“Down Here”
Luke 9:28-43a
Selections from Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speech in Memphis, Tennessee, April 3, 1968. (See text at bottom of post)
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
February 27, 2022
“You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?” Such harsh words from Jesus. He takes three disciples up the mountain, leaving the rest of them down in the valley, without a leader. While he is gone, a man brings his son to those remaining disciples—a little boy seized by what seemed to be an evil spirit, shrieking and foaming at the mouth. They don’t know what to do. Then Jesus comes down from the mountain, snarls at them, and heals the child.
I’d like to ask Jesus to be a little nicer to his disciples, especially since I’m trying to be one of them. If I take a deep breath and listen beneath his frustration, I realize he is saying something extraordinary about his disciples and, by extension, about us. He believes that God’s healing power can work through ordinary human beings like his disciples, ordinary human beings like us. So in that moment, when confronted with a little boy in distress, what gets in the way of these disciples becoming channels of God’s healing power?
As I ponder that question, I think about the many gospel healing stories. Each one is different; there’s no formula for healing. There is, though, a common thread that runs through many of the stories. Jesus looks deep into the person—deeper than the illness, deeper than the way society has defined them, deeper even than their own self-definition. When everyone around sees a leper, Jesus looks beneath the skin disease to see a whole person, a beloved child of God. Jesus reaches out to call that human-being-who-happens-to-have-leprosy to claim their wholeness. Whether we interpret Jesus’ healings as physical miracles or transformations of a person’s self-perception, the heart of Jesus’ healing power is his capacity to look beneath what everyone else sees and call forth the whole human being, the beloved child of God, the sacred gift that person brings to the world.
Maybe, in the absence of their teacher, in the fog of the valley, the disciples can’t get past their perception of this child’s illness to see the child as God’s beloved. Jesus’ angry outburst, perhaps, reflects his frustration that, after all their time with him, his disciple don’t remember to look deeper than the surface.
It’s striking to me that the mountaintop story of the Transfiguration is paired with this story of suffering and healing in the valley. It’s also striking that the perceptions of the disciples are central to both stories. What do the disciples see? How do they respond?
Peter, along with John and James, goes up the mountain with Jesus. There, removed for a moment from the struggles of ordinary living, he sees a vision. Jesus is radiant, light emanating from the center of his being, so brilliant even his clothes shimmer. The light of God shines from within him. I believe this vision is meant to show Peter that God’s light radiates from all God’s beloved. Peter doesn’t want to leave. Here, he thinks, God’s love and light shine so clear.
In the meantime, Peter’s friends are down in the valley, on their own, facing a very different picture. They see a little boy whose suffering is so overwhelming they can’t see anything else. They see what they assume is a demon, and then they stop looking. They turn away—maybe because it’s too painful to watch, maybe because they feel so powerless. They turn away without looking deeper to see the light of God shining in that little boy.
Peter sees the brilliance of the mountaintop and doesn’t want to go down. His friends see only suffering in the valley. Jesus brings the vision of the mountaintop into the valley. Jesus looks deeper than the child’s suffering and sees the light of God in him. He says to the demon, “Oh no, you don’t get to define this child’s life; he is defined by God’s love.” Then he calls the beloved child of God to come forth and claim his wholeness.
This pairing of mountaintop and valley vision echoes throughout Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr’s final speech. I love that the speech commonly referred to as the mountaintop speech is given in support of a strike of sanitation workers, people whose work brings them into the messiest parts of human living in the valley. The impetus for their strike was the death of two sanitation workers crushed by malfunctioning, poorly maintained city equipment. The tragedy revealed the extent to which the city of Memphis disregarded the value of their lives. It was clear that, in the eyes of the wider society, these Black lives did not matter.
The movement Dr. King is supporting emerged from the workers’ refusal to accept society’s definition of their worth. They looked deeper than what society tried to tell them about themselves; they claimed the light of God within. As Dr. King says, “We are determined to be people. We are saying—we are saying that we are God’s children. And that we are God’s children; we don’t have to live like we are forced to live.”
Dr. King’s challenge to the people gathered for his speech—especially the ones who are not themselves sanitation workers—is to look deeper than the fog of society’s twisted perception of worth and see the light of God in the person who collects their trash. He isn’t asking the crowd to heal the sanitation workers—they have already experienced the healing that came from claiming their worth. He asks the crowd to stand with the workers, to build a movement that will heal and transform society’s distorted vision of who has worth.
In one part of the speech, Dr. King directly addresses preachers. “It’s all right to talk about ‘long white robes over yonder,’ he says, but ultimately people need suits and dresses and shoes “down here.” That mountaintop vision—the light of God emanating from within each of us through our shiny robes—is powerful, but only if it is brought into the valley, only if it shapes the way we see and treat each other right here, right now.
As the speech comes to a close, Dr. King talks about the mountain. “[God has] allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land.” His words evoke a different biblical story: Moses, after leading his people through the wilderness, climbs a mountain and sees the promised land, knowing he will not live to get there himself.
For Dr. King, the promised land is not a place. What he sees from the vantage point of the mountain is not some future promised land but the promise of this land—the promise of the people gathered that night. He sees the light of God shining through sanitation engineers who refuse to accept society’s definition of their worth. He sees the light of hope in people willing to miss school and work to stand with their neighbors. As the vision from the mountaintop is brought into the valley, he challenges the people gathered that night to look deeper than society’s narrow perceptions to see and celebrate and stand up for the light of God shining through every one of us.
Two thousand years ago, Jesus climbed a mountain and healed a child in the valley. Fifty-eight years ago, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. challenged a crowd to support sanitation workers claiming their dignity as God’s beloved. Today, these two texts speak to us as we seek to follow Jesus, as we seek to put justice and love into action. Jesus calls us up to the mountain—to wherever we go to awaken to the holy shining through our world. And then Jesus calls us to bring that vision back with us to the valley, to look in and through the suffering of our world and keep looking until we see the holy breaking through. Jesus promises that when we bring mountain and valley together, when we awaken to that deeper vision, we become part of God’s work healing and transforming our world.
This past week, I feel as though I am trapped in a fog deep in the valley of our human brokenness. As I watch the news, I am outraged. I am horrified. I am heart-broken for the people of Ukraine. I skirt the edge of despair about the future of our world. I listen non-stop to pundits analyzing what possible responses from world leaders might make a difference without plunging us into nuclear war. None of the options sounds good.
What does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus this week? What does it mean this week to draw inspiration from Dr. King and try to put justice and love into action? I struggle to answer these questions. Today’s readings give me a starting point.
Jesus calls us up to the mountaintop—not to escape the valley but to clear our eyes. He calls us to find the places and practices that reawaken us to the light of God shining in our world. It might be a walk in the snowy woods. A ten-minute lovingkindness meditation. Listening to music. Singing with your friends. Reading poetry. Gazing at a beautiful painting. Playing with your grandchildren. What is it, for you, that opens you to experience the light of God, the love of God, the peace of God? Take some time this week to go there.
Then follow Jesus down the mountain, back into the valley. Bring that mountaintop vision with you. Look around. When all you can see is the fog of suffering and destruction, look deeper. When you are overwhelmed by the pain of a child convulsing and shrieking, resist the temptation to look away. Look deeper, until you see the light of God shining in her. When you are overwhelmed by the horror of cities being bombed and refugees fleeing their homes, look deeper. Look for the light of God shining in the person who stands fast in the face of danger. Look for the light of God in those incredibly brave protesters in Russia. Look for the light of God in people who pray. Look for the light of God in the moments when political leaders try to figure out what can help. Keep looking—occasionally up in the mountain, most of the time in the valley.
Remember Jesus’ frustrated outburst I quoted at the beginning of this sermon? Behind his frustration is his conviction that God works through ordinary people like his disciples, ordinary people like us, to bring healing and transformation to a broken world. Our healing power doesn’t come from some magic formula; it comes from the capacity to see through the fog, to see and call forth the light of God in each person we meet, in each situation we encounter.
That is our starting point: vision. We start by bringing the mountain vision to the valley. We practice looking deeper. We practice discovering the light of God in the fog of suffering. We dare to trust that as we look deeper, we will awaken to the ways we can call forth healing and transformation in this broken world. Amen.
Excerpts from the speech Rev. Dr. MLK, Jr. gave on April 3, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee, in encouragement of the Memphis sanitation worker strike.
Something is happening in Memphis; something is happening in our world. And you know, if I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of taking a kind of general and panoramic view of the whole of human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, “Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?” I would take my mental flight by Egypt and I would watch God’s children in their magnificent trek from the dark dungeons of Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land. And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn’t stop there.
I would move on by Greece and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon. And I would watch them around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality. But I wouldn’t stop there.
I would even go by the way that the man for whom I am named had his habitat. And I would watch Martin Luther as he tacked his ninety-five theses on the door at the church of Wittenberg. But I wouldn’t stop there.
I would come on up even to 1863, and watch a vacillating President by the name of Abraham Lincoln finally come to the conclusion that he had to sign the Emancipation Proclamation. But I wouldn’t stop there.
Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, “If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the 20th century, I will be happy.”
Now that’s a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land; confusion all around. That’s a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding.
Something is happening in our world. The masses of people are rising up. And wherever they are assembled today, whether they are in Johannesburg, South Africa; Nairobi, Kenya; Accra, Ghana; New York City; Atlanta, Georgia; Jackson, Mississippi; or Memphis, Tennessee — the cry is always the same: “We want to be free.”
And that’s all this whole thing is about. We aren’t engaged in any negative protest and in any negative arguments with anybody. We are saying that we are determined to be men. We are determined to be people. We are saying — We are saying that we are God’s children. And that we are God’s children, we don’t have to live like we are forced to live.
Now, what does all of this mean in this great period of history? It means that we’ve got to stay together. We’ve got to stay together and maintain unity. You know, whenever Pharaoh wanted to prolong the period of slavery in Egypt, he had a favorite, favorite formula for doing it. What was that? He kept the slaves fighting among themselves. But whenever the slaves get together, something happens in Pharaoh’s court, and he cannot hold the slaves in slavery. When the slaves get together, that’s the beginning of getting out of slavery. Now let us maintain unity.
Secondly, let us keep the issues where they are. The issue is injustice. The issue is the refusal of Memphis to be fair and honest in its dealings with its public servants, who happen to be sanitation workers..
It’s all right to talk about “long white robes over yonder,” in all of its symbolism. But ultimately people want some suits and dresses and shoes to wear down here! It’s all right to talk about “streets flowing with milk and honey,” but God has commanded us to be concerned about the slums down here, and his children who can’t eat three square meals a day. It’s all right to talk about the new Jerusalem, but one day, God’s preacher must talk about the new New York, the new Atlanta, the new Philadelphia, the new Los Angeles, the new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do.
Now, let me say as I move to my conclusion that we’ve got to give ourselves to this struggle until the end. Nothing would be more tragic than to stop at this point in Memphis. We’ve got to see it through. And when we have our march, you need to be there. If it means leaving work, if it means leaving school — be there. Be concerned about your brother. You may not be on strike. But either we go up together, or we go down together.
Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you.
Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!
And so I’m happy, tonight.
I’m not worried about anything.
I’m not fearing any man!
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!!