say that I am?” Jesus has persisted. The disciples have seen the miracles, experienced the power and liberty of his extraordinary presence and teaching. Slowly, very slowly, Peter finally recognises that this, their teacher, is none other than the long-awaited Messiah – the promised One who will save their people from oppression, yes of course, he comes in great glory! The Saviour of Israel! Israel’s new king!
And they are his disciples! Just what is this going to mean for them?! But wait, this human glory is not what it’s all about. Jesus, hoping and hoping that those closest to him will somehow respond – has been sharing with them his own growing recognition that his ministry will lead him to great suffering and a cruel death. If he will insist on giving dignity and a status to those the establishment has designated outsiders and of no matter, then he dangerously challenges the social order, he’s rocking the boat – and something has to be done about him.
He knows it, and feels the icy tentacles of fear reaching up into his human frame. He is longing for his disciples to understand. Gently he began telling them all that he was coming to know would happen: his passion and his cruel shameful death. But this is now a reality they do not want – and cannot face.
And especially was it not acceptable to Peter, who earns from Jesus the sharpest of rebukes, for his suggestion that this must not be so.
And Jesus himself is in turmoil too, a turmoil which on the eve of the events he foresees, would bring him literally, to sweating blood. How is Jesus to deal with his own fear? “Six days later Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain.” In the clear air of the mountain top it was easier to pray, closer to God away from the hustle and bustle of daily living. Like each of us, Jesus also needed human support and comfort, the support and comfort of those who knew him deepest and best – albeit they did not want to understand this, had rowed and quarrelled with him; albeit they were themselves distressed by all he had said.
Here the mountain top, Jesus could find strength to ‘set his face to Jerusalem’, could find strength to go forward knowing as he did, all that would happen. Ceasarea Philippi lies at the foot of Mount Hermon.
Together the little band climb its misty heights. The three with him are exhausted, not just with the physical climb, but with the emotional trauma of all that happens around this extraordinary man. Luke the physician, in his gospel, adds for us the detail that defeated, they are weighed down by sleep – a good and healthy human response when things become too much! So Jesus is forced to pray alone – as he would later in the Garden of Gethsemane, his disciples struggling to stay awake and watch. In our imagination we can feel his fervent prayer poured out to God, as he seeks for reassurance: what is God’s will for him ? Must it really take him to his death? Is there no other way? Maybe Peter is right after all? Yet not my will but yours be done. And neither does God leave him without human support.
Moses and Elijah are here. Mighty prophets of the Old Testament. They share with him the awful reality of what is to come. An awe-filled reality in the original use of that word, a reality which, past the initial terror and suffering, will indeed be filled with awe and wonder. Into this agonised praying God draws very close: “This is my Son, the beloved, listen to him.” And glory to come expressed in shimmering transcendent light emanating from the three figures as they converse together. So dazzling is their appearance that Peter, John and James, wide awake now, are rooted to the spot speechless – except that is, for the ever practical Peter, who feels impelled to blurt out that they must do something – build these great men shelters to rest in. Peter must somehow contain these exceptional events.
But what is it that is so important in this meeting together that the fiery glory of heaven radiates from this company? Why are Peter and James and John commanded to listen so attentively? Contrary to their expectations, this is Christ’s glory, that in the love which will endure even unto the cross, their failures, the failures of humanity, the suffering human beings inflict on one another, in the grace of God’s love incarnate in Christ, all may be transformed, transfigured, redeemed.
And are we listening? In the wisdom of God, our failures, the times when we feel torn apart in different directions, when our dreams come crashing to the ground, when it seems that no one understands, God is still waiting patiently for us to bring our heart-break and our longing up the mountain, place them in God’s hands, trust in his salvation in Christ. God is waiting for us to hold our hearts open to the Holy Spirit, to that which we have not yet imagined, and which may be very different from that which we first conceived of. God is longing for us to trust that Christ both can and will,
transfigure our lives too, transform each part of our lives which is not yet whole.
Tragedy is a reality of life. We cannot understand it. Why does it strike one and not another? There is indeed, little justice in our world. The powerful exploit and abuse – and get away with it. In our grief it can seem that God has abandoned us. And we struggle helplessly in the silence that surrounds us. Yet God is not absent in the silent empty space. In every trauma God is there too, feeling with us our every smallest flinch of pain. We may know this when we see his Son, set his face to go to Jerusalem and suffer at the hands of Jerusalem’s leaders. We may witness it on the cross when he cries out in despair: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? God knows our every fragility – sees every crack that will drop us through to despair, and longs to take hold of us, give us new eyes and a deeper heart, just whenever we are ready to reach out for grace. God is waiting to transform our pain into something more, something which may enrich our lives, carry us into new creative places.
In Jesus’ transfiguration, we too may stand in awe at just who Jesus is, none other than God’s Messiah, the Christ. We are invited to live our lives in him, and in him, we may stand in awe of all that God would do in our lives – and not be afraid. Amen.