Sunday, 7 February 2016 Paul E. Hoffman
+Transfiguration, Series C Seattle, WA
Luther Memorial Lutheran Church
What about you?
How do you like your birthday cake? Because you can’t have it both ways. You can’t have your cake, and eat it, too.
Are you a fan of all those candles? All.those.candles. blazing the truth of all your years for all the world to see? Or do you like it better when the flash of glory is over, the happy birthday song comes to an end, the smoke is ascending, and its time to dig in?
Here’s the thing – and I think you already know the thing, but sometimes it’s good to say the thing out loud. Here’s the thing. We can’t have it both ways. I’ve yet to see a mere mortal like you or me dig into her cake with the candles still blazing on.
But then there’s Peter. Good old impetuous Peter. He thinks that maybe you can have it both ways. He is so taken by the experience on the mountain, by the presence of Moses and Elijah, by the radiant appearance of Jesus that he asks permission to build some booths. To capture it all. To make a place to live and come and go and work and play, but to still have the benefit of all that glory. All.that.glory.
But God interrupts that plan. God interrupts Peter. This is my beloved Son. Listen to him. Which is to say, I believe, not just listen, but learn. Listen, and learn, and be. Be like him, in as far as you are able. Be aware of the high, high, highs of life. And the low, low lows. But be aware as well, that there is a rhythm about them. You can’t have them both at the same time. There are days for the mountaintop, blazing in glory. And there are days meant for us to get back down into the valleys and the trenches and get stuff done.
Stuff like raising up children and grandchildren in the faith – and if we don’t have kids or grandkids of our own, then to help others with the raising of theirs. Stuff like handing out lunches on rainy and sunny days alike for our neighbors on Greenwood Ave who otherwise would not have a place to get a lunch. Stuff like paying our taxes, and voting in elections; stuff like earning a living and making a contribution. Stuff like taking a part of your parking lot and turning it into shelter for the homeless so that they, too, might catch a glimpse of the glory of Christ’s love.
There will be moments of blazing glory; there will be valleys of deep despair. More than likely most of it will be a pretty level plain. But in it all – in it all – there will be the blazing glory of Jesus and the life of the simple Galilean carpenter. There will be the wonder of healing ten lepers as well as the mystery of cursing a fig tree or instructions to shake the dust from your shoes.
The one making space for the other, and providing a sense of balance and meaning, and worth. The valleys made bearable by the memory of the mountaintop. And the mountaintop, in its turn, being made all the more glorious by the deep ruts in which we have walked below. It is the fragility of life that gives it its urgency.
So who ever said you can’t have it both ways? The people of God are the people of the mountain and the valley. We are those who believe in the importance of confessing or sin, but equally urgently believe in the power of forgiveness. We revel in the Gospel because we know that try as we might, we cannot live by the Law. We know that we were united with him in a death like his, but we also know that we are united with him in a resurrection like his. We cling to the old rugged cross; but exchange it one day for a crown. Death, yes. But always, always, always, followed by life.
So in that spirit, today is the day that the church blows out its birthday candles for a time. Having come through the light of Epiphany, and to its blazing conclusion on the mountaintop with the transfigured, glowing Jesus of hope and promise, we lean now toward a time of darkness and introspection in the coming days of Lent. We put our Alleluias away, but before you know it, Lent’s preparations will give way to the renewing feast of blazing light at Easter.
It’s a little like life itself, is it not? In the fragile moments of doubt and despair, it is the urgency of Christ’s promised life and light that carries us through. Sooner or later, death. Yes. But always, always, always followed by life. And light. And life. And life. And life.
In the name of the Father and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.