Matthew 17:1-21
It was still dark as we climbed the stairs onto the flat rooftop. We laid out our mats and stood still as statues, facing east. Slowly, we raised our arms to the heavens. Even more slowly we lowered them in an arc, bending down to touch the concrete roof. We continued with the series of yoga asanas that make up the “suriya namaskara”–salutation to the sun.
Every morning we began our yoga practice greeting the sun before there was even a hint it would rise. As if in response, the sky would gradually lighten, and the outlines of the mountains would appear. As the sun emerged, the reflection of the snow on the mountaintops would shine through the clouds. Once or twice, the clouds lifted and we saw the jagged peaks of the Himalayas glowing in the glory of the sunrise.
Many of you have heard me talk about my first trip to India, in 1985, and my stay at the Jeevan Dhara ashram. Jeevan Dhara, Sanskrit for “Living Waters,” was part of a movement that engaged in Christian-Hindu dialog at the level of spiritual practice. Hatha yoga, meditation, chanting, communion seated in the lotus position, fasting on Fridays–the practices of the ashram drew upon the riches of Christian and Hindu contemplative traditions.
The ashram had a guru, but my real teacher was an Austrian priest who had come to India from South Africa. Father Seppji encouraged me to join him every morning and every evening for two hours of yoga and meditation. Seppji helped me learn to be present to the silence and to trust that the Spirit was at work even when my thoughts wouldn’t stop bouncing around. I felt something deep inside me begin to change. I am sure my face was glowing–a reflection of the beauty that surrounded me, an expression of the deep peace I felt inside.
I didn’t want it to end. Eventually, though, I had to head down the mountain, back to New Delhi, to fly to Kenya and then home.
I took a train back to the city. I sat on the wooden bench and maneuvered my body into a lotus position. I meditated all the way back to New Delhi, holding tight to the peace of the mountains. When I opened my eyes at the New Delhi train station, I felt that peace slip out of my grasp. The heat was stifling and the crowds were overwhelming, but I expected that. What I did not expect were the cries of the newspaper hawkers. “Air India jet explodes,” they cried out, in Hindi and English. The day before, I learned, a plane had exploded over the ocean, killing hundreds of people and setting the entire nation of India on edge. Home-grown terrorists claimed credit, the latest escalation in the ethnic violence that had been seething since the assassination of Indira Gandhi a year before. The news hit close to home—I was scheduled to fly the same airline a few days later.
I felt as though I had been plunged into a dark cloud. I struggled to make sense of what was happening around me. I struggled to make sense of my own experience of the previous three weeks. While I was soaking up beauty in an isolated ashram, hatred and vengeance were brewing around me. It seemed wrong to have felt such deep peace while the world was in such chaos. Was that peace real? Or was it an escape from reality? Now that I was back in New Delhi, where fear and confusion swirled in the air, could I–should I– reclaim the peace that had seemed to have changed my life?
I had felt the presence of God so powerfully on that mountaintop, and I had heard the message of God’s healing love from deep within the silence. Now, in the clamor of the city, in the noise of my unanswered questions, I knew God must be speaking to me again. At the time, I couldn’t figure out what God was saying.
***
My experience in India shapes how I hear our reading from Matthew’s gospel. The Transfiguration is not just about a brilliant moment of clarity on a mountaintop: it is about how God speaks to us on the mountain and in the valley.
This is a story about who Jesus is; even more, it is a story about what it means to be his disciple. Peter, like the other disciples, leaves everything to follow Jesus. He struggles to understand Jesus’ cryptic parables. He lies awake at night worrying about Jesus’ provocative tactics. He argues with Jesus’ predictions of what is to come. At long last, there on the mountaintop, is the clarity he yearns for. Jesus stands with Moses and Elijah—a clear expression of his role in the salvation of his people. Jesus’ face shimmers with a holy glow—clear evidence that he is the one sent by God. Peter longs to preserve this moment—proof for those who would challenge Jesus, reassurance for Peter that he is following the right guy. “Let’s build dwellings,” he blurts out, hoping for some way to hold tight to that glowing moment.
There’s no time to build dwellings. There is no way to hold tight to that shining experience. Once Peter names his yearning to make it last forever, the moment ends. A cloud overshadows Peter and his friends. They hear a voice, repeating the words heard at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” The voice adds a command: “Listen to him.”
When the cloud lifts, Jesus is standing beside them, looking profoundly ordinary. His robe is no longer dazzling white, but dirty from the hike. His face doesn’t shine like the sun; if there’s any glow, it’s from sweat.
They go down the mountain, absorbed in discussion about the role of Elijah. The theological conversation comes to an abrupt end when a distraught man accosts them. “Jesus, have mercy on my son.” He describes the child’s suffering and begs for help.
How far they have come from that mountaintop moment–from brilliant clarity to a cloudy mess. Jesus is frustrated that his disciples still don’t trust in God’s healing power. The disciples are frustrated with themselves: a child is suffering and they can’t figure out how to help.
Jesus heals the boy–one of those miracles we, like the disciples, can’t quite understand. Later, they ask Jesus why they couldn’t do it themselves. We tend to interpret his answer as a rebuke: “Because of your little faith.” But Jesus goes on. If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, he says, you can move mountains. You only have a little faith, and all it takes is a little faith.
His words are not a rebuke, but a promise. Yes, sometimes it feels as though you can’t do anything to make a difference. But God is powerful enough to work through your tiny seed of faith. Stay with it, Jesus says. Keep trying. Not on your own, but with God’s help, you can bring comfort to this child, healing to this world.
There, I imagine, in the valley, amidst suffering and frustration, Peter thinks back to the voice that spoke through the cloud: “This is my child, my beloved.” Not just shiny-faced on-the-mountain-top Jesus, but dusty, dirty, frustrated, compassionate Jesus. This, the voice says, is my chosen one. This is how I choose to live among you.
In that moment, I imagine, Peter also remembers that holy voice’s final imperative: “Listen to him.” Listen to Jesus’ promise that your little bit of faith is enough; listen to Jesus’ assurance that God can work through you.
***
Over the decades since my first trip to India, this biblical story has helped me make sense of how God was speaking to me both on the Jeevan Dhara mountaintop and in the valley.
In the midst of the clouds of confusion and fear in New Delhi in 1985, I heard many voices—the newspaper boys crying out, the murmurs of the crowd, the questions in my own head. After the holy quiet of the ashram, where the voice of God was so gentle, these voices felt jarring. Eventually I came to understand that they too were the voice of God, speaking to me in the midst of the cloud: “These are my children, my beloved. Listen to them.” I am here, God says, in the midst of the steaming, crowded city. I am here, among the turmoil and grief and fear. Listen to me. Listen for the promise that I am at work through your little bit of faith.
At the time, I wondered whether my stay at the ashram, with its peaceful beauty, was just an escape from real life. Now, I realize that I needed that time at the ashram to learn how to listen to God’s voice. The mountaintop clarity prepared me to hear the voice of God speaking in the cloudiness of the city. The purpose of spiritual practice is not to escape. It is simply to practice—to practice listening for the voice of God, so we may be attuned to God’s presence the rest of the time.
This Transfiguration story seems particularly relevant today. The turmoil and danger and distress around us feel overwhelming; the panic-inducing news cycle never slows down. It is hard to hold on to our tiny bit of faith in the power of God’s love; it is even harder to trust that God can work through our little faith to transform our world. I find myself alternating between the temptation to shut it all out and a sense of urgency that will not let me step away.
The biblical story, and my own experience decades ago in India, remind me that it is not an either-or. We all need time on the mountaintop—time to slow down, to be quiet, to step back from everyday life to gain fresh perspective. And then we are called back to the valley, prepared to listen for God’s voice in the cloudiness of our lives and our world. We are called back to listen for God’s voice in the struggle of a young family of asylum seekers, in the chanting of climate activists, in a family learning how to forgive, in a young man’s battle with depression.
Jesus invites us to climb the mountain, in order to nurture our mustard seed of faith. And Jesus walks down with us, to join the disciples in the valley, where children are suffering, koalas are dying, injustice is raging and our faith doesn’t seem big enough to matter. In both places, if we listen, we will hear Jesus’ voice promising us that our little faith is enough, assuring us that God can work through us to bring healing to our world. Amen.