Sermons from Mission Hills UCC San Diego, California Rev. Dr. David Bahr [email protected] February 27, 2022 “A Mountaintop Experience” Picture is of Holmes United Methodist Church in rural Reynolds, North Dakota Luke 9: 28-36 – Common English Bible Jesus About eight days after Jesus said these things, he took Peter, John, and James, and went up on a mountain to pray. 29 As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed and his clothes flashed white like lightning. 30 Two men, Moses and Elijah, were talking with him. 31 They were clothed with heavenly splendor and spoke about Jesus’ departure, which he would achieve in Jerusalem. 32 Peter and those with him were almost overcome by sleep, but they managed to stay awake and saw his glory as well as the two men with him. 33 As the two men were about to leave Jesus, Peter said to him, “Master, it’s good that we’re here. We should construct three shrines: one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah”—but he didn’t know what he was saying. 34 Peter was still speaking when a cloud overshadowed them. As they entered the cloud, they were overcome with awe. 35 Then a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, my chosen one. Listen to him!” 36 Even as the voice spoke, Jesus was found alone. They were speechless and at the time told no one what they had seen. I grew up in a country church in North Dakota at the crossroads of two gravel roads, cut out of the corner of a field. There’s a parsonage and a cemetery in the back where generations of hard-working farm families are buried, including my parents, grand and great-grand parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and neighbors. Idyllic, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. They were very religious people, expressed in duty however, not emotion. I mean “duty” in the very best sense. They were quietly rock solid, faithful, devoted Christians. Quiet, being a key word. One year a family from the nearby Air Force base moved onto an old farmstead. They were Baptists from Texas and Frank, the father, couldn’t help but exclaim Amen during the minister’s long dry sermons. Dry, being the key word! People were startled every time and expressed annoyance to each other that such enthusiasm was out of place in church. Every fall after the harvest had been gathered in, the church had a weeklong series of evening revival services. A quiet, rather dry, revival. We sang hymns, heard a sermon from a guest minister who invited people to go to the altar and offer their lives to Jesus. Probably to the music of Just As I Am. One night when I was 7 years old I heard something, felt something, as though the minister was speaking directly to me. My face grew hot and I felt my “heart strangely warmed” – a term former Methodists might recognize. I didn’t understand what was happening but when the minister offered the invitation, I knew it was meant for me. My mother sensed something was happening. And when I looked up at her, she said, it’s OK. So, I knelt at the altar, confessed all the sins a 7-year-old might have committed and gave my life to Jesus as my Lord and Savior. There was no clapping or rejoicing, no shouts of glory hallelujah. The congregation responded by smiling deeply, satisfied that one of their young people had made this decision, as it was their duty to teach. I was excited to go the next night. I felt very grown up now and serious about my faith. Once again, we sang hymns, heard a sermon and the minister invited people to the altar where they could offer their lives to Jesus. There were three of us the night of my conversion experience. But this very next night, those other two went again. And the next night. I was confused. What could have happened in the 24 hours in between that they lost their faith and needed to come back and confess and do it all over again? How could, or rather, why would, someone go back and try to repeat such an experience again? I was reminded of that childhood experience when I read the gospel text for today of an experience that can’t be fully understood and certainly not repeated. Today is officially Transfiguration Sunday, always the last Sunday before Lent. Trans-what? Not transformation or transition. Those would be easier to explain than Jesus was “transfigured.” Every year on Transfiguration Sunday, a version of this gospel text from either Matthew, Mark, or Luke is told. The fact that all three gospels include this story means it’s important. Why it’s important is still debated. The question begins with what was it. Some ideas that have been suggested include: It’s a misplaced resurrection narrative. It’s an example of a divine revelation. It’s a tale from the Hellenistic mystery tradition. Or it’s an example of an epiphany, or a theophany, or a Christophany. Theologians love such big words. And pastors like to use such big words to sound like we earned our education. Did you know that in seminary we don’t take a course called Sermon Writing 101? It’s called “Homiletics.” And right now, I’m engaging in “hermeneutical interpretation,” which means I’m applying scripture to real life. Somehow, I think congregations might be better served by classes simply called “How to Write a Good Sermon.” Transfiguration. A story told in three gospels but a word only used by Matthew and Mark. Luke tells the story but must have learned in Sermon Writing 101 that the meaning of the word transfiguration isn’t very clear so he simply described what happened: “As Jesus was praying, the appearance of his face changed and his clothes flashed white like lightning.” That still leaves the question why. What’s the point? Why does it matter? And more importantly, what to do with it. What did this experience lead the disciples to do? Or not do? And why does it matter to us? After we’ve had a powerful experience, what’s the first thing we might want to do? Do it again. And again. But sadly, with diminishing results if it doesn’t lead us to something else. Like Peter, we may also want to stay there, never leave, or build a memorial to what happened on that spot. “Let’s construct three shines,” Peter said. But I think his idea to stay might have had more to do with not wanting to go back down the mountain. Not because the mountaintop was so great but because what was waiting was so terrifying. Any story like this needs context. What happened before and what happens next? Shortly before, Jesus told the disciples “the Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scholars, be killed and raised on the third day.” It was the first of three times Jesus told the disciples. They never liked hearing it. Who would?! Then Jesus added, “All who want to come along must say no to themselves, take up their cross daily, and follow me.” Follow me to… what was that? Suffering, rejection, and death. About 8 days after this, Jesus took Peter, James, and John up on a mountain and he was “transfigured.” His face and his appearance changed right before them. I’ve always wondered if that wasn’t the moment Jesus went to his own altar to say finally yes. He said, “I’ll go” and felt peace – his heart strangely warmed. Then they saw Jesus talking with Moses and Elijah – a very intentional detail. You may recall that Jesus said the commandment to love was the fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets. That’s what Moses and Elijah represent. Anyway, with all suffering, rejection, and death on the horizon, no wonder Peter suggested they stay up there. I’d want to too. I love mountaintop experiences. You’ve had them but might not have called them that. Those epic and rare moments where something amazing happens. Or changes something within us, or maybe even changes everything. Perhaps it’s gaining insight or a new perspective. That split second where everything comes into focus. Maybe a job change, ending a toxic relationship, sobriety. Often, they are spiritual highs. Or maybe rock bottom. Summer camp was almost always like a mountaintop experience, from which I never wanted to go home. But going home or going forward is the point. It’s not to build a shelter or memorial to the experience. What do we do with the amazing experience, or insight, or spiritual high? It’s not to try and re-create it again but use them for a new chapter in our life. It was also when I was 7 years old that I remember the first time I shook the hand of a Black man. Also in that idyllic little church in North Dakota. It was 1972 and Mr. Treadwell’s son was marrying a young woman in our church. Looking back now I marvel at what it must have felt like for him to be a Black man in that church at the crossroads of two gravel roads in 1972 – only 5 years after the Supreme Court made inter-racial marriage legal in all 50 states. And I wonder how the congregation felt about an inter-racial marriage in their church, but if they felt something, I doubt they would have said anything too loud. The bride was the daughter of one of the most respected men in the church. My Sunday School teacher. My dad’s best friend. But here’s what I remember about shaking Mr. Treadwell’s hand. It felt like mine. I have no idea what else I might have thought it would feel like, but I remember marveling at how it was the same. Juanita asked me to share that story. For Black History Month she wanted me to share why Black Lives Matter so much to me. I’ve been reflecting all week on whether there was a mountaintop moment that changed everything when I went back down? I moved to Minneapolis to go to seminary in 1987 but I also moved there to be gay. I came out in college in South Dakota, one of probably 2 or 3 students who wouldn’t dare be seen together on our campus of 500. But once I moved to Minneapolis I was free to explore who I am – or could be – and make friends. There were a number of gay bars where someone new in town could go to meet people, except that I don’t like bars. I’m really shy, uncomfortable and incredibly self-conscious in situations like that. Still, in those days, that’s where you went. Among all those bars was The Gay 90s – a complex of bars under one roof with areas that different groups hung out together. Wandering around alone, my self-conscious awkward self always welcomed into the area of the bar where Black men hung out, not at all aware they didn’t feel welcome in other parts of the bar. But in their space, they made me feel included. But I had no clue what their lives were really like. We were really just acquaintances, not friends. That changed when I moved to Washington, DC. I attended a Martin Luther King Day worship service at Peoples Congregational UCC and met a man who invited me to dinner to meet some of his friends. They instantly took me in as a member of their family. It was extraordinary. And I was exposed to a whole new world of foods and customs and books and TV shows. And church. Very unlike the quiet dry church of my youth, every Sunday seemed filled with transcendent experiences. Every Sunday had an altar call, but I never went forward. I did that when I was 7 and I thought it still applied. At church on Sunday morning and at the dinner table on Sunday night, I heard stories about small slights and big injustices that happened in the normal course of a Black man’s life. They weren’t teaching me, they were just talking about life. So in between I read James Baldwin, learned about Bayard Rustin, and so forth. I loved those men. How could I not care about what happened to them and their families and their communities? Their lives mattered. I hated to leave but I moved to Cleveland and when I started serving a church there I knew I wanted to build a community of all races and cultures, but the biggest impediment was the church. Everything about it was white – how it was organized, worship, even the food afterward was white. And quiet. It took 10 years to shift the culture until people of all races felt like they were represented in such things as worship, music, and food. When I left after 15 years, one-third of the church were People of Color. It was deliberate and hard and totally worth it. And, of course, it was in Cleveland that I met Art. Difficult for it not to be personal after that. Six years later we moved to Denver and started all over again building a more diverse congregation. But this time it was with Lance. How could my activism not go deeper as I watched our own young Black man drive off in his car, down the same streets by the church where another teenage Black man had been pulled over and nearly beaten to death by the police. They got off scot-free. The city paid out a million dollars. The same officers did it again, and are still on the streets. Denver has paid out more money from losing civil suits like these than almost any city except Baltimore. The church was also around the corner where another young woman of color was shot by police. We hosted a controversial memorial service for her and ultimately became the place where groups went to organize for racial justice. It seemed like my life was transformed every week. So when I think back, when did this racial justice journey start? Maybe it was at age 7 when I shook Mr. Treadwell’s hand in the same church and in the same year as I chose to make Jesus Christ my personal Savior. The same Jesus who told his disciples that he would “suffer many things and be rejected and be killed and be raised on the third day. And anyone who wants to come along with me must say no to themselves, take up their cross daily, and follow me.” That’s not about feeling good. That’s about doing good. Which, by the way, what happened after the transfiguration? Down below, Jesus and the disciples soon came upon a road. A crossroads. “That” road. That dreaded road which goes in the direction of Jerusalem and would set in motion all those things they would have preferred to avoid by building shrines instead. The time had come. Therefore, the story each year we tell on our last Sunday before Lent. But today is to party.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorI love being a Archives
March 2024
|