Finding God on the Mountain and in the Valley

Perhaps because I didn’t grow up in the Episcopal tradition or in a tradition that followed the Revised Common Lectionary, there are certain rhythms of the liturgical year I can often feel like I’m learning for the very first time.

Take, for instance, Transfiguration Sunday. It wasn’t until I neglected to preach on the transfiguration of Christ on the last Sunday of Epiphany that I realized the significance of both the passage and the date.

My moment of neglect went something like this:

When the retired priest walked to the front of the sanctuary read the Gospel, I realized my mistake. The passage I had written a sermon for was not the passage he read from the text. Sure, there were several interwoven themes that could have worked for either text, but my sermon was not based on a holy man named Jesus who stood atop a mountain next to Moses and Elijah, clothes made a dazzling, glittering white, while the God of heaven boomed down poignant declarations about him.

Mine was about another passage entirely.

My face flushed, questions abounding in my mind: should I apologize to the congregants for my mistake, but still preach the sermon I had prepared? Should I not say anything at all and just carry on as usual? Should I come up with a new sermon on the spot, and simply speak from my heart?

His eyes closed in a moment of holy and quiet reverie, my rector was of no help to my quandary, at least not in the moment. As it goes, I made the split-second decision to inform everyone in the room of my mistake. I ushered a quick apology, and then I carried on with the words already written for our time together that morning.

To some, my mistake was laughable, a minor error on the part of someone who is still learning the rhythms of the church calendar. To my rector, it didn’t matter whether I apologized, let alone said anything about the mishap at all: my job was to speak the words God had given me to speak, even if those words didn’t align exactly. But to the retired priest, the mix-up was unfathomable.

“It’s Transfiguration Sunday! The transfiguration always comes before Lent!”

I remember shrugging my shoulders. This I did not know. This I would learn and remember.

“Jesus is on a mountain,” he said, fists pummeling the air, like a boxer. “But then he comes down. He doesn’t stay on the mountain, but he comes down to the valley. The transfiguration ushers us into Lent. There is significance in the text and the timing of this passage!”

I nodded my head, his passion washing over me. I would not soon forget his words, nor would I let slip the message behind his thoughts.

 Transfiguration by Kelly Latimore, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN

Because, as often is the case when we make a mistake, we learn from our mistakes. Mistakes can serve as a catalyst for change, as a way to pivot and tunnel new ways forward—or even as a way to learn something new and perhaps do better the next time around.

Why, then, is this passage so significant that it is always preached on the Sunday before the Lenten season begins? Why does it matter that Jesus doesn’t stay on the mountain but comes down to the valley, once again?

Although this event happened several years ago, I am still discovering answers to some of those initial questions. Somewhere along the way, an article from author Debie Thomas helped connect the pieces of the puzzle together:

Having seen the brightness of Epiphany, we prepare now for the holy darkness of Lent.  We can’t know ahead of time what mountains and valleys lie ahead.  We can’t predict how God will speak, and in what guise Jesus might appear.  But we can trust in this: whether on the brightest mountain, or in the darkest valley, Jesus abides.  Even as he blazes with holy light, his hand remains warm and solid on our shoulders.  Even when everything else we’re counting on disappears, Jesus remains among us — Jesus alone.

It’s so easy to get caught up in a mountain-top kind of spirituality, when it’s easy to love God and to walk in the ways of Jesus because we feel good after hearing an encouraging sermon or being moved by a powerful piece of music.

Was it not any different for Jesus? When the power of God made manifest boomed through a hovering cloud and declared his standing in turn, I don’t doubt Jesus—and the three men who stood beside him—left changed by the holy encounter.

But as Thomas writes, they didn’t stay on the mountain for long: instead, all three Synoptic Gospels conclude with a story of returning to the valley and healing a demon-possessed boy. Because, “what happens in the ordinary trials and tribulations of human life is just as God-infused as the experiences that occur on faith’s mountaintops.”

Perhaps it’s the same for us, as we reflect back on Transfiguration Sunday and further step into the season of Lent.

Whether the rhythms of the church calendar are built into your bones or you’re still learning her ways, I believe we each one of us is invited to look for God in both the mountaintops and the valleys.

Because no matter what, we’re invited to simply see Jesus (Mark 9:8).