To listen to the sermon as it was preached at the single Fellowship Worship on Sunday, March 6, 2011, click here.

St. Charles Episcopal Church - Saint Charles, IL

The Ninth Sunday after Epiphany - Last Epiphany RCL – Year A

Sunday, March 6, 2011 - All Parish Sunday and Brunch

Exodus 24:12-18 – Psalm 2 – 2 Peter 1:16-21 – Matthew 17:1-9

Rev. William R. Nesbit, Jr.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen.

            Well here we are, all squeezed in together. What a way to end Epiphany. We began with the far off light of a star and we’re ending with the face of Jesus shining like the sun. It is fitting that we end on the mountaintop. Epiphany, our season of light will end this Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, as we plunge into the valley, the darkness of lent.

            The transfiguration is one of those events in the Gospel that our modern sensibilities have trouble with. What really happened up there? Who’s vision was it really? Was it the thin air that made the apostles hallucinate? Was this really just a misplaced resurrection story, or an attempt at literary foreshadowing?

            In our Lenten Study series this year we will be exploring a book by Marcus Borg, called “Meeting Jesus Again For the First Time.” The book answers the above questions in some startling and new ways. Not answers that you would necessarily expect from a Christian and biblical scholar. I chose the book because it will definitely provoke discussion and cause us to explore more deeply what our faith means to us. You won’t be able to rest on pat answers. I hope it will stretch us and make us more able to defend the faith that is in us.

            So, that is Tuesday nights; what are we to do with our story this morning? OK, I have to take another side bar here, because I feel the need to respond to a parishioner who took umbrage with my use of the word story when speaking of the Bible. They felt that using “story” made it sound like I thought the Bible was made up, like other stories. I am using the term story, as a way of defining the section of scripture that we hear on Sunday morning, usually a narrative arc. The scholarly term is pericope, which I have always felt sounds a bit hoidy toidy, so to speak, and so avoid it. There is a bit more to it, but if I go on explaining, we’ll never get back to the sermon so, if you want more, ask me later.

            Meanwhile, back at the sermon, I prefer to let the story (pericope) stand as is. We weren’t there after all. We can never know what really happened. All we have to go on is the Gospel account, so let’s start there. Clearly this episode was important to the early church, as it appears in all of the synoptic Gospels. That begs the question, what might it be about this event that made it so important? What are we to take away? It is an important point to ponder.

            The interesting piece is, I think, that Christ himself gives us a clue. “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” WHAT?!? If this story is so important, why the injunction to keep it quiet? Well... on the face of it, I think it looks like a case of simple practicality. If you can’t get your mind around the resurrection, don’t waste time with the transfiguration. The mystery of the transfiguration is, after all, just one small part of the greater mystery of Christ.

            This story startles us and grabs our attention, but even more it points us toward the deeper reality of Christ. Christian doctrine tells us that Christ is both fully human and fully divine, but what does that reallymean?

            What are we to make of this Jesus, the annointed one, the Son of God. Like the disciples, it is easy for us to live with Jesus the man, an intimate friend and companion on the journey; a teacher of wisdom. And even when the road gets hard and our journey leads to Jerusalem and the cross we know we have a steadfast companion in Jesus. We may need to deny him on occasion, if the risk to ourselves becomes too great, but Jesus will understand. He loves us for who we are. And even when his face shines with the light of the sun, it is a face of warmth and compassion and understanding.

            This is the comfortable Jesus. The safe Jesus. The good shepherd we meet as a child who watches over us and protects us. This is the human Jesus. It is this comfortable Jesus that gets obliterated in the cloud on Mount Tabor that day. In the transfiguration we see the Messiah, the Son of Man, revealed in all his righteousness. We see beyond the human Jesus to the divinity of Christ.

            Sooner or later in our journey with Jesus we will all have our mountaintop experience. And this safe and comfortable Jesus that we go to church to worship on Christmas and Easter, or on Sundays when it is convenient, is transfigured for us; Within us. The bright white cloud of God’s presence surrounds us, hiding us from the apprehensions of the everyday world, and the word and will of God speaks clearly in our hearts. And the church becomes not a place we go to, but something we are. It is a time of joy and apprehension, excitement and terror. In a moment, we know! In a flash, we are different. In an instant, we are changed. Like the Christ we worship, we too become transfigured. And we are never the same again. And then Christ comes to us and touches us and gently says, “Tell no one until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” Why?

            This is the crux of the matter. This is why, I think, this story is so important. Tell no one? TELL NO ONE? Why? For crying out loud, we have been transfigured! Shouldn’t we be telling the world? We want to shout it from the mountain top! We want to take the great commission and conquer the world with it.

            Jesus reminds his chosen of the chosen, Peter, James and John, that they have to wait. Wait until the Spirit moves in the other before they can fan the flame. Just in case it isn’t obvious, He is reminding us of the same thing.

            Growing up as a Boy Scout, I learned how to make a fire in the wilderness. Like most lessons in Scouting, the important part is being prepared. To make the journey from spark to campfire requires patience, preparedness, and care. Building the fires of faith in another requires no less. Who knows how or where the spark of faith will come. It is our task as Christians to be ready to nurture that spark into a flame, and that flame into a fire. But it will require patience.

            It is the reason we gather, and the reason why we invite others to join us. We all have different amounts and characters of faith at different times. Sometimes all we can bring is the soggy and rotting wood of a faith that seems unworthy of the name. Sometimes we bring the guttering flame of a candle-like faith, light yes, but no heat, and still barely enough light to hold back the dark. Sometimes though, we come with the faith of a roaring bonfire, with light and heat enough for many to share. When we gather and share our faith, with those who have it, and those who don’t, and everyone in between, we can learn that faith is a precious gift, and we can learn also, to, as the prayer book says, “commend the faith that is in us,” or to continue my metaphor, “tend the fires of our faith.” Alone, it can be a difficult task to build our faith. When we gather together, we can learn when we can, and support each other when we must, building a community of faith.

            This past week we lost a light in our community when Liz Carpenter, the last founding member of our parish, died. Her faith brought this congregation into being. She was not alone at the beginning of this endeavor, but her fire burned longer than any of the others. I was reminded this week that she was only 35 when the parish was founded. Many of you, like me, only got to know her at the tail end of her journey, but still, to all of us her passion and faith were clear. Now they have been passed on to us. They are now part of the greater tradition of faith that we hold, and will commend to others.

            Often we think of the church as something that will always be here when we need it. Liz’s death reminds us that sixty-three years ago there was no Episcopal Church in St. Charles. It also reminds us that we are now responsible for making sure that sixty-three years from now there will still be an Episcopal Church in St. Charles. To some that may seem a daunting task, but remembering Liz, we know we can do it the same way she did; by living in faith, meeting each day with prayer, and relying on God’s grace. Amen.