Coming Back Down
Sermon
Time's Up!
Sermons For Advent, Christmas And Epiphany
I have visited some places I really wish I could have stayed. If it were my choice I would still be there right now. As much as I like it here, I would rather be there.
There is a tent, set on a hill at the top of a 1,500-foot cliff overlooking the Jordan Valley in southern Israel. When the sun comes up in the morning it breaks over the mountains a few miles to the east and literally shatters the darkness around you. The winds sail up the face of the cliff from the valley below and almost make you believe you could lean out into them and fly away. It is quiet. No phone. No traffic. It is the area that Moses wandered for 40 years. I could do that. I could stay there.
There was a day that I sat in the little green room at Decatur Memorial Hospital. I had just become a father. I sat in a chair holding this little blanket in my arms. Inside the blanket were two blue eyes. The eyes looked straight into mine and said things that I could not hear, but could feel more clearly than I had felt anything in my life. My daughter. MY daughter. I would like to go back there. I would like to spend some time there again, seeing those eyes. Oh, the eyes are still here, but now they are 12 years old and look at many different things. Then, they looked at me. Only me. I am proud of my 12-year-old, but, I could go back to that room again. I could stay there.
Or at the end of the aisle at the little church in Beardstown. Someone was singing some song and I stood there looking at my bride. We hadn't said "I do" yet, and I wasn't sure I was even capable of those words. But, there she stood. Her eyes were still red from the tears of excitement. My palms were so sweaty I wiped them on my rented pants. She looked at me and smiled. It was so innocent. She had no idea what she was getting into. Her trust was overwhelming. She moved something down deep inside me that had never before budged. I wish I could go back there again. Oh, my bride is still here, some 20 years later, but now she knows. She knows about the temper, the pouting, the laziness, the childishness. She means more to me now than I thought anyone could ever mean to me, but I could still go back. I could go stand at that altar forever, looking into her trust and feeling like she made me feel. As nice as it is here, I could go back in a minute.
I think Peter would understand that. I think that whatever else happened in Peter's life, and we have an awful lot of it recorded, he would have given it all up to go back. And I think I know where he would have gone.
It was a mountain. Nobody agrees today which mountain it was, although there are two top contenders for the title. It was Jesus, James, John and Peter who went up. I will leave it to the theologians to explain what happened up there and will just tell you the way Matthew tells it to me. The four of them walked up the mountain. Just days before, Jesus had told his disciples that story about "picking up your cross" and had assured them that some of them would have to make that choice, so I am sure there was some discussion taking place on the way up. When they reached the top it happened. While they stood there together, Jesus' face began to change. He began to glow, or shine like the light of the sun. His clothing lit up like a detergent commercial. Then, suddenly, there were two more standing with them. There stood Moses, and next to him, Elijah. Peter was overwhelmed. He made his decision right then and there. He blurted out to Jesus, "Lord, this is wonderful. How about if I build us some shelter up here and we just stay?" But before he could finish his sentence God interrupted and drove Peter, James and John to their knees. God has that kind of voice sometimes. When they looked back up, it was over. Jesus had started toward the trail back down the mountain. But I think Peter would like to have stayed.
It happens that way. Some here this morning have had that kind of experience. That time in your life when suddenly you knew who Jesus was, and found that everything in the world looked different now that you recognized him. Suddenly everything made sense, and the things that didn't make sense didn't matter. And you really wished you could stay right there. "Let's not go back down the mountain where all those people are wanting all that stuff. Let's stay up here and visit with Moses and Elijah, and hear a bit more from God." Some of us have had the mountaintop experience, and have not wanted to come back down.
Coming back down from the mountain is hard. Most people don't understand what happened up there, and the more you try to explain it, the more they smile that smile at you. Some people do understand, because they have been up there before, too, but it was a long time ago, and they have forgotten what it was like, or, more frightening, have decided that the trip really hadn't made any difference. We don't want to become like them.
It is hard down here. There are noises here that don't exist on the mountaintop. We are asked to do things here that no one up there asks us to do. We have to make decisions down here that just never come up on the mountaintop. So, some of us decide to go back to the mountain, and stay. It is much easier. On the mountaintop we can enjoy the rush of the experience and the view, without being bothered by what goes on down below. We aren't troubled by the valley's decisions and temptations. The mountaintop is the place to be.
Marriage changes. Everyday we try to look at each other with that same rosy-colored glaze on our eyes that was there that day we stood together on the mountaintop. That gaze filters out so much of what has happened between us and pretends it never happened. But things have happened. We are different people than we were that day. But that is not a bad thing. Living together in the valley means getting to know more and more of each other. Sure, some things are difficult and unpleasant, but many are wonderful surprises, and marvelous gifts. A marriage of 20 years has the chance to be so much deeper and stronger than one of a few days, if we are willing to watch it grow. If we strive to protect it, and keep it away from change, not only do we miss the opportunity to grow closer together in love, but we run the risk of growing further apart by not recognizing how we both have changed. You can't stay on the mountain.
I find myself, at times, trying to run back into that room at the hospital. Twelve-year-olds ask questions that never came up back there. Sometimes I find myself looking at my daughter and not seeing any of her. What I see is that bundle with the two blue eyes that never argued, never challenged, never disobeyed. But the more I try to stay there, the more I miss. We lose so much when we refuse to allow our children to grow up. It is difficult to do, and painful to endure, but it must be allowed to happen. A 12-year-old must be cared for differently than an infant. Freedoms are demanded. Discipline is required. If I look at her as something less than who she is, we both lose. As much as I enjoyed the blue eyes staring innocently into my own, I must let her grow. Her blue eyes are pretty amazing at age 12. You cannot stay on the mountain.
We have climbed the mountain with Peter, and have followed him, sometimes unwillingly, back down. We have had those moments of awe, when we have fallen to our knees and said "Wow!" and we have had those moments of terror and frustration when we have cried out "enough!" They go together. There is no reason to fear coming back down. When the questions arise in your faith, it may be growth instead of death. When the questions arise in your marriage, it may be growth instead of death. When the questions arise in your parenting, it may be growth and not death.
Peter would not have become who he was if he hadn't gone up that mountain with Moses, Elijah and Jesus.
We wouldn't be who we are - if he hadn't come back down.
There is a tent, set on a hill at the top of a 1,500-foot cliff overlooking the Jordan Valley in southern Israel. When the sun comes up in the morning it breaks over the mountains a few miles to the east and literally shatters the darkness around you. The winds sail up the face of the cliff from the valley below and almost make you believe you could lean out into them and fly away. It is quiet. No phone. No traffic. It is the area that Moses wandered for 40 years. I could do that. I could stay there.
There was a day that I sat in the little green room at Decatur Memorial Hospital. I had just become a father. I sat in a chair holding this little blanket in my arms. Inside the blanket were two blue eyes. The eyes looked straight into mine and said things that I could not hear, but could feel more clearly than I had felt anything in my life. My daughter. MY daughter. I would like to go back there. I would like to spend some time there again, seeing those eyes. Oh, the eyes are still here, but now they are 12 years old and look at many different things. Then, they looked at me. Only me. I am proud of my 12-year-old, but, I could go back to that room again. I could stay there.
Or at the end of the aisle at the little church in Beardstown. Someone was singing some song and I stood there looking at my bride. We hadn't said "I do" yet, and I wasn't sure I was even capable of those words. But, there she stood. Her eyes were still red from the tears of excitement. My palms were so sweaty I wiped them on my rented pants. She looked at me and smiled. It was so innocent. She had no idea what she was getting into. Her trust was overwhelming. She moved something down deep inside me that had never before budged. I wish I could go back there again. Oh, my bride is still here, some 20 years later, but now she knows. She knows about the temper, the pouting, the laziness, the childishness. She means more to me now than I thought anyone could ever mean to me, but I could still go back. I could go stand at that altar forever, looking into her trust and feeling like she made me feel. As nice as it is here, I could go back in a minute.
I think Peter would understand that. I think that whatever else happened in Peter's life, and we have an awful lot of it recorded, he would have given it all up to go back. And I think I know where he would have gone.
It was a mountain. Nobody agrees today which mountain it was, although there are two top contenders for the title. It was Jesus, James, John and Peter who went up. I will leave it to the theologians to explain what happened up there and will just tell you the way Matthew tells it to me. The four of them walked up the mountain. Just days before, Jesus had told his disciples that story about "picking up your cross" and had assured them that some of them would have to make that choice, so I am sure there was some discussion taking place on the way up. When they reached the top it happened. While they stood there together, Jesus' face began to change. He began to glow, or shine like the light of the sun. His clothing lit up like a detergent commercial. Then, suddenly, there were two more standing with them. There stood Moses, and next to him, Elijah. Peter was overwhelmed. He made his decision right then and there. He blurted out to Jesus, "Lord, this is wonderful. How about if I build us some shelter up here and we just stay?" But before he could finish his sentence God interrupted and drove Peter, James and John to their knees. God has that kind of voice sometimes. When they looked back up, it was over. Jesus had started toward the trail back down the mountain. But I think Peter would like to have stayed.
It happens that way. Some here this morning have had that kind of experience. That time in your life when suddenly you knew who Jesus was, and found that everything in the world looked different now that you recognized him. Suddenly everything made sense, and the things that didn't make sense didn't matter. And you really wished you could stay right there. "Let's not go back down the mountain where all those people are wanting all that stuff. Let's stay up here and visit with Moses and Elijah, and hear a bit more from God." Some of us have had the mountaintop experience, and have not wanted to come back down.
Coming back down from the mountain is hard. Most people don't understand what happened up there, and the more you try to explain it, the more they smile that smile at you. Some people do understand, because they have been up there before, too, but it was a long time ago, and they have forgotten what it was like, or, more frightening, have decided that the trip really hadn't made any difference. We don't want to become like them.
It is hard down here. There are noises here that don't exist on the mountaintop. We are asked to do things here that no one up there asks us to do. We have to make decisions down here that just never come up on the mountaintop. So, some of us decide to go back to the mountain, and stay. It is much easier. On the mountaintop we can enjoy the rush of the experience and the view, without being bothered by what goes on down below. We aren't troubled by the valley's decisions and temptations. The mountaintop is the place to be.
Marriage changes. Everyday we try to look at each other with that same rosy-colored glaze on our eyes that was there that day we stood together on the mountaintop. That gaze filters out so much of what has happened between us and pretends it never happened. But things have happened. We are different people than we were that day. But that is not a bad thing. Living together in the valley means getting to know more and more of each other. Sure, some things are difficult and unpleasant, but many are wonderful surprises, and marvelous gifts. A marriage of 20 years has the chance to be so much deeper and stronger than one of a few days, if we are willing to watch it grow. If we strive to protect it, and keep it away from change, not only do we miss the opportunity to grow closer together in love, but we run the risk of growing further apart by not recognizing how we both have changed. You can't stay on the mountain.
I find myself, at times, trying to run back into that room at the hospital. Twelve-year-olds ask questions that never came up back there. Sometimes I find myself looking at my daughter and not seeing any of her. What I see is that bundle with the two blue eyes that never argued, never challenged, never disobeyed. But the more I try to stay there, the more I miss. We lose so much when we refuse to allow our children to grow up. It is difficult to do, and painful to endure, but it must be allowed to happen. A 12-year-old must be cared for differently than an infant. Freedoms are demanded. Discipline is required. If I look at her as something less than who she is, we both lose. As much as I enjoyed the blue eyes staring innocently into my own, I must let her grow. Her blue eyes are pretty amazing at age 12. You cannot stay on the mountain.
We have climbed the mountain with Peter, and have followed him, sometimes unwillingly, back down. We have had those moments of awe, when we have fallen to our knees and said "Wow!" and we have had those moments of terror and frustration when we have cried out "enough!" They go together. There is no reason to fear coming back down. When the questions arise in your faith, it may be growth instead of death. When the questions arise in your marriage, it may be growth instead of death. When the questions arise in your parenting, it may be growth and not death.
Peter would not have become who he was if he hadn't gone up that mountain with Moses, Elijah and Jesus.
We wouldn't be who we are - if he hadn't come back down.
