Have you been to the mountaintop?
Commentary
There are only two kinds of people in the world. I know some will object that all attempts to classify people into two categories are doomed to failure; there are bound to be some who fit either into both categories or into neither. Nevertheless, I still believe it is useful ultimately to lump all of humanity into two types: There are "mountain people," and there are "ocean people."
Stop and think about it for a minute. Where are you most struck by the vastness of creation? Where are you most aware of the distinction between humanity as creature and God's majesty as Creator? Is it standing upon the shore, perhaps watching the sun rise or set, depending of course on which coast you happen to be standing? Or is it sitting high in the mountains on a rock outcropping, breathing the crisp morning air and watching eagles or hawks effortlessly glide on the updrafts?
For some, it is the vastness of the ocean that calls not just to their mind but to their very being an awareness of God's surpassing greatness. The power of the surf and the seemingly limitless reach of the waves to the distant horizon give genuine perspective from which to properly relate our much-vaunted human greatness against the true scale of the world. If this describes you, then you are an "ocean person."
Now, "mountain people" like myself can conceptualize what it must be like to be an "ocean person," but we cannot really feel it in our bones. Having lived most of my childhood and adolescence far from our nation's coasts, I became convinced that there really was nothing of an "ocean person" in me when I read Stephen Crane's short story, "The Open Boat" while in high school. Its relentless description of wave after wave lapping against the sides of the little boat was simply excruciating tedium to me. I got the point about human finitude in the face of nature, but the effect on me was boredom not awe.
Like so many inhabitants of the ancient world, we "mountain people" feel closest to God in our very being when we climb into the thin mountain air, high above the clutter and distraction of even the trees and the surrounding peaks to see horizons more distant than those possible standing on a flat ocean beach. Having spent time living in the Rockies of Colorado and Wyoming, having backpacked through the Sangre de Christo range in northern New Mexico and climbed to elevations above the timber line, even the Appalachian Mountains were only a reminder of the true majesty and glory that are the mountains. When you measure humanity against not only the vastness and seeming eternality of the mountain itself but also the panorama that unfolds at your feet, you not only understand but feel the distinction between creature and Creator.
Exodus 34:29-35
We need to refresh our memories as to why it is that Moses was on that mountain with "two tablets of stone like the former ones." We probably remember how Moses had shattered the first set of tablets when he found the Israelites worshiping the golden calf in the Sinai wilderness. But do you recall all that transpired in the aftermath of that disaster? God's initial response was to destroy the whole nation and start from scratch with Moses and his descendants. But Moses talked God out of that, lest the Divine be ridiculed by the Egyptians for freeing the slaves only to kill them in the desert. So God told Moses the promise of land would be kept, but God would cease all personal dealings with the people: "Say to the Israelites, ‚--òYou are a stiff-necked people; if for a single moment I should go up among you, I would consume you' " (33:5).
But Moses persisted. If at least he had remained on God's good side, might God grant him just one small favor: "Show me your glory, I pray" (33:18). And God consented in a most marvelous way: "I will make all my goodness pass before you, and will proclaim before you the name, ‚--òThe LORD' " (33:19). The divine glory would be shown by speaking God's ineffable name, a name of which the proper pronunciation has been lost to us by millennia of reverential practice among Jews of never speaking it from human lips. Although linguistic studies suggest it must have sounded something like "Yahweh," only the consonants are known of a certainty. To hear God's name was to encounter the Divine self.
And so it was that Moses found himself atop Mount Sinai. God revealed the divine self by proclaiming the divine name: "The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children's children, to the third and the fourth generation." Then in that moment of glory, when even God had been reminded of the balance of forgiveness and justice that is the divine nature, Moses persuaded God not to abandon the chosen people. Even though they were "a stiff-necked people," Moses begged God to "pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance." And in the glow and the glory of that theophany, that encounter between the Divine and the human, God's attitude toward the people was changed there on that mountaintop.
Is it any wonder then that Moses was likewise transformed by the experience? We are told that Moses' very physical appearance was changed by his encounter with the divine presence. According to the tradition in this lection, "the skin of his face was shining" as the people looked at him. Another tradition understood the story as Moses having sprouted small horns atop his head, a symbol of supernatural power in ancient cultures. Perhaps you have seen medieval paintings of Moses depicting these horns, or seen pictures of Michelangelo's famous sculpture of the "horned Moses." Be it shining skin or the horns of power, the point is that everyone could simply look at Moses and see that he had been with God.
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2
The consensus among modern biblical scholars is that 2 Corinthians as it appears in the canon is a composite work assembled from several letters by Paul (there is less consensus about the number and demarcation of these antecedent letters). The letters reflect the ebb and flow of Paul's relationship with the Corinthian church as it vacillated between warm mutual affection and outright hostility. The lectionary passage is drawn from a letter written at a time of considerable tension between the apostle and the congregation.
This animosity is clearly seen in the previous verses where Paul incredulously asks whether he needs to once again introduce himself and his apostolic endorsements to the Corinthians (3:1). His reply to his own rhetorical question is that the Corinthian Christians themselves are his credentials, written "not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts" (3:3), echoing Jeremiah 31:31-34. That contrast between old and new covenants in Jeremiah's oracle becomes the dominant theme by which Paul develops his argument for what counts as valid credentials (3:4--5:21).
The particular focus in this early stage of that argument is on "glory," and here Paul draws on the tradition about Moses radiating glory from his face following his encounter with God on Mount Sinai. Paul tries to make clear that by the contrast between the former glory of the old covenant and the surpassing glory of the new it is not a denial of the former covenant's glory in either the past or the present. The issue is one of comparison. As glorious as the first covenant is, by comparison with the "greater glory" of the second covenant it is as if "what had glory has lost its glory" (3:7-11).
At the beginning of the lectionary reading proper, Paul alludes to a Jewish tradition that Moses had continued to wear the veil imposed upon him by the Israelites even after the radiance had begun to fade so that they could not see "the end of the glory that was being set aside" (3:13). Yet he does not construe this act as a devious deception. Rather Moses and the Israelites are presented as engaged in a mutual exercise in averting one's eyes from the reality of what God is doing in the world. Once Moses is gone, it is as if the Israelites transferred the veil from his face onto their own. Only by looking on what God has done in Christ is it possible for this limiting veil to be removed from one's spiritual sight (3:15-16).
And what is the effect of removing this veil? Well, like for Moses on Mount Sinai, an unrestricted view of God's glory has a transforming impact on those who see it. Not only does the glory of what God has done now make the glory of what God had done in the past dim by comparison, but the very experience of observing this glory transforms one "from one degree of glory to another" (3:18). But again notice that Paul carefully does not deny the genuine glory of what had gone before. What was true glory has progressed to an even higher degree of glory.
Paul insists that this transformation should have practical consequences for the Christian's life. It invigorates the ministry because it reveals that service arises from God's mercy and not our own abilities. The "hope" and "great boldness" (3:12) produced by this experience convince us that there is no reason to continue hiding things or viewing the world through a veil. We can confidently present ourselves and our ministry to the world because we know that it ultimately is not our own but God's.
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43)
Jesus himself seems to have been a "mountain person." As he sought to prepare himself for the final days of his ministry and all that awaited him during that fateful trip to Jerusalem, Jesus took his three closest disciples "up on the mountain to pray." During that moment of spiritual struggle, Moses and Elijah visited Jesus. Their presence at this time in Jesus' life symbolized the resources of the Jewish law and prophets to guide and strengthen him for what lay ahead. But the focus was on the future and not the past, for "they appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem."
Through groggy eyes, Peter looked upon this assembly but couldn't quite comprehend its true significance. Maybe we shouldn't be too hard on him; he was after all a commercial fisherman, a natural "ocean person" thrust into a mountaintop experience like a fish out of water. His misunderstanding was that he believed this spiritual experience was for the purpose of remembrance and commemoration, or at best was an end itself that they should work to sustain. Listen again to his response: "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." But as Luke commented, he didn't know what he was saying. The point of theophany, the reason that God breaks through our comfortable, natural world so that we can encounter the divine presence is not to give us a "spiritual high." God comes to us to equip us through tradition and Spirit to fulfill a mission. There is a sense in which it is about "charging up our batteries," but well-charged batteries are not meant to just sit on a shelf; God energizes us not as an end but as a means.
Perhaps the most amazing thing about these two theophany stories, however, is that they each in their own way suggest that the Divine is also energized and renewed by encounter with humanity. Clearly Jesus as human was strengthened by the voice from the cloud, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!" just as Peter, James, and John were. But was there also a sense in which Jesus as divine needed the encounter with Elijah and Moses, indeed even the time alone on the mountain with Peter, James, and John?
Application
We "mountain people" happen to believe that the Bible is on our side, for it seems that virtually all the great theophanies of scripture take place on a mountaintop. A theophany is an appearance of God, a moment when someone experiences what it is like to have the supernatural presence of the Divine break through and reveal itself in the natural world. Sure, there are some "little theophanies" where the Divine shines through in the presence of water. Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea and Jesus walking upon the waters of Galilee come to mind. But the really big theophanies, the life-changing encounters with the majestic glory of God's presence, happen on mountaintops. Not only are there the stories in the lections appointed for this Sunday, but there is Abraham's offering of Isaac, Moses' earlier encounter with the burning bush, Joshua's meeting with the commander of the Heavenly Host, Elijah's hearing the still, small voice ... all these and more on mountaintops. All of us, "mountain" and "ocean people" alike, need to return to the mountaintop through these stories to encounter once again the life-changing presence of God.
Are there any signs in your life that you have been in God's presence? Can people see by your demeanor that you have personally experienced God's grace and forgiveness in your life? Do your actions and concerns make it obvious that you have been transformed and changed in how you see the world and your purpose for life? Sometimes we draw back into ourselves, thinking that we could never share our faith with others. But God so wants to change us by our encounter with the Divine that the Spirit simply shines forth from who we are and how we respond to the circumstances of life. And the simple fact is that all the talk in the world about God and spiritual things will never ring true in the ears of others unless it is authenticated by the love and the care of God that shines out from those who have been in the divine presence.
On this Transfiguration Sunday, it is time for us all, whether we are by nature "mountain people" or "ocean people," to travel to the mountaintop. We need an encounter with God to renew our sense of place and purpose in the world. We need to continue to practice the presence of God's Spirit in our lives to be energized to carry that presence into our world. We need to be transformed by the experience of a personal relationship with God so that all who know us will be convinced not only of the peace that we have found in the Divine but that God makes that same relationship freely available to all. Have you been to the mountaintop?
Alternative Applications
1) Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2. Is there a sense in which mainline churches have purposefully tried to veil their vision of what God is doing in the world in the experience of the Spirit by, shall we say, more enthusiastic sisters and brothers? Has a concern for decency and order as a check on excess not limited our view of God, but also in itself limited our ability to be transformed by our encounter with God? Such would be the results of our asking others to veil themselves so that we do not have to look upon God's glory radiating from them.
Or conversely, following Paul's lead, we might ask in what ways we have transferred the veil onto our own faces. Perhaps we have done this for reasons similar to the traditions about Moses continuing to wear the veil long after the glory had faded. Are we trying to delude both ourselves and others into believing that the glory of God's presence still shines in its fullness when in fact we have tried to squelch it? What would it mean for our ministries if we could recapture Paul's sense of "hope" and "great boldness" to replace the growing tide of worry and timidity about the future of the church?
2) Luke 9:28-36 (37-43). The problem with "mountaintop experiences" is that inevitably you have to come down into the valleys where people actually live. That truth is emphasized by the optional extension of the lectionary reading down through verse 43. No sooner does Jesus come down from meeting with God, Moses, and Elijah in transforming glory, than he is confronted with a boy tormented by horrible transforming effects of demonic possession. Yet Jesus is undeterred. He heals the boy. Suddenly, the glory that had shown on the mountaintop breaks through to the very valley floor, "and all were astounded at the greatness of God" (v. 43). It is not just that we go to the mountaintop to receive strength to return to the valley. We go to the mountaintop to learn the possibility and presence of God even in the valley.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 99
One of the greatest of all Christian hymns is Reginald Heber's powerful and beautiful "Holy, Holy, Holy." The hymn is based on Revelation 4:8-11, which depicts heavenly creatures singing praises day and night about God's holiness and glory.
Psalm 99 also offers a triple "holy, holy, holy." "Holy is he" (vv. 3-5) and "Holy is the Lord our God" (v. 9). The key to this psalm, obviously, is understanding the meaning of the word "holy."
The basic idea behind the word translated holy (Hebrew qadosh) is "apart" or "separate." A location may be holy because it is "set apart" by God's presence or appearance there. Moses' encounter with God and the injunction to remove his sandals because he is standing on holy ground is a typical example (Exodus 3:5). This understanding may be extended to clothing, objects, animals, and of course, people.
To say that God is holy is the realization that God is set apart. God is different from us. God is separated in both a qualitative and quantitative sense. God is different from us in terms of righteousness, goodness, judgment, mercy, and so on. God is also apart from us as he occupies a place "in the heavens."
This sense of separation does not negate the biblical idea of God's presence, or the ability of God to engage in meaningful relationships with us. It does, however, strongly suggest that since God is so different from us and so far removed from us, the only way we can have a relationship with God is for God to take the initiative and bridge the distance.
The Bible records many instances of God taking the initiative. These acts of God make up some of our favorite biblical stories. Interestingly, the Bible offers no instances of humans storming the gates of heaven or in some other way establishing a connection with God without God making the first move.
Unfortunately, ideas of holiness, of separation and distance, often deteriorate into discussions of clean and unclean, pure and impure. While it is true that God is morally superior to us, and that our sin is "an abomination," God is not put off by these things. Though holy beyond imagination, God is nevertheless interested in our redemption. The New Testament declares that while we were yet sinners, God took steps to redeem us.
God's holiness, therefore, is not an obstacle to God's embrace of us. That is certainly one reason Jesus worked so hard to break down the clean/unclean class system that existed in first-century Palestine. God wants us to be holy, and certainly calls us to a life of holy living. Holiness is not about moral superiority, it is about living distinctively in the world. It is not about separatism or exclusive spirituality; it is about exemplary living in the midst of our neighbors.
Stop and think about it for a minute. Where are you most struck by the vastness of creation? Where are you most aware of the distinction between humanity as creature and God's majesty as Creator? Is it standing upon the shore, perhaps watching the sun rise or set, depending of course on which coast you happen to be standing? Or is it sitting high in the mountains on a rock outcropping, breathing the crisp morning air and watching eagles or hawks effortlessly glide on the updrafts?
For some, it is the vastness of the ocean that calls not just to their mind but to their very being an awareness of God's surpassing greatness. The power of the surf and the seemingly limitless reach of the waves to the distant horizon give genuine perspective from which to properly relate our much-vaunted human greatness against the true scale of the world. If this describes you, then you are an "ocean person."
Now, "mountain people" like myself can conceptualize what it must be like to be an "ocean person," but we cannot really feel it in our bones. Having lived most of my childhood and adolescence far from our nation's coasts, I became convinced that there really was nothing of an "ocean person" in me when I read Stephen Crane's short story, "The Open Boat" while in high school. Its relentless description of wave after wave lapping against the sides of the little boat was simply excruciating tedium to me. I got the point about human finitude in the face of nature, but the effect on me was boredom not awe.
Like so many inhabitants of the ancient world, we "mountain people" feel closest to God in our very being when we climb into the thin mountain air, high above the clutter and distraction of even the trees and the surrounding peaks to see horizons more distant than those possible standing on a flat ocean beach. Having spent time living in the Rockies of Colorado and Wyoming, having backpacked through the Sangre de Christo range in northern New Mexico and climbed to elevations above the timber line, even the Appalachian Mountains were only a reminder of the true majesty and glory that are the mountains. When you measure humanity against not only the vastness and seeming eternality of the mountain itself but also the panorama that unfolds at your feet, you not only understand but feel the distinction between creature and Creator.
Exodus 34:29-35
We need to refresh our memories as to why it is that Moses was on that mountain with "two tablets of stone like the former ones." We probably remember how Moses had shattered the first set of tablets when he found the Israelites worshiping the golden calf in the Sinai wilderness. But do you recall all that transpired in the aftermath of that disaster? God's initial response was to destroy the whole nation and start from scratch with Moses and his descendants. But Moses talked God out of that, lest the Divine be ridiculed by the Egyptians for freeing the slaves only to kill them in the desert. So God told Moses the promise of land would be kept, but God would cease all personal dealings with the people: "Say to the Israelites, ‚--òYou are a stiff-necked people; if for a single moment I should go up among you, I would consume you' " (33:5).
But Moses persisted. If at least he had remained on God's good side, might God grant him just one small favor: "Show me your glory, I pray" (33:18). And God consented in a most marvelous way: "I will make all my goodness pass before you, and will proclaim before you the name, ‚--òThe LORD' " (33:19). The divine glory would be shown by speaking God's ineffable name, a name of which the proper pronunciation has been lost to us by millennia of reverential practice among Jews of never speaking it from human lips. Although linguistic studies suggest it must have sounded something like "Yahweh," only the consonants are known of a certainty. To hear God's name was to encounter the Divine self.
And so it was that Moses found himself atop Mount Sinai. God revealed the divine self by proclaiming the divine name: "The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children's children, to the third and the fourth generation." Then in that moment of glory, when even God had been reminded of the balance of forgiveness and justice that is the divine nature, Moses persuaded God not to abandon the chosen people. Even though they were "a stiff-necked people," Moses begged God to "pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance." And in the glow and the glory of that theophany, that encounter between the Divine and the human, God's attitude toward the people was changed there on that mountaintop.
Is it any wonder then that Moses was likewise transformed by the experience? We are told that Moses' very physical appearance was changed by his encounter with the divine presence. According to the tradition in this lection, "the skin of his face was shining" as the people looked at him. Another tradition understood the story as Moses having sprouted small horns atop his head, a symbol of supernatural power in ancient cultures. Perhaps you have seen medieval paintings of Moses depicting these horns, or seen pictures of Michelangelo's famous sculpture of the "horned Moses." Be it shining skin or the horns of power, the point is that everyone could simply look at Moses and see that he had been with God.
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2
The consensus among modern biblical scholars is that 2 Corinthians as it appears in the canon is a composite work assembled from several letters by Paul (there is less consensus about the number and demarcation of these antecedent letters). The letters reflect the ebb and flow of Paul's relationship with the Corinthian church as it vacillated between warm mutual affection and outright hostility. The lectionary passage is drawn from a letter written at a time of considerable tension between the apostle and the congregation.
This animosity is clearly seen in the previous verses where Paul incredulously asks whether he needs to once again introduce himself and his apostolic endorsements to the Corinthians (3:1). His reply to his own rhetorical question is that the Corinthian Christians themselves are his credentials, written "not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts" (3:3), echoing Jeremiah 31:31-34. That contrast between old and new covenants in Jeremiah's oracle becomes the dominant theme by which Paul develops his argument for what counts as valid credentials (3:4--5:21).
The particular focus in this early stage of that argument is on "glory," and here Paul draws on the tradition about Moses radiating glory from his face following his encounter with God on Mount Sinai. Paul tries to make clear that by the contrast between the former glory of the old covenant and the surpassing glory of the new it is not a denial of the former covenant's glory in either the past or the present. The issue is one of comparison. As glorious as the first covenant is, by comparison with the "greater glory" of the second covenant it is as if "what had glory has lost its glory" (3:7-11).
At the beginning of the lectionary reading proper, Paul alludes to a Jewish tradition that Moses had continued to wear the veil imposed upon him by the Israelites even after the radiance had begun to fade so that they could not see "the end of the glory that was being set aside" (3:13). Yet he does not construe this act as a devious deception. Rather Moses and the Israelites are presented as engaged in a mutual exercise in averting one's eyes from the reality of what God is doing in the world. Once Moses is gone, it is as if the Israelites transferred the veil from his face onto their own. Only by looking on what God has done in Christ is it possible for this limiting veil to be removed from one's spiritual sight (3:15-16).
And what is the effect of removing this veil? Well, like for Moses on Mount Sinai, an unrestricted view of God's glory has a transforming impact on those who see it. Not only does the glory of what God has done now make the glory of what God had done in the past dim by comparison, but the very experience of observing this glory transforms one "from one degree of glory to another" (3:18). But again notice that Paul carefully does not deny the genuine glory of what had gone before. What was true glory has progressed to an even higher degree of glory.
Paul insists that this transformation should have practical consequences for the Christian's life. It invigorates the ministry because it reveals that service arises from God's mercy and not our own abilities. The "hope" and "great boldness" (3:12) produced by this experience convince us that there is no reason to continue hiding things or viewing the world through a veil. We can confidently present ourselves and our ministry to the world because we know that it ultimately is not our own but God's.
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43)
Jesus himself seems to have been a "mountain person." As he sought to prepare himself for the final days of his ministry and all that awaited him during that fateful trip to Jerusalem, Jesus took his three closest disciples "up on the mountain to pray." During that moment of spiritual struggle, Moses and Elijah visited Jesus. Their presence at this time in Jesus' life symbolized the resources of the Jewish law and prophets to guide and strengthen him for what lay ahead. But the focus was on the future and not the past, for "they appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem."
Through groggy eyes, Peter looked upon this assembly but couldn't quite comprehend its true significance. Maybe we shouldn't be too hard on him; he was after all a commercial fisherman, a natural "ocean person" thrust into a mountaintop experience like a fish out of water. His misunderstanding was that he believed this spiritual experience was for the purpose of remembrance and commemoration, or at best was an end itself that they should work to sustain. Listen again to his response: "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." But as Luke commented, he didn't know what he was saying. The point of theophany, the reason that God breaks through our comfortable, natural world so that we can encounter the divine presence is not to give us a "spiritual high." God comes to us to equip us through tradition and Spirit to fulfill a mission. There is a sense in which it is about "charging up our batteries," but well-charged batteries are not meant to just sit on a shelf; God energizes us not as an end but as a means.
Perhaps the most amazing thing about these two theophany stories, however, is that they each in their own way suggest that the Divine is also energized and renewed by encounter with humanity. Clearly Jesus as human was strengthened by the voice from the cloud, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!" just as Peter, James, and John were. But was there also a sense in which Jesus as divine needed the encounter with Elijah and Moses, indeed even the time alone on the mountain with Peter, James, and John?
Application
We "mountain people" happen to believe that the Bible is on our side, for it seems that virtually all the great theophanies of scripture take place on a mountaintop. A theophany is an appearance of God, a moment when someone experiences what it is like to have the supernatural presence of the Divine break through and reveal itself in the natural world. Sure, there are some "little theophanies" where the Divine shines through in the presence of water. Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea and Jesus walking upon the waters of Galilee come to mind. But the really big theophanies, the life-changing encounters with the majestic glory of God's presence, happen on mountaintops. Not only are there the stories in the lections appointed for this Sunday, but there is Abraham's offering of Isaac, Moses' earlier encounter with the burning bush, Joshua's meeting with the commander of the Heavenly Host, Elijah's hearing the still, small voice ... all these and more on mountaintops. All of us, "mountain" and "ocean people" alike, need to return to the mountaintop through these stories to encounter once again the life-changing presence of God.
Are there any signs in your life that you have been in God's presence? Can people see by your demeanor that you have personally experienced God's grace and forgiveness in your life? Do your actions and concerns make it obvious that you have been transformed and changed in how you see the world and your purpose for life? Sometimes we draw back into ourselves, thinking that we could never share our faith with others. But God so wants to change us by our encounter with the Divine that the Spirit simply shines forth from who we are and how we respond to the circumstances of life. And the simple fact is that all the talk in the world about God and spiritual things will never ring true in the ears of others unless it is authenticated by the love and the care of God that shines out from those who have been in the divine presence.
On this Transfiguration Sunday, it is time for us all, whether we are by nature "mountain people" or "ocean people," to travel to the mountaintop. We need an encounter with God to renew our sense of place and purpose in the world. We need to continue to practice the presence of God's Spirit in our lives to be energized to carry that presence into our world. We need to be transformed by the experience of a personal relationship with God so that all who know us will be convinced not only of the peace that we have found in the Divine but that God makes that same relationship freely available to all. Have you been to the mountaintop?
Alternative Applications
1) Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2. Is there a sense in which mainline churches have purposefully tried to veil their vision of what God is doing in the world in the experience of the Spirit by, shall we say, more enthusiastic sisters and brothers? Has a concern for decency and order as a check on excess not limited our view of God, but also in itself limited our ability to be transformed by our encounter with God? Such would be the results of our asking others to veil themselves so that we do not have to look upon God's glory radiating from them.
Or conversely, following Paul's lead, we might ask in what ways we have transferred the veil onto our own faces. Perhaps we have done this for reasons similar to the traditions about Moses continuing to wear the veil long after the glory had faded. Are we trying to delude both ourselves and others into believing that the glory of God's presence still shines in its fullness when in fact we have tried to squelch it? What would it mean for our ministries if we could recapture Paul's sense of "hope" and "great boldness" to replace the growing tide of worry and timidity about the future of the church?
2) Luke 9:28-36 (37-43). The problem with "mountaintop experiences" is that inevitably you have to come down into the valleys where people actually live. That truth is emphasized by the optional extension of the lectionary reading down through verse 43. No sooner does Jesus come down from meeting with God, Moses, and Elijah in transforming glory, than he is confronted with a boy tormented by horrible transforming effects of demonic possession. Yet Jesus is undeterred. He heals the boy. Suddenly, the glory that had shown on the mountaintop breaks through to the very valley floor, "and all were astounded at the greatness of God" (v. 43). It is not just that we go to the mountaintop to receive strength to return to the valley. We go to the mountaintop to learn the possibility and presence of God even in the valley.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 99
One of the greatest of all Christian hymns is Reginald Heber's powerful and beautiful "Holy, Holy, Holy." The hymn is based on Revelation 4:8-11, which depicts heavenly creatures singing praises day and night about God's holiness and glory.
Psalm 99 also offers a triple "holy, holy, holy." "Holy is he" (vv. 3-5) and "Holy is the Lord our God" (v. 9). The key to this psalm, obviously, is understanding the meaning of the word "holy."
The basic idea behind the word translated holy (Hebrew qadosh) is "apart" or "separate." A location may be holy because it is "set apart" by God's presence or appearance there. Moses' encounter with God and the injunction to remove his sandals because he is standing on holy ground is a typical example (Exodus 3:5). This understanding may be extended to clothing, objects, animals, and of course, people.
To say that God is holy is the realization that God is set apart. God is different from us. God is separated in both a qualitative and quantitative sense. God is different from us in terms of righteousness, goodness, judgment, mercy, and so on. God is also apart from us as he occupies a place "in the heavens."
This sense of separation does not negate the biblical idea of God's presence, or the ability of God to engage in meaningful relationships with us. It does, however, strongly suggest that since God is so different from us and so far removed from us, the only way we can have a relationship with God is for God to take the initiative and bridge the distance.
The Bible records many instances of God taking the initiative. These acts of God make up some of our favorite biblical stories. Interestingly, the Bible offers no instances of humans storming the gates of heaven or in some other way establishing a connection with God without God making the first move.
Unfortunately, ideas of holiness, of separation and distance, often deteriorate into discussions of clean and unclean, pure and impure. While it is true that God is morally superior to us, and that our sin is "an abomination," God is not put off by these things. Though holy beyond imagination, God is nevertheless interested in our redemption. The New Testament declares that while we were yet sinners, God took steps to redeem us.
God's holiness, therefore, is not an obstacle to God's embrace of us. That is certainly one reason Jesus worked so hard to break down the clean/unclean class system that existed in first-century Palestine. God wants us to be holy, and certainly calls us to a life of holy living. Holiness is not about moral superiority, it is about living distinctively in the world. It is not about separatism or exclusive spirituality; it is about exemplary living in the midst of our neighbors.
