Turning Point
Commentary
There is an ancient legend first told by Christians living in the catacombs under the streets of Rome which pictures the day when Jesus went back to glory after finishing all his work on earth. The angel Gabriel meets Jesus in heaven and welcomes him home. “Lord,” he says, “Who have you left behind to carry on your work?”
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
“But Lord,” says Gabriel, “what if they fail you?! What if they lose heart, or drop out?! What if things get too rough for them, and they let you down?!”
“Well”, says Jesus, “then all I’ve done will come to nothing!”
“But don’t you have a backup plan?!” Gabriel asks. “Isn’t there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?”
No, says Jesus, there’s no backup plan. The church is it. There’s nothing else.
“Nothing else?” says Gabriel. “But what if they fail?!”
And the early Christians knew Jesus’ answer. “They won’t fail, Gabriel,” he said. “They won’t fail!”
Isn’t that a marvelous thing?! Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They’re nothing in that world! They’re poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: “You won’t fail! You’re my people, and you won’t fail!”
Tony Campolo once told of a friend of his who was walking through the midway at a county fair when he met a tiny girl. She was carrying a great big fluff of cotton candy on a stick, almost as large as herself! He said to her, “How can a little girl like you eat all that cotton candy?!
“Well,” she said to him, “I’m really much bigger on the inside than I am on the outside!”
So it is with us. On the outside we seem to be nothing, like Jesus’ helpless disciples below the mountain of the Transfiguration, but on the inside, we are as big as the kingdom and the power and the glory of your God.
What would our neighborhood be without us? What would our area be like without the church of Jesus Christ? Where would our nation be without the conscience of the people of God? It’s not enough to be anti-abortion; you must be pro-life, and remind your community what real life, God’s life, is all about! It’s not enough to be against immorality; you have to be the conscience of society, turning its thoughts toward love and laughter and life! It’s not enough to protect your own interests; you have to speak out for the welfare of the poor and the disabled and the oppressed!
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18
Abram was an Aramaean from the heart of Mesopotamia, whose father Terah began a journey westward, which Abram continued upon his father’s death. Whatever Terah’s reasons might have been for moving from the old family village—restlessness, treasure seeking, displacement, wanderlust—Genesis 12 informs us that Abram’s continuation of the trek was motivated by a divine call to seek a land that would become his by providential appointment. This is the first of four similar divine declarations that occur in quick succession in chapters 12, 13, 15, and 17. Such repetition cues us to the importance of these theophanies, but it ought to also cause us to look more closely at the forms in which the promises to Abram are made.
In brief, Abram’s first three encounters with God are shaped literarily as royal grants. Only in Genesis 17 does the language of the dialogue change, and elements are added to give it the flavor of a suzerain-vassal covenant. This is very significant. When Abram receives royal grant promises of land or a son, he seems to treat these divine offerings with a mixture of indifference and skepticism. He immediately leaves the land of promise in Genesis 12 and connives with his wife, Sarai, and her handmaid, Hagar, to obtain an heir in Genesis 16. Even in the stories of Genesis 13–14, when Abram sticks with the land and fights others to regain his nephew Lot from them after local skirmishes and kidnappings, Abram turns his thankfulness toward a local expression of religious devotion through the mystical figure of Melchizedek (Genesis 14:18–20). Only when God changes the language of covenant discourse, bringing Abram into the partnership of a suzerain-vassal bond, does Abraham enter fidelity and commitment to this new world, new purpose, and new journey.
For Israel, standing at Mt. Sinai in the context of a suzerain-vassal covenant-making ceremony, the implications would be striking. First, the nation would see itself as the unique and miraculously born child fulfilling a divine promise. Israel could not exist were it not for God’s unusual efforts at getting Abram to make Sarai pregnant in a way that was humanly impossible. Second, the people were the descendants of a man on a divine pilgrimage. Not only was Abram en route to a land of promise, but he was also the instrument of God for the blessing of all the nations of the earth. In other words, Israel was born with a mandate, and that mission was globally encompassing.
Third, while these tribes had recently emerged from Egypt as a despised social underclass of disenfranchised slaves, they were actually landowners. Canaan was theirs for the taking because they already owned it! They would not enter the land by stealth, but through the front door; they would claim the land, not by surreptitious means or mere battlefield bloodshed, but as rightful owners going home. This would greatly affect their common psyche: They were the long-lost heirs of a kingdom, returning to claim their royal privilege and possessions.
Fourth, there was a selection that took place in the process of creating their identity. They were children of Abraham, but so were a number of area tribes and nations descending from Ishmael. What made Israel special was the uniqueness of its lineage through Isaac, the miraculously born child of Abram and Sarai’s old age. Israel had international kinship relations, but she also retained a unique identity fostered by the divine distinctions between diverging branches of the family. Fifth, in the progression of the dialogue between Yahweh and Abram, there was a call to engaged and deeper participation in the mission of God. As the story of Abram unfolded, it was clear that Abram’s commitment to God’s plans was minimal at best until the change from royal grants (Genesis 12, 13, 15) to the suzerain-vassal covenant of chapter 17. Each time Abram was given a gift, he seemingly threw it away, tried to take it by force, or manipulated his circumstances so that he controlled his destiny; only when God took formal ownership of both Abram and the situation through the suzerain-vassal covenant of Genesis 17 was there a marked change in Abram’s participation in the divine initiative. The renaming of Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah was only partly significant for the meaning of the names; mostly, they were a deliberate and public declaration that God owned them. To name meant to have power over, just as when a divine word created the elements of the universe in Genesis 1 and when Adam named the animals in Genesis 2. Furthermore, in the call to circumcise all the males of the family, God transformed a widely used social rite-of-passage symbol into a visible mark of belonging now no longer tied to personal achievements like battlefield wins or hunting success, but merely to the gracious goodness of God and participation in the divine mission.
But what was that divine mission? Only when Israel heard the rest of the covenant prologue, and then followed Moses to the promised land, would it become clear. Still, in recalling the tale of father Abraham in this manner, Genesis placed before Israel at Sinai a very important element of its profound identity: We came into this world miraculously as a result of a divine initiative to bless all the nations of the Earth; therefore, we are a unique people with the powerful backing of the Creator and are participating in a mission that is still in progress.
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Sometime in the spring of 57 AD, Paul arrived in Rome. While he was clearly a prisoner awaiting adjudication before Caesar himself, Paul was also a Roman citizen with rights and freedoms. And since the charges against him were sectarian (related to Jewish religious practices) rather than capital crimes, Paul was able to establish his own living circumstances within the larger palace precincts while remaining under a type of house arrest.
Likely in late 57 AD or early in 58, Epaphroditus, who had been serving as pastor or congregational leader in Philippi, brought Paul a significant gift from that church (Philippians 2:25; 4:10). It may have included both money and supplies; in any case, it greatly enhanced Paul’s comfort in his limited circumstances.
Epaphroditus stayed on with Paul for some time, assisting him as a servant. Unfortunately, Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died (Philippians 2:25–30) and only recently had returned to full health.
Paul believed that homesickness for Philippi and its congregation might have contributed to Epaphroditus’s grave illness and vowed to send him back as soon as he was able to travel. Of course, a letter of appreciation and encouragement was a necessary part of all these things, so Paul penned Philippians, probably sometime in early 58 AD.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul’s confinement, he was filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God was doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminded the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1–18). Another example of this selfless care was found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had sacrificed much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19–30). More encouragement to serve followed, with Paul reflecting on his own changes of behavior and value systems once he was gripped by the love of God in Jesus (Philippians 3). A few personal instructions and notes of appreciation round out the letter (Philippians 4).
Although other letters of Paul are more intentionally “theological,” this small epistle has a particularly wonderful poetic reflection encapsulating the entire ministry of Christ in a few lines (Philippians 2:6–11). Because of its condensed and hymnic character, some think Paul brought these verses into his letter from an early popular Christian song or creedal statement. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, the whole of this short book is lyrical and reaches for the superlatives in life through lines that are both economical and majestic: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things” (Philippians 4:8).
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43a)
The story of the Transfiguration tells us a number of critical things. First, it comes immediately on the heels of Peter’s great confession of Jesus’ identity. Only when Jesus’ disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than one among many itinerant rabbis, but truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter’s heart to say publicly is now shown in living technicolor as heaven and Earth kiss within the frame of Jesus’ body. This is clearly Luke’s understanding of the meaning of Jesus phrase “I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” in verse 27.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them, or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, Moses was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel’s national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh, and Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel’s life. By the time of Jesus, only the “law” (i.e., the first five books of today’s Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the Books of Moses or the Torah) and the “prophets” (i.e., the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The “writings” would be finalized later in the first century. So Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired literature. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire Word of God points to and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Third, Peter’s desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine, and Jesus’ refusal to allow that to happen is a reminder of the synoptic expression of Jesus’ journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fourth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just and dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect, and safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Fifth, immediately after the “mountaintop” exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. We go down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here, but the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement, but it points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers in training.
A strong New Testament theme is the idea that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth’s blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Application
There’s a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon’s seven-volume work, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden, and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391, he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God’s direction in his life. Although he didn’t know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God’s direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood, and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus couldn’t stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn’t the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena, and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. “In the name of Christ, forbear!”
The crowds laughed at the silly little man, and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned, and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence, and, for a moment, no one in the coliseum moved. Telemachus’ final words rang in their memories: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” At last they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God’s goodness.
Alternative Application (Luke 6:27-38)
During the time of the Reformation, John Foxe of England was impressed by the testimony of the early Christians. He gleaned the pages of early historical writings, and wrote a book that has become a classic in the church, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week, and that led to his death.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night, as he was out taking a stroll, they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he didn’t have it, that he had already given it all to the poor. They didn’t believe him, and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days, they would come to his house, and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence wasn’t alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms, and gestured to those who sat around him. “Here’s the treasure of the church!” he said. “Here’s the treasure of God that shines in the world!”
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, “You are the light of the world.” You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfiguration to those who desperately need it.
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
“But Lord,” says Gabriel, “what if they fail you?! What if they lose heart, or drop out?! What if things get too rough for them, and they let you down?!”
“Well”, says Jesus, “then all I’ve done will come to nothing!”
“But don’t you have a backup plan?!” Gabriel asks. “Isn’t there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?”
No, says Jesus, there’s no backup plan. The church is it. There’s nothing else.
“Nothing else?” says Gabriel. “But what if they fail?!”
And the early Christians knew Jesus’ answer. “They won’t fail, Gabriel,” he said. “They won’t fail!”
Isn’t that a marvelous thing?! Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They’re nothing in that world! They’re poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: “You won’t fail! You’re my people, and you won’t fail!”
Tony Campolo once told of a friend of his who was walking through the midway at a county fair when he met a tiny girl. She was carrying a great big fluff of cotton candy on a stick, almost as large as herself! He said to her, “How can a little girl like you eat all that cotton candy?!
“Well,” she said to him, “I’m really much bigger on the inside than I am on the outside!”
So it is with us. On the outside we seem to be nothing, like Jesus’ helpless disciples below the mountain of the Transfiguration, but on the inside, we are as big as the kingdom and the power and the glory of your God.
What would our neighborhood be without us? What would our area be like without the church of Jesus Christ? Where would our nation be without the conscience of the people of God? It’s not enough to be anti-abortion; you must be pro-life, and remind your community what real life, God’s life, is all about! It’s not enough to be against immorality; you have to be the conscience of society, turning its thoughts toward love and laughter and life! It’s not enough to protect your own interests; you have to speak out for the welfare of the poor and the disabled and the oppressed!
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18
Abram was an Aramaean from the heart of Mesopotamia, whose father Terah began a journey westward, which Abram continued upon his father’s death. Whatever Terah’s reasons might have been for moving from the old family village—restlessness, treasure seeking, displacement, wanderlust—Genesis 12 informs us that Abram’s continuation of the trek was motivated by a divine call to seek a land that would become his by providential appointment. This is the first of four similar divine declarations that occur in quick succession in chapters 12, 13, 15, and 17. Such repetition cues us to the importance of these theophanies, but it ought to also cause us to look more closely at the forms in which the promises to Abram are made.
In brief, Abram’s first three encounters with God are shaped literarily as royal grants. Only in Genesis 17 does the language of the dialogue change, and elements are added to give it the flavor of a suzerain-vassal covenant. This is very significant. When Abram receives royal grant promises of land or a son, he seems to treat these divine offerings with a mixture of indifference and skepticism. He immediately leaves the land of promise in Genesis 12 and connives with his wife, Sarai, and her handmaid, Hagar, to obtain an heir in Genesis 16. Even in the stories of Genesis 13–14, when Abram sticks with the land and fights others to regain his nephew Lot from them after local skirmishes and kidnappings, Abram turns his thankfulness toward a local expression of religious devotion through the mystical figure of Melchizedek (Genesis 14:18–20). Only when God changes the language of covenant discourse, bringing Abram into the partnership of a suzerain-vassal bond, does Abraham enter fidelity and commitment to this new world, new purpose, and new journey.
For Israel, standing at Mt. Sinai in the context of a suzerain-vassal covenant-making ceremony, the implications would be striking. First, the nation would see itself as the unique and miraculously born child fulfilling a divine promise. Israel could not exist were it not for God’s unusual efforts at getting Abram to make Sarai pregnant in a way that was humanly impossible. Second, the people were the descendants of a man on a divine pilgrimage. Not only was Abram en route to a land of promise, but he was also the instrument of God for the blessing of all the nations of the earth. In other words, Israel was born with a mandate, and that mission was globally encompassing.
Third, while these tribes had recently emerged from Egypt as a despised social underclass of disenfranchised slaves, they were actually landowners. Canaan was theirs for the taking because they already owned it! They would not enter the land by stealth, but through the front door; they would claim the land, not by surreptitious means or mere battlefield bloodshed, but as rightful owners going home. This would greatly affect their common psyche: They were the long-lost heirs of a kingdom, returning to claim their royal privilege and possessions.
Fourth, there was a selection that took place in the process of creating their identity. They were children of Abraham, but so were a number of area tribes and nations descending from Ishmael. What made Israel special was the uniqueness of its lineage through Isaac, the miraculously born child of Abram and Sarai’s old age. Israel had international kinship relations, but she also retained a unique identity fostered by the divine distinctions between diverging branches of the family. Fifth, in the progression of the dialogue between Yahweh and Abram, there was a call to engaged and deeper participation in the mission of God. As the story of Abram unfolded, it was clear that Abram’s commitment to God’s plans was minimal at best until the change from royal grants (Genesis 12, 13, 15) to the suzerain-vassal covenant of chapter 17. Each time Abram was given a gift, he seemingly threw it away, tried to take it by force, or manipulated his circumstances so that he controlled his destiny; only when God took formal ownership of both Abram and the situation through the suzerain-vassal covenant of Genesis 17 was there a marked change in Abram’s participation in the divine initiative. The renaming of Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah was only partly significant for the meaning of the names; mostly, they were a deliberate and public declaration that God owned them. To name meant to have power over, just as when a divine word created the elements of the universe in Genesis 1 and when Adam named the animals in Genesis 2. Furthermore, in the call to circumcise all the males of the family, God transformed a widely used social rite-of-passage symbol into a visible mark of belonging now no longer tied to personal achievements like battlefield wins or hunting success, but merely to the gracious goodness of God and participation in the divine mission.
But what was that divine mission? Only when Israel heard the rest of the covenant prologue, and then followed Moses to the promised land, would it become clear. Still, in recalling the tale of father Abraham in this manner, Genesis placed before Israel at Sinai a very important element of its profound identity: We came into this world miraculously as a result of a divine initiative to bless all the nations of the Earth; therefore, we are a unique people with the powerful backing of the Creator and are participating in a mission that is still in progress.
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Sometime in the spring of 57 AD, Paul arrived in Rome. While he was clearly a prisoner awaiting adjudication before Caesar himself, Paul was also a Roman citizen with rights and freedoms. And since the charges against him were sectarian (related to Jewish religious practices) rather than capital crimes, Paul was able to establish his own living circumstances within the larger palace precincts while remaining under a type of house arrest.
Likely in late 57 AD or early in 58, Epaphroditus, who had been serving as pastor or congregational leader in Philippi, brought Paul a significant gift from that church (Philippians 2:25; 4:10). It may have included both money and supplies; in any case, it greatly enhanced Paul’s comfort in his limited circumstances.
Epaphroditus stayed on with Paul for some time, assisting him as a servant. Unfortunately, Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died (Philippians 2:25–30) and only recently had returned to full health.
Paul believed that homesickness for Philippi and its congregation might have contributed to Epaphroditus’s grave illness and vowed to send him back as soon as he was able to travel. Of course, a letter of appreciation and encouragement was a necessary part of all these things, so Paul penned Philippians, probably sometime in early 58 AD.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul’s confinement, he was filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God was doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminded the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1–18). Another example of this selfless care was found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had sacrificed much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19–30). More encouragement to serve followed, with Paul reflecting on his own changes of behavior and value systems once he was gripped by the love of God in Jesus (Philippians 3). A few personal instructions and notes of appreciation round out the letter (Philippians 4).
Although other letters of Paul are more intentionally “theological,” this small epistle has a particularly wonderful poetic reflection encapsulating the entire ministry of Christ in a few lines (Philippians 2:6–11). Because of its condensed and hymnic character, some think Paul brought these verses into his letter from an early popular Christian song or creedal statement. Perhaps so. Nevertheless, the whole of this short book is lyrical and reaches for the superlatives in life through lines that are both economical and majestic: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things” (Philippians 4:8).
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43a)
The story of the Transfiguration tells us a number of critical things. First, it comes immediately on the heels of Peter’s great confession of Jesus’ identity. Only when Jesus’ disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than one among many itinerant rabbis, but truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter’s heart to say publicly is now shown in living technicolor as heaven and Earth kiss within the frame of Jesus’ body. This is clearly Luke’s understanding of the meaning of Jesus phrase “I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” in verse 27.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them, or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, Moses was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel’s national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh, and Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel’s life. By the time of Jesus, only the “law” (i.e., the first five books of today’s Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the Books of Moses or the Torah) and the “prophets” (i.e., the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The “writings” would be finalized later in the first century. So Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired literature. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire Word of God points to and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Third, Peter’s desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine, and Jesus’ refusal to allow that to happen is a reminder of the synoptic expression of Jesus’ journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fourth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just and dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect, and safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Fifth, immediately after the “mountaintop” exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. We go down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here, but the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement, but it points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers in training.
A strong New Testament theme is the idea that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth’s blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Application
There’s a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon’s seven-volume work, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden, and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391, he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God’s direction in his life. Although he didn’t know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God’s direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood, and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus couldn’t stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn’t the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena, and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. “In the name of Christ, forbear!”
The crowds laughed at the silly little man, and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned, and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence, and, for a moment, no one in the coliseum moved. Telemachus’ final words rang in their memories: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” At last they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God’s goodness.
Alternative Application (Luke 6:27-38)
During the time of the Reformation, John Foxe of England was impressed by the testimony of the early Christians. He gleaned the pages of early historical writings, and wrote a book that has become a classic in the church, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week, and that led to his death.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night, as he was out taking a stroll, they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he didn’t have it, that he had already given it all to the poor. They didn’t believe him, and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days, they would come to his house, and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence wasn’t alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms, and gestured to those who sat around him. “Here’s the treasure of the church!” he said. “Here’s the treasure of God that shines in the world!”
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, “You are the light of the world.” You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfiguration to those who desperately need it.
