Be dazzled
Commentary
Theophany: a word we do not use today except in specialized classrooms, signals the "-phany" or appearance of God. Before we zero in on biblical revelation, it is important to note that many religions have appearances of gods. Mount Olympus, in ancient Greece, offered a thick Yellow Pages display of all sorts. Wagnerian opera often needs storms or mists on mountains in order to set the stage for gods. Even godless religions have "hierophanies," revelations of the sacred, on mountains. For American Buddhists, Mount Shasta in California is a pilgrimage site. And to Native Americans, mountains like Harned Peak are places where sages like Black Elk get their revelation and inspiration.
Why mountains? If God is "above," mountains are closer to God than are the plains. Second, visions work best where the air is thin and the brain is cleared of mundane ways of thinking. One gains perspective from a mountaintop, or, in storm or mist, even loses sight of earth below.
Mountains are major in the biblical landscapes. In the Exodus story the author does not worry about theories of the sacred, about traditions of "-phanies." We are simply brought up abruptly to a story that forces us to engage the very different world of the Bible. There is no way to expound this text without letting it invade our own mundane world with its force; naturalistic
explanations of what went on will satisfy no one. God is giving the Law, and that is an event so momentous that it needs special staging. "Come up to me on the mountain": the invitation signals that chipped and written versions of the divine word are to be offered. We need no carved stone today; we need the sense of the awesome.
2 Peter 1:16-21
There are two ways most efficiently to mess up the act of preaching on this text. The first way is to get into long discussions of authorship. It is clear that the text wants us to picture the Peter who was on the Mount of Transfiguration, in the Gospel text, as the author of this letter, yet most scholars say that such authorship was unlikely for this late letter. So: it belongs to "the school of Peter," and that's how they did things back then.
The second way is to revert to hoary debates about inspiration of the Old Testament scriptures (the only scriptures around when this text was written). Of course, of course, divine prophecy, being an utterance of the divine word, is "inspired." Of course, of course, when it is "enscripturated," which means enshrined in letters on pages, these capture the meaning of what it is to be "inspired." But there are no theories of inspiration being certified here. We can come to the point.
The point: the disciples "saw" and "heard" revelations of God in the person and work of Jesus. They knew the "prophetic messages" from the ancient Hebrew prophets, and now these were "more fully confirmed." Now in letters like these, they are playing "pass it on" to other generations. In some traditions, all passing-on is done by oral tradition. But here "prophecy" continues, and is captured and coded in writings, in scriptures. And those, we, who get to read and hear today become part of the "pass it on" tradition.
Haul in an insight from John 20:29, the Thomas story, a turning point in revelation history: from then on, which means now, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." That means a billion people or more, alive today, who use stories and witness about the revelation on mountains and, in a way, "are" there, are "blessed."
Matthew 17:1-9
During the week before we both preached, a pastor son and I on occasion used a telephone game which any of you can play with any of you, or even solitaire. I put that in the past tense because it became so much a part of instinct that we do not need to play it. Here's how: read the text. Then ask: "What do you expect almost every preacher to say about it?" Which is the same thing as "What do the listeners 'know' is almost surely to come at them? What is automatic?" In most cases we agree on the theme and know we don't have to preach it if it's that obvious.
Being obvious does not mean being beside the point. But we have to sneak up on the meaning. In the Transfiguration case you know you are going to hear, and be tempted to preach, about how good it is to be on the mountain but how good it is also to be on the plain. Good.
This time around, however, why not stress how really good it was for the disciples and is today for worshippers to forget about the plain, the ordinary, the mundane for a few minutes. Our lives have enough banality, prose, tedium, drabness and plotlessness, without our having to be nudged toward these. What we lack are the moments made available in the near silence of a circle of twenty worshippers, or the beauty of a sanctuary; the roar of the organ; the presence of fellow strugglers.
So, now, for a while, we can set up or find ourselves in a situation set up for the experience of a revelation. Matthew relishes talk about "dazzling" light, "bright" clouds. Christian people have a right that accompanies the gift of grace to be dazzled. The bright light can come on a lonely walk, in a serious conversation, during a moment of prayer. But with our words and sounds and silence we conjure a circumstance: "Be dazzled! You'll enjoy it. You have a right to it. God in Christ is present now."
The Lenten turn: having someone to blame for not taking it
Whatever else forty days of Lent meant to Christians past, it was a time for turning. They could have "carni-val," "good-bye to meat" orgies, but that meant they could not say "carni-hello" to meat as they were to follow the ways of Jesus toward suffering and execution.
Whatever else turning meant then and means now, it has to do less with turning sad than with turning around; less with being down in the dumps about faults than being on course about followership.
What kept and keeps people from turning around, rising out of the dumps, and following is the natural human impulse to blame others for failures to do so. In the Genesis story, from which all biblical and post-biblical accountings for evil derive, the villain is the crafty serpent. He knew all the right things to say and to which to point in order to get humans to disobey. The story is told, however, in a way that suggests that no one had to follow the worst course. In the second reading, the man Adam is a villain to match villainess Eve. He gets equal billing as the one "through whom sin came into the world," and in the third story even Jesus could have found a way to excuse the bad course, had he taken it: Satan was out there plaguing him.
Strange: having given these accounts of a snake, a man, and a devil, the biblical texts never let the believer use these outsiders, these others, as excuses. In all three stories, there is room for personal responsibility. If there were none, these would be charades, games, and shadow-play. Yet whenever they are read, people rise to them, knowing that something of their own contemporary fate is tied in with these ancient stories. I do not have to eat the particular fruit; I am responsible for my action in the world; the words Jesus quoted and used are available to me.
FIRST LESSON FOCUS
By James A. Nestingen
Exodus 24:12-18
Moses finally got what he was hoping for: a chance to look his Maker straight in the face. But not even 40 days of it could make him grasp what he had seen and heard. He was hardly down the mountain before the oblivion returned, turning the glory into a memory.
The Scriptures are hesitant about God's visibility. In all but the rarest exceptions, the conviction is that the sight of God in all of God's glory and majesty would be so overpowering as to kill the onlooker.
So when Moses first asked for a sight of God, God turned him down. It happened at the burning bush (Exodus 3). A fugitive, Moses had taken work as a shepherd to stay out of sight. God found him in the wilderness, appearing in a burning bush to call him to rescue his people.
Concerned about his credibility, Moses wasn't going to be satisfied with a mysterious voice in a bush. He wanted a sight of God. That time, God refused, but still gave him credit for asking. Moses was hidden in the cleft of a rock so that he could see God from behind. As Luther joked, God refused to show his face but showed Moses his [backside] instead.
This time, on Mount Sinai, the appearance is at God's invitation and for a larger purpose. God is in the process of handing down the law. So there is an exception to the rule: not only Moses, but Aaron and all of the leaders got to see God (25:9ff), with Moses disappearing into God's glory for the 40 days of conversation.
No doubt, God's favor for Moses and the giving of the law are enough to make this story stand on its own. But this is the end of Epiphany; Lent is already in the air, and with it the gospel. So there are some comparisons appropriate.
When Moses went down the mountain, he discovered that his long absence and all of the earthshaking events necessary to the authority of the law had scared his people into idolatry (32). Personally affronted at their sin against God, he threw down the tablets and turned the law loose on them.
Jesus went down the mountain for a different purpose. The gospel was not heralded amidst thunder, lightning and earthquakes. It became incarnate between a woman's knees, in the loving agony of childbirth. And when it was denied, it did not threaten and rage. Instead, knowing that it would be the death of him, Christ turned from the glorious conversation of the mountaintop, going his way to the death that awaited him. Moses' glory ended in oblivion. Christ's death became the beginning of all things.
Why mountains? If God is "above," mountains are closer to God than are the plains. Second, visions work best where the air is thin and the brain is cleared of mundane ways of thinking. One gains perspective from a mountaintop, or, in storm or mist, even loses sight of earth below.
Mountains are major in the biblical landscapes. In the Exodus story the author does not worry about theories of the sacred, about traditions of "-phanies." We are simply brought up abruptly to a story that forces us to engage the very different world of the Bible. There is no way to expound this text without letting it invade our own mundane world with its force; naturalistic
explanations of what went on will satisfy no one. God is giving the Law, and that is an event so momentous that it needs special staging. "Come up to me on the mountain": the invitation signals that chipped and written versions of the divine word are to be offered. We need no carved stone today; we need the sense of the awesome.
2 Peter 1:16-21
There are two ways most efficiently to mess up the act of preaching on this text. The first way is to get into long discussions of authorship. It is clear that the text wants us to picture the Peter who was on the Mount of Transfiguration, in the Gospel text, as the author of this letter, yet most scholars say that such authorship was unlikely for this late letter. So: it belongs to "the school of Peter," and that's how they did things back then.
The second way is to revert to hoary debates about inspiration of the Old Testament scriptures (the only scriptures around when this text was written). Of course, of course, divine prophecy, being an utterance of the divine word, is "inspired." Of course, of course, when it is "enscripturated," which means enshrined in letters on pages, these capture the meaning of what it is to be "inspired." But there are no theories of inspiration being certified here. We can come to the point.
The point: the disciples "saw" and "heard" revelations of God in the person and work of Jesus. They knew the "prophetic messages" from the ancient Hebrew prophets, and now these were "more fully confirmed." Now in letters like these, they are playing "pass it on" to other generations. In some traditions, all passing-on is done by oral tradition. But here "prophecy" continues, and is captured and coded in writings, in scriptures. And those, we, who get to read and hear today become part of the "pass it on" tradition.
Haul in an insight from John 20:29, the Thomas story, a turning point in revelation history: from then on, which means now, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." That means a billion people or more, alive today, who use stories and witness about the revelation on mountains and, in a way, "are" there, are "blessed."
Matthew 17:1-9
During the week before we both preached, a pastor son and I on occasion used a telephone game which any of you can play with any of you, or even solitaire. I put that in the past tense because it became so much a part of instinct that we do not need to play it. Here's how: read the text. Then ask: "What do you expect almost every preacher to say about it?" Which is the same thing as "What do the listeners 'know' is almost surely to come at them? What is automatic?" In most cases we agree on the theme and know we don't have to preach it if it's that obvious.
Being obvious does not mean being beside the point. But we have to sneak up on the meaning. In the Transfiguration case you know you are going to hear, and be tempted to preach, about how good it is to be on the mountain but how good it is also to be on the plain. Good.
This time around, however, why not stress how really good it was for the disciples and is today for worshippers to forget about the plain, the ordinary, the mundane for a few minutes. Our lives have enough banality, prose, tedium, drabness and plotlessness, without our having to be nudged toward these. What we lack are the moments made available in the near silence of a circle of twenty worshippers, or the beauty of a sanctuary; the roar of the organ; the presence of fellow strugglers.
So, now, for a while, we can set up or find ourselves in a situation set up for the experience of a revelation. Matthew relishes talk about "dazzling" light, "bright" clouds. Christian people have a right that accompanies the gift of grace to be dazzled. The bright light can come on a lonely walk, in a serious conversation, during a moment of prayer. But with our words and sounds and silence we conjure a circumstance: "Be dazzled! You'll enjoy it. You have a right to it. God in Christ is present now."
The Lenten turn: having someone to blame for not taking it
Whatever else forty days of Lent meant to Christians past, it was a time for turning. They could have "carni-val," "good-bye to meat" orgies, but that meant they could not say "carni-hello" to meat as they were to follow the ways of Jesus toward suffering and execution.
Whatever else turning meant then and means now, it has to do less with turning sad than with turning around; less with being down in the dumps about faults than being on course about followership.
What kept and keeps people from turning around, rising out of the dumps, and following is the natural human impulse to blame others for failures to do so. In the Genesis story, from which all biblical and post-biblical accountings for evil derive, the villain is the crafty serpent. He knew all the right things to say and to which to point in order to get humans to disobey. The story is told, however, in a way that suggests that no one had to follow the worst course. In the second reading, the man Adam is a villain to match villainess Eve. He gets equal billing as the one "through whom sin came into the world," and in the third story even Jesus could have found a way to excuse the bad course, had he taken it: Satan was out there plaguing him.
Strange: having given these accounts of a snake, a man, and a devil, the biblical texts never let the believer use these outsiders, these others, as excuses. In all three stories, there is room for personal responsibility. If there were none, these would be charades, games, and shadow-play. Yet whenever they are read, people rise to them, knowing that something of their own contemporary fate is tied in with these ancient stories. I do not have to eat the particular fruit; I am responsible for my action in the world; the words Jesus quoted and used are available to me.
FIRST LESSON FOCUS
By James A. Nestingen
Exodus 24:12-18
Moses finally got what he was hoping for: a chance to look his Maker straight in the face. But not even 40 days of it could make him grasp what he had seen and heard. He was hardly down the mountain before the oblivion returned, turning the glory into a memory.
The Scriptures are hesitant about God's visibility. In all but the rarest exceptions, the conviction is that the sight of God in all of God's glory and majesty would be so overpowering as to kill the onlooker.
So when Moses first asked for a sight of God, God turned him down. It happened at the burning bush (Exodus 3). A fugitive, Moses had taken work as a shepherd to stay out of sight. God found him in the wilderness, appearing in a burning bush to call him to rescue his people.
Concerned about his credibility, Moses wasn't going to be satisfied with a mysterious voice in a bush. He wanted a sight of God. That time, God refused, but still gave him credit for asking. Moses was hidden in the cleft of a rock so that he could see God from behind. As Luther joked, God refused to show his face but showed Moses his [backside] instead.
This time, on Mount Sinai, the appearance is at God's invitation and for a larger purpose. God is in the process of handing down the law. So there is an exception to the rule: not only Moses, but Aaron and all of the leaders got to see God (25:9ff), with Moses disappearing into God's glory for the 40 days of conversation.
No doubt, God's favor for Moses and the giving of the law are enough to make this story stand on its own. But this is the end of Epiphany; Lent is already in the air, and with it the gospel. So there are some comparisons appropriate.
When Moses went down the mountain, he discovered that his long absence and all of the earthshaking events necessary to the authority of the law had scared his people into idolatry (32). Personally affronted at their sin against God, he threw down the tablets and turned the law loose on them.
Jesus went down the mountain for a different purpose. The gospel was not heralded amidst thunder, lightning and earthquakes. It became incarnate between a woman's knees, in the loving agony of childbirth. And when it was denied, it did not threaten and rage. Instead, knowing that it would be the death of him, Christ turned from the glorious conversation of the mountaintop, going his way to the death that awaited him. Moses' glory ended in oblivion. Christ's death became the beginning of all things.
