Stepping into the Fire

Matthew 17:1-8
Transfiguration/Mardi Gras

February 19, 2023  
William G. Carter

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.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” 

I hope you don’t think less of me for saying this, but I have absolutely no idea what to do with this story. It shows up every year, exactly halfway between Christmas and Easter. It is the second of three occasions in Matthew’s book where we hear Somebody say, “This is the Son of God.” First at the baptism, when the heavens rip open. Third at the cross, when the temple curtain rips open. And now, on an unnamed mountain top, as Jesus bursts into flame. The Voice thunders from the heavy cloud, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.” And I don’t know what to do with that.

I wasn’t there, of course. Neither were you. We can picture the scene in our imagination, just as if we were children. When somebody first told me the story in church, it never occurred to me that there was something unusual about Jesus conversing with Moses and Elijah. They were all Bible characters. Of course they knew one another. I did not know at the time that Moses lived over a thousand years before Jesus, or that Elijah the prophet was hundreds of years before him, too. How did they know one another? How did they arrive at the same mountain at the same time? And how did time collapse to make that conversation possible? It’s a head-scratcher, more than it was when I was a child.

Oh, and there’s this: what were they talking about? Were they have a Class Reunion, from the Class of Eternity? Was Jesus explaining one of his confusing parables? Was he ganging up with Moses to tell Elijah to lighten up? Were they discussing the mysteries of the universe – or the hidden secrets of redemption? Don’t know. It’s curious that Peter, James, and John didn’t report to Matthew on the topic of their conversation. The words are out of earshot, as if we aren’t supposed to know. That makes the event even more mysterious – and obscure. It’s weird.

So please understand. This mountain-top tale is too big for me to comprehend. Too confusing. Too dazzling. Too loud. Too cinematic. Too spectacular. I don’t understand it.

But I utterly understand the response of Peter. “Lord, I’m glad to be here,” he sputters. “This is a special moment. And if you wish, I will mark it in your honor. I’ll build three monuments, one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah.” We know what he’s doing – he’s chattering. He’s saying something because he doesn’t know what to say. The words are dribbling out of a mouth that was already opened by awe. Because he’s got to do something.

How many times have you seen something big, something glorious, and you tried to mark the moment? It’s like seeing the Grand Canyon at sunset. Colors shifting, orange, then pink, clear across the sky. Feet frozen, knees locked, just stunned by the glory of it all. And when the moment is over, what do we do? Stop by the gift shop and ask, “Do you have any postcards of sunset from the rim?” If they do, it’s just so small. It can’t begin to frame the moment, much less touch it.

I’ve never been to the top of Mount Tabor, which might be the mountain “set apart” where Jesus took Peter, James, and John. I’ve seen it across the valley, from the cliffs of Nazareth. You look over there, see the rounded slope, and ask, “Is that where it happened?” I wonder if they have a gift shop. Can’t say; I do know the Christians through the ages have built one chapel after another up there. Climb the zig-zag trail. There are the remains of one foundation here, a newer monastery built over there. Yet there’s nothing left to mark the actual spot. It’s been vaporized. And as we heard, Jesus and the others came down from that mountain. They didn’t stay up there. They came down.

This reminds us of the nature of spiritual experiences. They can come, but they don’t stick around. Something might happen. Our eyes see it. Or our heart sees it. There is a deep impact – and then it’s gone.

I think of Moses, chasing after a lost sheep on the mountain, or wherever he was. Suddenly he sees a burning bush. It is a shrub. It is on fire – you know it had to be a fire – but the bush itself is not burning. It was as if the fire was in the bush. Distinct from it, but there. When God stopped speaking, we can presume the fire stopped burning. Centuries later, we can assume the bush is no longer there. There might be a gift shop, but no more burning bush. It came, it went.

Or how about Elijah, that feisty prophet, so intoxicated with the Holy Spirit. He put the prophets of Baal to the test: who can start a Holy Fire? (Like I said, you know there had to be a fire!) And those pagan prophets did their business. Danced around, hollered, and moaned, even cut themselves and let the blood gush over the altar. Nothing happened.

Elijah sat on a stump, laughed at their antics, made fun of them. “Maybe your deity took a nap, or maybe he took a trip to the rest room and hasn’t come back,” he said. “But that you might know there is a God in Israel, throw a lot of water on the wood of my altar, and stand back.” Woosh! The Holy Fire of God came down and singed their eyebrows. (1 Kings 18) Then the fire was gone. It came, it went.

I’ve seen paintings of Jesus, religious paintings, well-intentioned painting, portraying his heart aflame. I can guess what message they are attempting to communicate. The thing is, Jesus usually looked so normal. That’s scared Peter, James, and John when they saw him shine as bright as the sun. Most of our lives are not all that extraordinary. In fact, a lot of it is dull. Some of it is boring. Nothing ever happens.

And then – woosh! Something’s on fire. And what do we do? What do we do when the fire comes?

Some of you know I’m fond of music. Just a little bit. I was raised in a home filled with music. We went to a church with a lot of music. There was a concert series in our little town, and my parents took us to hear some jazz. Sometimes the music was so full of life, it was like the musicians were on fire. One night, we heard the Woody Herman big band. A saxophonist stood to blow his horn. Soon everybody started to cheer. I never forgot that moment. I wanted whatever he had.

The truth is, I started taking piano lessons, but as my mom will tell you, I hated to practice. Still hate to practice! But one thing led to another, I kept at it, and my music teacher invited to play in the jazz band. It was a lot of fun because other musicians are a lot of fun. When I was in eighth grade, we boarded a bus (a school bus) and went on tour. Know where we went? We went to New Milford, Pennsylvania. The next stop was Carbondale. Our band was on the move. We were really something.

But then the moment of terror arrived. We played a tune called “Chameleon.” It’s based on two chords. Maynard Ferguson had nothing on us – until the band director pointed at me and said, “Play a solo!” And I froze. The band was cooking along. I dare say the trumpets were full of fire. The trombones, well, they were just trombones. But he pointed at me, and said, “Take it. It’s all yours.” And I was afraid.

You don’t have to be a musician to know the experience. Somebody told me about a dream they had. Sounded like a nightmare. “I dreamed I opened the door to a room. It was crowded with people,” she said. “Somebody saw me, called out my name, and said they had been waiting for my speech. What speech? And they gave me a microphone and said it was time for me to talk. I had no idea what to say. Hadn’t prepared. Didn’t expect it. I was mortified.” And I looked at her and said, “Well, Reverend, what did you do?”  

Fear can shut us down. Especially if it’s the kind of fear experienced by Peter, James, and John. Peter sees his friend Jesus, a peasant like himself, callouses on his hands, dirty feet, a bit of tartar sauce in his beard, but now he was glowing with the glory of God. He’s talking with two famous people who had been gone for centuries, and they’re right there. So what does he do? He babbles on about building a monument. Maybe he had plans to add a gift shop.

But leave it to God to step in and silence the nonsense. From somewhere deep in the cloud, the Voice said, “This is my Son, my Beloved Son.” And then God said, “Listen to him.”

And that’s when Peter fell to his knees. After all, this is the Gospel of Matthew. Jesus speaks a lot in the Gospel of Matthew. He shines only once, but he talks all the time. And we’ve heard what he says: “Blessed at the poor in spirit. Don’t hoard the riches when others are hungry. Love your neighbors. Love your enemies because they your neighbors too. Do the will of God.” That’s what we hear him say.

And he also says this, “Don’t be afraid.” For Jesus comes to Peter, James, and John. He touches them on the shoulder, his hands no longer burning hot, and he says, “Don’t be afraid.” He says it repeatedly. “Fear not, don’t be afraid.” Then he leads them down the mountain and keeps giving himself away in love.

Years ago, my good friend Terry Singer moved from this town to Louisville, Kentucky. The year after he moved, I was invited to speak at a conference in Louisville, Kentucky. I called my friend. We made plans, I traveled down there, we got together for lunch. It was time for me to get back the conference, so Terry said, “I’ll drop you off.” He took me to the corner of South 4^th Street and Muhammed Ali Boulevard. We said goodbye, I climbed out of the car, and then I saw it.

On the corner of 4^th and Muhammed Ali, there’s a street sign. If you’re ever there, don’t miss it. On one side, it memorializes a famous man: “Thomas Merton, 1915-1968. Trappist monk, poet, social critic, and spiritual writer.” Merton had lived in a monastery about an hour away. And he loved jazz. When he came into town for doctors’ visits, he stuck around to listen to some music. Not a lot of jazz in a monastery.

One side of the sign remembered him. On the other side, this is how the sign reads. “A Revelation: Merton had a sudden insight on this corner March 18, 1958, that led him to redefine his monastic identity with greater involvement in social justice issues. He was “suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people…” He found them “walking around shining like the sun.”

First time I’ve ever seen a street sign marking a spiritual vision, but there it was. All the marks of a spiritual vision are there: he saw fire, shining like the sun – and he loved all these people. There it is. Love and fire, fire and love. And he wasn’t afraid of either one.

So Jesus takes Peter, James, and John to climb a high mountain. While he is there, he starts shining like the sun. I still don’t know what to do with that story. But I know what Jesus wants us to do with our lives: to love one another, no matter what. If we listen, that’s what we hear him say.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.