From the Mountain to the Valley. Mark 9:2-10. 02/11/24

Rev. Dr. Rhonda Blevins

February 11, 2024

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart,

by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as

no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking

with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three

dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were

terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son,

the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more,

but only Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what

they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead. So they kept the matter to

themselves, questioning what this rising from the dead could mean.

______

Father Henri Nouwen is one of my favorite authors. He was a Catholic priest who became well

known for his writings during his lifetime, so well-known and so learned that he was offered a

tenure-track faculty position at an Ivy League school . . . maybe you’ve heard of it: Harvard. He did

that for a while, but never felt like he was where he should be. So in 1986, Henri left Harvard to

live and work at Daybreak. Daybreak was a home for individuals with severe mental and physical

handicaps. Can you imagine? Think about it. Harvard: the most prestigious university, perhaps in

all the world. The most intelligent people, maybe anywhere. Incredibly challenging, invigorating

even. And very competitive. And he drove into this little potato patch and took up residence with

people who had no idea that he had written a book and couldn’t read it even if they did know.

They assigned Henri the job of waking, dressing, and feeding Adam, one of their most handicapped

residents. So Henri began to learn this routine, and he found it was so slow-moving he could

hardly stand it. Henri was the kind of person that when his feet hit the floor in the morning, he was

off for the day. And this was like murder to spend his days waiting for Adam. Of course, the other

assistants at Daybreak, the ones teaching Henri, were used to it, so they just took all the time in the

world. And they talked with Adam and laughed with him. And Henri could not see the meaning of

this at all. Adam couldn’t talk, so why would someone waste their breath talking to him? Henri just

didn’t get it. If you saw Henri with Adam, you would not guess anything was going on, you

wouldn’t pick up on the fact that Henri was just trying to rush Adam through his morning routine

so he could get down to his own office. Henri kept saying the same thing to the other employees: "I

don't know why I have to do this," and the answer was always the same: “So that you’ll get to

know Adam.”

Here’s the thing: Henri had always grasped, at an intellectual level, that the way of Christ was the

way of “downward mobility.” At Daybreak, serving Adam and the other disabled residents, Henri

had to move his understanding of “downward mobility” downward . . . from his head to his heart.

In our scripture lesson today, we meet three individuals who also had to learn that the way of

Christ is the way of “downward mobility.”

Our story today begins on the mountaintop. Jesus has taken Peter, James and John up to the top of

a high mountain. And there on that mountain, Mark tells us that they witnessed something

spectacular. Jesus’ “clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach

them.” Matthew adds that “his face shone like the sun.” (Mt. 17:2) Can you imagine? Jesus’ face

shining like the sun? You can’t look at him lest you go blind! Then Moses and Elijah appear. The

experience is so amazing, so wonderful, so en-light-ened, that Peter wants to stay there forever,

“I’ll build three houses, one for each of you, we can tabernacle here forever!” he says because, you

know, Peter. Then a cloud descends, Matthew calls it a “bright” cloud, and then the voice from the

cloud says, “This is my son, the beloved, listen to him.”

If you recall, this isn’t the first time that people have heard the voice of God blessing Jesus in this

way. You may remember that at Jesus’ baptism, a voice from on high offered this same blessing,

calling Jesus, “beloved.” A couple of differences—perhaps a significant differences—between these

two stories of Jesus being called beloved:

•  In the baptism story, it seems that only Jesus can hear the voice: “YOU are my beloved; in

you I am well pleased. This is in second person. This seems to be a private naming and a

blessing.

•  In the transfiguration story, the disciples gathered with Jesus hear the voice “This is my

son, the beloved, listen to him.” This naming and blessing is in third person. This seems to

be a public declaration and command.

God’s personal blessing to Jesus at his baptism now becomes public; now “the church can see what

Jesus alone heard when he was baptized.”

Let’s start with being clear about what God didn’t say to Peter, James and John, the three

individuals selected to encounter this amazing sight:

•  Did God say, “This is my son, the beloved, build him a house, and one for Elijah, and one for

Moses while you’re at it?” No.

•  Did God say, “This is my son, the beloved, believe in him?” No.

•  Did God say, “This is my son, the beloved, worship him?” No.

•  Did God say, “This is my son, the beloved, stay up here on the mountain with him?” No.

What did God say? “Listen to him.” The word here in Greek is ἀκούω (akouó) from which we

derive our English word “acoustics.” But in context here, it has the connotation of not only

listening, but obeying, of yielding. “This is my son, the beloved,” God says to the three disciples,

“yield to him.”

What did yielding to Jesus look like in the short term? It meant “downward mobility.” It meant

leaving the mountain, heading back down into the valley, keeping silent, taking their many

questions with them back down to the valley.

The valley.

Mountaintop experiences are rare, maybe once in a lifetime if we’re lucky. We live the vast

majority of our lives in the valley. With the masses of people, we live in the valley. The challenge

for us, as it was for the disciples, is to take what we experience on the mountaintop with us down

into the valley—to recognize that the light is always shining if we have but eyes to see.

Prior to moving to Florida, my family and I lived in Louisville, Kentucky. Louisville is a great city.

One of the busiest parts of the city is an area downtown called 4 th Street Live, a hopping section of

town with a vibrant nightlife—there are dance clubs and pubs and a rockin’ piano bar. The corner

of 4 th and Muhammed Ali (named after one of Louisville’s most famous residents) is one of the

entrances to 4 th Street Live. And there on that corner of 4 th and Muhammed Ali (what used to be

Walnut Street), on this busy pedestrian street corner with businesspeople during the day and

party goers at night, there is a mostly overlooked historical marker. Here’s part of what it says:

Thomas Merton: Trappist monk, poet, social critic, and spiritual writer. Merton had a sudden insight

at this corner Mar. 18, 1958, that led him to redefine his monastic identity with greater involvement

in social justice issues. He was “suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these

people . . . ” He found them “walking around shining like the sun.”

“Shining like the sun,” Merton wrote. Now where have I heard that phrase before? Ah! From

Matthew, describing what the three disciples saw when they tried to look at Jesus up on that

mountain. They saw his face, “shining like the sun.” They heard the voice from on high, “This is my

son, the beloved, listen to him.” Yield to him.

What does it mean to yield, generally? Merriam-Webster uses the words “give way,” “give up,”

“surrender,” “relinquish.” It means to let go.

For Peter, it meant letting go of his desire to stay up on that mountain forever, and instead leaning

into the “downward mobility” required of one who would follow Jesus. It meant taking the path

from the mountain to the valley.

If you’ve ever spent any time in the mountains, you are likely aware that the sun shines longer on

the mountaintop than in the valley. In the valley, shadows loom long before the sun sets. The night

seems a little bit longer in the valley.

And yet, the valley is where Jesus had to return, his three disciples with him. They couldn’t stay on

the mountaintop where light lingers longer. No. They had to return to the land of shadows.

And so do we.

That’s why our Lenten series this year (which begins next week) is entitled, “Life in the Shadow of

the Cross.”

Lent reminds us that our lives are largely lived in the valley, in the shadows. Oh sure, we cling to

the light, it’s human nature! For much of human history, we built fires not only for heat, but for

light. Then we tried to harness the fire with torches and candles. Then we discovered the beauty

and the power of oil lamps. Then Thomas Edison invented the light bulb! Can you imagine a house

these days without light bulbs? Can you imagine a church sanctuary without lights?

We humans, we resist the darkness, ever grasping for new forms of light.

The disciples up on the mountaintop grasped for a way to stay in the light of that experience as

well. “We’ll build three homes . . . just let us stay in the light!” Oh, Peter.

“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” And you know what he said. He told them they had to

return to the valley. They must relinquish the mountain. They must let go of the light.

That letting go is not easy for us. We resist at every turn. Our egos scream, “More!” More light!

More prestige! More recognition! More money! More fame! More! More! More!

The way of Christ is the way of downward mobility. The way of Christ is the way of letting go.

There’s a classic story about two traveling monks who reached a town when they happened upon

a young woman waiting to step out of her car. The rains had made deep puddles, and she couldn’t

step across without ruining her very expensive shoes. She sat there, looking very perturbed and

impatient. She was scolding her attendants. They had nowhere to place the packages they held for

her, so they couldn’t help her across the puddle.

The younger monk noticed the woman, said nothing, and walked by. The older monk quickly

picked the woman up and put her on his back. He carried her across the water, and gently placed

her down on the other side. She didn’t thank the older monk, she just shoved him out of the way

and departed.

As the two monks continued on their way, the young monk was brooding and preoccupied. After

several hours, unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. “That woman back there was very selfish

and rude, even after you picked her up on your back and carried her! Then she didn’t even thank

you!”

 “I set the woman down hours ago,” the older monk replied. “Why are you still carrying her?”

What are you carrying that you need to relinquish? What inner baggage or outward compulsions

keep you from yielding to the Christ who walks with you as you journey in the valley? Wouldn’t

you like to lighten the load you’re carrying? We were created for the journey, not for the baggage.

You don’t need all that stuff. So set it down. Let it go. And then do the one thing the disciples were

told to do up on that mountain that day: listen to the one who calls you “beloved.”