On the Move

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” [Matthew 17:1-4].

Once or twice a year, from the mid-1960s through the end of the century, Dad would pull out the old black and white photographs from years gone by. He’d often turn to one of his favorites—a shot taken during the Summer of ’42. The photo shows the members of the high school fellowship at Olney Presbyterian Church in southern Gaston County. Twenty or so young men and women are standing on the front steps of the church. A few weeks earlier, our parents had graduated from high school. Betty stands with her hands behind her back. T.E. stands in the next row, directly behind her.

Over the years, at this point in the periodic photo display process, Dad would wistfully look at the group of young people, turn to any of us who was present, and repeat, as if we had never heard the words before, “You know, you can’t tell from the picture, but your mother and I are holding hands.”

That’s, of course, why he loved the photo so much. Its poignancy is palpable. Add to that memory the fact that within a year all the young men standing on the church steps would be “off to war.” Three would not return.

I get that same wistful feeling when I see a photo of Jane and me taken 15 minutes after our exchange of vows at high Noon on August 28, 1971. I’m similarly moved when I see a photo of our daughter, Anna, then fifteen months old, as she plays within a sea of daffodils at Reynolda Gardens on the Wake Forest campus in the Spring of ’76. Freeze frame; If time could just stand still.

It doesn’t, of course. And thanks be to God, for because time doesn’t stand still, Jane and I have a collection of many other photographs, e.g., those that memorialize the birth of Anna’s three brothers, others showing various awards and graduations, still others reminding us of the birth of a new generation beyond our four children. Right now, I’m sure your own mind and heart are recalling photos and keepsakes of your own. It’s a trait that we all share. It’s a trait that makes us human.

As we read the Gospel appointed for this upcoming Sunday, Transfiguration Sunday [Matthew 17:1-9, RCL, Year A], we see this “freeze frame” trait front and center in the apostle Peter who, along with James and John, had accompanied Jesus to a “high mountain.” The mountain isn’t just a picturesque setting; it’s pregnant with theological significance. In the life of Israel, big things happen on mountains.

Recall that Moses spent 40 days with Yahweh on Mt. Sinai, in order that the Israelites might receive the Ten Commandments. On a mountain, Yahweh allowed Moses to see—at least to a limited degree—Yahweh’s true presence. It was on another mountain that Yahweh showed the promised land to Moses.

On this mountain described in St. Matthew’s Gospel, separated from those others both in time and in space, Peter, James, and John see their Lord joined by Moses and Elijah, two figures huge in Israel’s past. They hear God’s affirming voice announcing the Son’s eschatological vocation. They recognize that on this mountain the prophetic embodiment of Israelite tradition is joined with the New Covenant uniquely present within Jesus Christ. Peter, never bashful, steps forward and essentially says, “Freeze frame. Let’s preserve this moment forever.”

In this time long before photography, long before the master painter, Leonardo Da Vinci, would paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, awestruck Peter knows that he and the sons of Zebedee have witnessed something that is earth shattering. Peter realizes that in and through Christ, their world, indeed the entire cosmos, will never be the same again. Peter thinks, “If time could just stand still.”

And so Peter suggests that he be allowed to construct a monument—actually, three monuments—something fitting for that which has just been experienced. Had we been on the mountain that day, I suspect that not a few of us would have helped Peter pitch the commemorative tents. Savor the moment. But Jesus responds, more or less, with “Meh” [see Matthew 17:7-8]. You see, special as the moment is, God moves on.

Over the centuries, the church has often repeated Peter’s freeze frame sentiment. It has constructed large and beautiful cathedrals. It has preserved what it understands to be special relics. It has venerated martyrs and saints. It has commissioned great works of art. At least in part, it has done so to commemorate what it sees as special moments. As with Peter’s commemorative idea on the mountain, there is nothing inherently bad or wrong in that preservation or in that construction. But the church needs to be reminded that Christ’s response to Peter (and the others) on the mountain was essentially, “Guys, we’ve got work to do.”

Transfiguration awe cannot be frozen in time. It must move forward. A close look at Jesus’ language signals that the Transfiguration foreshadows Easter. The disciples hear the voice of God:

This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him! [17:5b].

In holy awe, they fall to the ground. Jesus comes to them, touches them—elsewhere in Matthew a sign of healing—and using resurrection language, commands them to “be raised!”

They must be raised from their prone positions. Then they must descend from the mountain. God is busy at work. They must move on to Jerusalem and to the Cross. They must head toward the tomb in order that, in due time, it be emptied of its grief.

The lesson I glean from the Transfiguration story is that God incessantly moves on. And thanks be to God, for God moves on not only from awestruck mountaintop experiences, He moves on from those lowly experiences that seem to gurgle up from the swamp. For three years now, many of us have dreamed of the mountaintop, only to struggle within the quicksand of the pandemic. On this Transfiguration Sunday, may we incline our ears and hearts to the Living God who moves on, who wants us to accompany the risen Christ on a journey.

I grew up with a guy who can point to one moment—a particular Thursday evening—when he cast aside his “old” life (he was but 20 or so at the time) and “found Christ.” I joke with him that what he really found was that Christ had chosen and laid claim to him—not the other way around. In any event, it was a special moment, an awestruck moment. I’d never want to take it away from him.

Perhaps you’ve also had such a moment. If so, I rejoice with you. I have not. I’m one of the unlucky—or lucky—ones for whom Christ always seems to have been lurking nearby, sometimes in the sunlight, yet often in the shadows. Whatever our form or means of encounter with Him, His message to us is the same. It’s fine to look back. Everyone does it. It’s even better to move forward. And so, Christ reaches out, touches us—a sign of healing—and using resurrection language, tells us, “Be raised, and do not be afraid!”

The Living God is on the move. Let us see what God has in store for us!