This is What We Came For

Transfiguration 2017  year A

Based on Matthew, Chapter 17

            Being new to Texas, I have gotten plenty of suggestions for places we ‘have to’ see, and believe me, we are making a list – and we plan to hit as many as possible!

            Before coming here, though, my husband and I used to make an annual trip up to the North shore of Lake Superior for a few days.

            We could take the dog, get a little exercise, and there is some pretty awesome scenery there too.

            We like to hike, especially short hikes, well, actually VERY short hikes, preferably a short hike up to a scenic overlook.

            So one day we drove up one of the roads up into the hills – the closest thing to a mountain in that area – and stopped to look around.

            The view wasn’t so spectacular, despite the height, so we wandered around a little, and discovered an arrow with a sign pointing to a trail.

            We both needed the exercise, so we decided to take the trail for a little while and see where it might lead.

            We walked a little while, and then walked a little farther, and then we walked a little farther yet.

            We kept wondering when we were going to see something, when a gorgeous view was going to appear before us.  But it never did.  After about ½ hour we turned around and walked the other direction.

            We both agreed that we didn’t really see anything, but the hike wasn’t a total loss, because we did get some exercise.

            I suppose that we were looking for some sort of unmistakable sign – some gorgeous sight – a panorama, a vista – to have a feeling of “This is it!  This is what I came for!  I came to see this!”

            But we didn’t get it.

            Later I did a little internet research and found that we were actually on a very small segment of the Superior Hiking Trail.

            The Superior Hiking Trail is a 296 mile long footpath running from Duluth up to the Canadian border.

            The ads say that the hike includes a lot of spectacular views, especially of Lake Superior.

            But I suspect that you have to stay on it for more than ½ hour, in order to get that feeling of:  “This is it!  This is what I came for!”

            Just like I suspect that it would be a mistake for me to think – just because I’ve been a couple of places in Texas now – that I have really experienced and know what Texas is like.  Right?  I still have a lot to learn.

            But here today, on this last Sunday after Epiphany – called Transfiguration – well, those three disciples got that, didn’t they? 

            They went up on the mountain with Jesus, a human being like them, their friend and their teacher, and suddenly – there he was, GLOWING

            Transfigured – his face was like the sun, and his clothes were whiter than white, and Moses and Elijah – the two greatest prophets of all, are standing there, talking with him.

            Elijah – the prophet predicted to come to herald the Messiah.  And Moses – the one who led the people of Israel from Slavery to Freedom.

            THIS IS IT !  they must have thought.

            This is what we came for!

            We can call it a mountaintop experience, because literally, it did take place on a mountain, but it wasn’t just a spectacular view – no, it was a revelation.

            It was a revelation of Jesus’ true identity.

            The voice confirmed it.  “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well-pleased.”

            Coincidentally, these are the exact words that were spoken at Jesus’ baptism.

            And three more are added.

            “Listen to him.”

            Moses and Elijah are there to confirm that Jesus is indeed the one they are waiting for.  He looks like one of them, like their friend, like their teacher – and he is.

            But he is also the one who shines like the sun, the one who will save them, the one who will save us.

            It is easy to forget.

            It’s easy to forget when you come back down the mountain,

            To deal with everyday life,

            When you walk on those trails of life where – you know – you never see anything – just a few wildflowers, and some kind of berry – you’re not sure what it is – some rocks.

            It’s easy to forget when the path gets steep, and there are no great views, and – let’s face it – there might even be SNAKES.

            There is so much more than meets the eye, so much more than we see, so much more than we know.

           

            And when you are up there on the mountain – if you even get to be up there – it’s tempting to think, in that moment, THIS is what we came for.”

            This is it.  That vision.  That shining face.

            But you know – the vision only lasts for a moment, and only three of the disciples even get to see it.

            Only Peter, James and John.  Sometimes I wonder why that is.

            Sometimes I have been a little jealous – jealous of those who have been to mountains I haven’t been to,

            who have seen visions that I haven’t seen – who seem sure at times when I have doubted.

            Isn’t this what we came for, after all?

            Isn’t the mountaintop the point of it all?

            The vision only lasts for a moment – because that’s how visions are.

            Like a couple of weeks ago during worship –

            When I had the big basket and got out rhythm instruments for the first time

            … and asked the children to come forward.

            And they did –

            They ran up to the front .. and they picked up the instruments and started playing

            It was great!

            Sort of a vision of faith and joy and love!

            Or the day when the little kids all unwrapped Bibles

            And someone unwrapped her Bible and shouted, “I got Jesus!”

            The truth!  A vision! 

            But not everyone got to see it.

            And it only lasted a moment.

            The vision those three disciples had – it only lasts for a moment, although the words linger.  “This is my beloved son with whom I am well-pleased.”

            And then the disciples go back down the mountain, where they will greet the suffering world,

            Where they will walk the paths where everything seems ordinary, or hard,

            Where they will fight among themselves about who is the greatest, where they will follow him,

            And keep following him, even though his face is not shining.

            This is my beloved son.  Listen to him.

            And so they follow him, and do you know – when Jesus goes to the garden of Gethsemane, to pray before he is arrested – it is those three disciples who are also invited.

            They are invited to watch and pray, to see his face as he struggles with fear.

            And they can’t do it.  They fail.

            The same three disciples who saw him shining, now they see him in darkness.

            This is what we came for.  Is this what we came for?

            Today, on the last day of epiphany, we hold in our hearts the vision on the mountain – the one not everyone got to see.

            But this is not what we came for.

            We didn’t come for the vision, the momentary vision, the spectacular vista.

            We came for the everyday service.

            We came  for the whole, ordinary trail,

            All 296 miles of it.

            Where Jesus is with us always, to the end of the age.

            We came to hear the words

            “this is my beloved son, with whom I am well-pleased

            and to remember the words

            that he is with us always

            on the whole trail

            as we bend down to serve

            as we give a cup of cold water to a strangers.

            This is what we came for.

            We came to hear each other’s stories

            Stories of where we caught a glimpse of Jesus – on the mountains
            in the valleys

            In the faces of strangers,

            The faces of friends,

            The voices of children.

            Their faces are not shining, the but words are still true, “You are my beloved child”

            Because when Jesus reveals his own true identity, he reveals ours as well.

            See what love the father has given us, that we should be called children of God.  That is what we are.

            This is what we came for.  Amen

           

            

Back To School

Yesterday was the first day of school at the pre-school associated with my church.  It was also the first day of first grade for a small group of students, as we have decided to venture just rung up into grade school this year.

The school offers day care as well as school, so parents begin arriving early.  I had committed to be over at the school to welcome children and parents by 7:00 a.m., although after a busy Sunday morning and evening, that seemed more difficult to achieve.

I walked in a few minutes after 7:00, looking "casually pastoral".  I remembered last year being hectic, with many new students needing signatures and forms.  It seemed much more laid back yesterday morning, and I was wandering the hallways and wondering what to do when the skies outdoors opened up and it began to pour.

I watched as beleaguered parents arrived, trying to juggle children, umbrellas, diapers, mats for napping and assorted accessories for the school year.  It then became clear what my job was going to be this morning:  opening the door.

It was a simple, and as necessary, as that.  I picked up fallen items on occasion, held some hands, greeted people and held the door open.  I recognized old friends, cheered for the new first graders, pointed a few people in the direction of the school administrator, who could give directions to the right classroom.  And once (and this made my day) I got my picture taken with a new kindergarten student.  (Really, that moment was worth showing up for.)  But mostly, I just held the door open, and smiled.

It was enough.

Maybe that's what I do, after all:  hold the door open.  Maybe behind all of the fancy theology and studying, what I am called to do is to hold the door open so that people can walk in to the grace and goodness of God.  It's not me:  it's something beyond me and behind me, although I hope the Holy Spirit is also within me.  When I open the door to the pre-school, when I open my communion kit and take out the little cups, when I open up my own flawed life and share a a testimony, when I open my hands to serve -- I am holding the door open.

I'd like to say that this is uniquely part of my vocation as a pastor, but I know it isn't true.  We are all called to do it, although in different ways.  We are all called to hold the door open for one another, so that we can walk into the grace and mercy of God.  And we all need to have the door opened for us -- no one can do it on their own -- even me.

As it turns out, I never stop going back to school -- and the children are my teachers, who hold the door open for me.

Conversations

Sometimes I think that my real job is having conversations.

The other day the Office Manager buzzed my office phone.  "There is someone here who wants to talk to a pastor", she said.  "Do you have time?"  I said yes, I would be right out.

I know what this means, usually.  Usually "someone wants to speak with a pastor" means someone is looking for a gas voucher, or a few groceries, or some help for the bus.  Not always, but usually.

I greeted the man sitting in the reception area, and invited him to come back to my office.  "How can I help you?" I asked.

He told me a little of his story.  As it turns out, he was about my age.  He had grown up in this area, but hadn't been back since he served Vietnam.  He had gone over for a year in 1972.  Since then he had lived in a variety of places.  He had must moved back to a Small City near here because we are know for having a good VA system.  (We do, I think.)  He told me that his mother had been the first African-American nurse in one of our local hospitals.  He talked about some of the advocacy work he had done in his life.  He said that he still struggled with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

He said he had been looking for churches in his city, but hadn't found the right one yet.  Still, he found the people around here pretty friendly.  I was glad to hear it.  I hoped that it continued to be true.  I secretly wished he had moved to my city.  I'd invite him to worship with us.

He did need a gas voucher, he said, so that he could get back to the Small City where he now lived.  I gave him a gas voucher, and was grateful for the conversation.  We blessed each other as he left.

A few days later, I went to visit at a building that had a security code.  I was looking for a parish member who had moved, but it turned out that she only moved one building down.  The receptionist gave me the code, which I pressed to get in.

She used to be a regular worshipper at our early service.  I remember exactly where she sat, on the aisle, in the middle.  She had this unmistakable raspy voice, and she always grabbed my hand and asked how I was doing.  She came to church by herself, early enough to get that aisle seat.

She hadn't been to church in a long time, but I recognized her.  She was in a wheelchair now, but she had the same voice.  I don't think she remembered who I was, but when I told her I was from church, her face lit up.  "I go to that church," she said.  "I know," I replied.  "I remember you.  You always sat in the same place."

"I moved here two months ago," she told me.  I wasn't sure if that was true, but I went along with her.  "My husband died two years ago," she said.  She had been a widow ever since I knew her.  We talked for awhile.  She asked me again who I was.  I told her I was from the church.  She smiled, well, beamed, really.  "I go to that church," she said.

She showed me pictures of her two sons, and their families.  She was proud of them.  I admired the pictures, admired the room.  Said it was a great place.  "Do you like it?"

She did.  "Would you like someone to come and visit you, and give you communion, someone from the church?" I asked.  She thought that was a great idea.  When I said the name of the church, she smiled again.  "That's my church," she said.

"My husband died two months ago," she said.  "I am sorry to hear that," I told her, even though I knew  she had been a widow for many years.  She looked me in the face and said, "You're very pretty."  I smiled.  "I'm eighty-eight years old," she said.

Before I left, I mentioned again that someone would come to visit her from the church.  "That's my church," she said, again.  "I know.  I remember you.  I remember where you always sat."

Sometimes I think that my real job is having conversations: simple, small, ordinary conversations.

It keeps me humble to think it.

Mary, Martha and Me

I was a freshly minted pastor living in a newly painted and repaired parsonage.  In July I had moved in, and I heard stories of how proud the congregation was of its parsonage.  I could tell that they had modernized both of the bathrooms and redecorated the guest room upstairs.

Once fall hit, I began to hear a few people say it was perhaps time for the new pastor to host an open house.  Some Sunday afternoon invite everyone who wants to come from the three churches.  They will want the chance to visit with you informally.  They will be curious about what the inside of your house looks like.  They will want to see how you decorated it.

It was a small parish, but not that small.  There were three congregations.  There was the potential for a lot of people to walk through my house that afternoon.  I needed to be able to serve them.  I needed to have food and coffee (these are Lutherans after all) and other refreshments.  And I was a single pastor:  there was no pastor's wife to pay attention to what was running out and to replenish.  I started to plan and fret and think about logistics.  I wanted to be generous.  Though I am not an accomplished baker, I wanted to bake something.

In the midst of my fretting and caring, someone from one of the churches took me aside and said:  "If you want to make something, Pastor, you go right ahead.  But don't worry about doing all the cooking. And don't worry about serving.  We will also bring treats, and we will serve.  We want you to be able to spend your time visiting, not serving."

It is something a freshly-minted pastor needs to hear, sometimes:  ministry is not just about how much you do, how you rush around and serve and create programs and make things happen.  Ministry is about how you sit and listen.

I wanted to show hospitality:  that's the truth.  I wanted to be a good pastor:  that's also the truth.  What those women were telling me was that their first priority for me, as their pastor, was to know them.  They wanted me to know their names, hear their stories, and listen.  They wanted me to begin to know what the rhythm of their lives was like.  That is as much hospitality as staying up late making brownies and running around filling coffee cups.

These past few days I'm thinking that these lessons apply not just to pastors and parish members, but to whole communities.  I'm thinking that while most of us want to be smart and in charge and running around with the answers, but the first thing we often need to do is sit and listen.  In communities I'm thinking of the conversations we need to have around race and privilege, around profiling and fear.  And I'm especially thinking that those of us who are white need to sit and listen to those communities of color in our neighborhood, to know their names, to listen to their stories, to hear their perceptions and their reality.  But for us it means not being in control.  It means being attentive to someone else's agenda, not just my own.  It means shifting our perceptions.

I think of the women of the church, who wanted me to sit still and listen.  Here I was, a freshly-minted pastor from the big city.  What did I know about the rhythms of rural life?  To truly serve them I needed to sit still and listen.  I think about the pain and fear in our communities, the things we don't know or won't believe because we don't sit still and listen.

There is more than one kind of hospitality:  that's the truth.  But true hospitality always puts the other person in the center, in some ways or another.   Sometimes the greatest gift we can give someone is to sit still and listen.