Shiny

 Y’all know I’m a liturgy and history nerd. This Sunday is another of those church holidays that most folks don’t think about, but that I love preaching on. It’s Transfiguration Sunday. It’s the very end of the season of Epiphany, and the last Sunday before we go into Lent. It’s a “white stole” Sunday, too, in honor of the special glimpses of God we observe today.

We have 2 stories this morning about a once in a lifetime encounter with divinity. We hear the story of Moses descending Mount Sinai after one of his conversations with God about the Law. Unbeknownst to Moses, talking to God made him glow. But the light was so striking that even his brother Aaron was afraid to go anywhere near him. I mean, I think I understand. If one of my sisters suddenly looked like a Glow Worm I’d have questions, too. When Moses realized he shimmered after talking to God, he started wearing a veil around the Hebrews as base camp, for their comfort. Then he’d take the veil off to go back up Mount Sinai to talk to God. Do we trust God like Moses did? Do we drop the mask in the presence of the Sacred, the one we put up when we’re with our friends and neighbors because we don’t think they can handle seeing all parts of our real selves? Do we face God with such confidence that we shine like the sun? Does the love of God make us glow?

The story we hear in Luke parallels what we hear in Exodus. Jesus climbs a mountain to go pray–in other words, talk to God–but instead of going alone like Moses did, he takes 3 of his disciples: Peter, James, and John. Jesus’ praying summons the Holy, and suddenly Jesus starts glowing just like Moses did. And not only is he glowing, but he’s joined by the glowing images of Moses and Elijah. They’re his spiritual ancestors, who hear his prayers and lend their stories to help him tell his. Or, if you Star Wars fans prefer, think of Moses and Elijah as force ghosts, like Obi Wan and Yoda at the end of Return of the Jedi. They show up in moments of victory, in moments when we need help, and whenever we’re so connected to them that we can feel them here. It so happens that Jesus channeled that energy so hard that Peter, James, and John got to see what he saw. We aren’t alone on the mountain, the ones who climbed it before us are always up here in spirit. Peter, James, and John also hear the voice of God calling to them as God called out during Jesus’ baptism: this is my son, listen to him.

What Moses experienced in Exodus, and what Jesus, Peter, James, and John experienced in Luke, are these moments when we ask God for a sign and the Holy delivers so hard that She practically beats us over the head with it. But Moses came down from Mount Sinai, at one point for the last time, and then had to trudge through the wilderness for years looking for land he’d never set foot in. Similarly, Jesus, Peter, James, and John couldn’t stay on the mountain forever, even though Peter wanted to. That moment of brilliant light was temporary. Now, Jesus and his disciples had to carry the memory of that experience with them, even if nothing like that ever happened again.

A biblical scholar, Baptist pastor, and womanist theologian by the name of Renita Weems once said, “faith is living between the last time you heard from God, and the next time you hear from God. And it could be years between the last time, and the next time. But you gotta preach like you just heard from God last night.” Granted, when Weems said that, she was in a room full of pastors, a room I had the honor of being in. But I still think that message applies to us all, even if your form of “preaching” takes you outside of the wooden box with the gooseneck microphone, and out into the world. We all preach that way.

It’s an incredibly hard task, holding on to that energy from the last time you were sure you heard the voice of God talking to you, until next time. And some of our stories of hearing from God are bigger than others. Some of us have stories that the rest of us envy, because God was uncharacteristically clear. And once we walk away from that light, we trudge through the weeds in the dark.

I didn’t always plan to become a pastor. Far from it, actually. When I started college I wanted to be a math teacher. Yes, you heard that right. A math teacher. And I had a plan. I started at the U of R in 2005. I was going to graduate with a major in math in 2009, and then spend a year at the Warner Graduate School of Education. I’d get my master’s in secondary education the following year, and in September of 2010 I’d be standing in front of a high school math class teaching something awesome like calculus. I was sure that was my path. I always loved, and excelled, in math, and in high school I regularly tutored other kids in math, and competed on the math team. Big nerd, guys, I was a big nerd.

But by the end of my first semester at the U of R I realized something was off about my plan. Because I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t loving it. Not in math class, anyway. And the thought of taking a whole bunch more math classes didn’t excite me, it felt like a sack full of rocks. Like a burden.

So I gave myself some grace, a semester of exploration to figure out where my heart was leading me. And the classes that fed my heart and made me endlessly curious for more were all in the religion department. Eventually I pulled a hard 180 and double majored in psychology and religion, not math. And if Moses lit up every time he went to Mount Sinai, I know exactly where my Mount Sinai was: the Interfaith Chapel at the U of R. It’s where I went to service with my friends every week. It was a service I helped lead, in a congregation on campus I helped organize. I wanted to glow like that forever, and I went into the ministry.

But just like Peter couldn’t stay on the beautiful mountain top forever, I had to graduate from college and leave that campus congregation in the rearview mirror, and that was a real grief in my life. And the next several years that followed felt like a giant dessert with endless sand and a hot sun beating down on my back. I have served seven churches since then, and so, so many people that I’ve loved so much. But I figured out quickly that my glow doesn’t come from without. It doesn’t come from what other folks think of me, or from checking the boxes the institution places in front of me, and it definitely doesn’t come from all the trees the UMC burns through in the endless sea of church paperwork. My glow comes from within. It comes from me connecting to the feeling I had when I was a 19 year old college student who carried a teddy bear around on campus. It comes when I think about looking up at those rainbow stained glass windows for the first time and absorbing their beauty. It comes from me remembering how cool it felt to preach in that space. I never knew I had that kind of power. I carried the U of R down the mountain with me, and kept the shiny memories close at hand to illuminate the nights.

What made you glow? What experience connected you with God’s voice, and your most powerful self, so much that you were radiant? If you think hard enough, I bet you have a memory like that. And if you don’t, I invite you to spend this time, heading into Lent, thinking about what lights you up. Because what lights you up is what connects you to God.

Amen.