Coming Down in Faith
Mark 2:2-13 and 2 Kings 2:1-14
February 22, 2009
"Books matter. My poor wife Doris was ruined by books, by books and a heathen Englishman. Not by dirty books, but by clean books, not by depraved books, but by clean books. God, if you recall, did not warn his people against dirty books. He warned them against high places. My wife, who began life as a cheerful Episcopalian from Virginia, became a priestess of high places...[and fell] prey to Gnostic pride."
These few sentences from a character in Walker Percy’s novel Love in the Ruins have been bouncing around my head all week as I pondered our passages about Elijah’s ascent into heaven and Jesus’ transfiguration here on earth. Both texts, like Percy’s statement, deal specifically with high places, In Mark, Jesus is on a literal mountaintop with Peter, James and John when he is dazzlingly transfigured, and Moses and Elijah appear to the disciples.
In 2 Kings, while Elijah and Elisha are not at a topographical highpoint, like Jesus, they have just crossed the Jordan River, a symbolic and historical high point and territorial marker for the Israelites. And of course, Elijah does ascend into the heavens on a whirlwind—and one can’t get much higher than that!
Yet, Percy’s statement cautions that God warns his people against high places. But does not Moses receive the Tablets of the Law on the top of Mount Sinai? Does Jesus not teach his followers while standing atop hills and mountains? Does avoiding high places not contradict our notions of striving to be the best we can be, of always growing in faith, of consistently reaching upwards toward the pinnacle of our abilities, of summiting the mountaintops of faith and life and success?
It is Jesus after all who takes James and John and Peter with him to the “high mountain” by themselves. Jesus wanted them to be there with him on that high place. But it quickly becomes apparent that the disciples are not quite sure what to do while sitting on this high place gazing upon glorious grandeur. We are told that the disciples were terrified and didn’t know what to say, so Peter filled the void of mountaintop silence by suggesting that it might be nice to build a dwelling for Elijah and Moses if they’re going to be staying for a while. Why not be hospitable to our ghostly guests?
But his suggestion is silenced by God who says “This is my Son; the Beloved. Listen to him!” And these are key words. “Listen to him.” “Listen to him.” What a strange commandment in the midst of a physical vision. God doesn’t say “Look at my beautifully transfigured Son!” Rather God instructs the disciples to “Listen.” To listen to what they have already heard. To understand what Jesus has already taught them. To not be blinded by this mountaintop vision, but rather to remember what Jesus has told them in their day-to-day lives.
There is a temptation in this passage to be like Peter and to use our eyes too much when trying to understand the story of Jesus’ transfiguration. We want to hesitate at this moment of pure glory and gaze upon the dazzling brilliance of Jesus. We want to stay with this moment of clarity: Jesus in shining brightness, surrounded by Elijah and Moses, with God speaking from the clouds.
And this moment is certainly a powerful and important image in the story of Jesus; indeed it is found at the epicenter of Mark’s Gospel. The action of the first half of Mark builds to this very moment of transfiguration, in which the divine nature of Jesus in shown in neon light from the top of a mountain.
There is a parallel to this miraculous image in our text from 2 Kings as well. The whole story of Elijah and Elisha builds slowly, but surely to a similar climax in which a chariot of fire sweeps down from the sky, separating the two prophets from one another. Then a whirlwind appears from nowhere, raising Elijah up to the heavens as his protégé and successor watches with despair and sadness at the loss of his mentor.
It is not very often in human life that God intervenes in these memorable ways. And if we look past these high places and into the hazy aftermath of miracles, after the smoky remnants of fire and light have drifted away, what do we find? What happens after Jesus is transfigured? What happens after Elijah is whisked away?
These may seem to be insignificant questions in light of the miracles that precede them; because what happens after the miraculous in these stories is merely mundane. In Mark, Jesus and the disciples simply come down from the mountain, with Jesus insisting the disciples not tell anyone what has happened. For Elisha, he simply picks up the cloak of his mentor Elijah, turns around and walks back to the Jordan River from which he came.
But it is here that the similarities between Elisha and the disciples returning from their miraculous moments diverge. Because Elisha, during his years of following Elijah, had learned the role of the prophet and immediately begins the prophet’s work after his mentor’s miraculous departure—he provides food for the hungry, he helps the poor, he combats injustices, he speaks against evil.
But what about Peter, James and John? Only a few verses after this story, perhaps still drunk from their transfiguration experience, the disciples are found arguing about whom among them will be the greatest, which of them will inhabit the highest of places.
Perhaps this is why the fallible disciples seem more human, because we humans, like the disciples, seem to be forever attracted to high places. We tend to look for comfort in places of power and prestige. But rarely do we realize, as Reinhold Niebhur among others observed, that simply by being in high places of power, our worldview becomes at least partially obstructed and we can too easily become blinded to the needs of others by our own increased sense of power.
Surely scanning the headlines of today’s news stories should help us understand the dangers inherent when humans desire high places: steroids in sports, corruption in economic systems, wars raging around the world, rich and healthy countries, like ours, storing wealth for generations while millions starve and dehydrate in poverty. And as our stock market tumbles, one can only wonder if it is partly the expected recourse of our human desire to reach too daringly and too selfishly for the false high places of wealth and power.
There is a song by David Lamotte that may be helpful in understanding this human desire for high places:
“There’s a neon cross on a mountain,
that says sinners best beware
That means that somebody went to the trouble
to run power way up there
These mountains speak to my spirit
And I guess it kind of blows my mind
To think that someone could look at that vista
And think God needs a neon sign.”
Sometimes I wonder if the Jesus who served the poor, who released the captives, who proclaimed that Caesar was not a god, who rebelled both religiously and politically, has been too often constrained to this one picture of transfiguration found in the Gospels—the glowing Jesus, the neon cross on a mountain, the Jesus of high places.
While this snapshot of Jesus transfigured is certainly an important part of our faith, helping us to understand his divine nature, the other side of Jesus is a larger part of the gospel of Mark. Indeed when Jesus and the disciples first step off the mountain in our passage, the conversation immediately turns away from glory and toward pain. Jesus tells the disciples that Elijah has already come again to earth, in the form of John the Baptist preparing the way for Jesus the Messiah. And John the Baptist, the new Elijah, was treated with contempt, suffered and was killed.
Thus the story of the transfiguration moves immediately away from this divine image of a glowing Jesus, toward the earthly vision of Jesus as a servant of others, a man found in unlikely places, who, like John the Baptist before him, will be condemned, cast aside and crucified.
The David Lamotte song I shared with you has another verse that echoes the picture of the earthly Jesus:
“Well I ran into Jesus this morning,
He was down on Butler Street
He was carrying his bedroll
He was standing in line for something to eat
He got splashed with the muddy water
When those shiny hubcaps rolled by
Well he brushed himself off and chuckled and looked over at me and said ‘Hey there before the grace of God go I.’”
As the disciples argued about who was greater after the transfiguration it seems as if they forgot an important part of their experience—Peter, James and John did not climb that mountain by themselves. Jesus took them there. And likewise, when Elijah was carried off in a whirlwind, it was not the product of his own doing rather it was God who swept him away to heaven. Both the disciples and Elijah were part of a divine experience, but it was not of their own doing. They did not attain high places themselves rather the high places of the divine were shared with them by God.
There is probably a good reason why God hasn’t sent flaming chariots to earth in last few thousand years. And there is probably an equally good reason why a glowing Jesus hasn’t appeared on the top of Mount Everest lately. And perhaps it is because God knows that we humans are already too awe-struck with the power, prestige and comfort of high places and that our faith and our lives would be much better off if we unlocked our gaze from the temptations of being priests and priestesses of such great heights and instead focused them upon the earth and people which surround us.
Because many times our encounters with God are not found by perching on the tops of mountains or in whirlwinds sailing away to heaven, but by coming down from places of power and finding humility; by coming down from selfishness and finding generosity; by coming down from injustice and finding equality; by coming down from harshness and finding a gentle spirit; by coming down from retribution and finding grace; by coming down from high places and finding faith. Amen.
