Sermon: In the Presence of God

 In the Presence of God
Luke 9:28-43a
James Sledge                                                  February 27, 2022 – Transfiguration Sunday

Cara B. Hochhalter, Transfiguration,
from Art in the Christian Tradition,
aproject of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library

 I hope I haven’t told you this story before, but when I was in seminary, I was part of a group that spent three weeks in the Holy Land and Greece. During the trip, we visited the site traditionally held to be Mt. Sinai, where Moses received the 10 Commandments. There’s no real proof that it is actually the same place, but pilgrims have been coming to the site since the time of Emperor Constantine in the fourth century.

Standard procedure for tourists and pilgrims is to arise very early in the morning, around 4:30 or so, in order to reach the summit while it is still dark. The idea is to witness sunrise from atop Mt. Sinai. Our group gathered at the base of mountain where we climbed on camels, accompanied by the requisite jokes about the Camel-lot. Following a dark ride where you could only barely make out the steep drop-off just beyond the narrow path, we dismounted and walked the remaining 30 minutes or so to the top.

We all found spots where we had an unobstructed view towards the east. As the predawn glow began to light up the horizon, you got a sense of what a stark, severe landscape it was.  Other mountains jutted up all around, rocky peaks with little or no vegetation.

Everyone got their cameras ready as the pink horizon grew brighter. Little was said as the sun slowly emerged from behind one of those other peaks. In the desert haze, it was an orange-pink ball that was well up into the sky before becoming bright enough that it bothered your eyes to look directly at it.

Before I took this trip, I had talked with classmates who’d gone in previous years. I’d seen photographs of the sun rising over those same peaks and had heard people talk about what a moving experience it was, and I was ready for an experience of my own. I did get some pretty decent pictures, but I must confess that I was a little disappointed in the moving experience department.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a gorgeous and fantastic vista. I’m very glad I went and would recommend it to anyone, but I was disappointed that I didn’t feel something. I was truly hoping for some sort of religious experience, as, no doubt, were many others who were there with me. Instead I got some nice pictures, a story to tell, and beautiful view of that part of the Sinai Peninsula. 

Some of those in my group did experience what I had hoped to. I don’t know why they did and I didn’t. After all they saw the same scene that I saw. Still, they experienced something. There was no explaining it. It’s not as if they could have told me where or how to look at the sunrise in order to sense what they did. It was something beyond explanations, something that must be experienced to really appreciate.

We humans seem to long for such experiences. In fact, the hunger for them seems to have been growing stronger in recent years. People go on spiritual retreats. They try Taizé worship services or Greek Orthodox ones. They embrace new prayer methods and investigate alternative forms of spirituality, everything from Buddhism to new age crystals.

Some of this hunger speaks to a failing of the modern church. Especially in denominations like us Presbyterians, we have been better at explaining about God than at inviting people to experience the presence of God. And on a Sunday when the gospel reading is about the disciples’ incredible experience of God’s real and tangible presence, the temptation is to try to explain what it means.

Now there is something to be said for explaining parts of the passage. We should recognize that Moses and Elijah represent the law and the prophets. It’s worth noting that Jesus talks with them about his departure, literally about his “exodus,” clearly alluding to the cross. And it’s worth noticing the problem of sleepiness in the disciples, something that will be revisited in the garden the night before Jesus’ exodus.

And yet for all that can be learned by explaining the reading, it is finally beyond explanation. You cannot explain the presence of God, you can only feel and experience it. We can learn things from others’ experiences, from the experience described in the gospel reading for today, but if we never experience God’s presence ourselves, an explanation or report won’t do it.

I think it was Roy Oswald, a writer on spirituality and church leadership, who said that a big problem facing Presbyterian and other mainline churches is this. “People come to us seeking an experience of God, and we give them information about God.”

Nonetheless, God still manages to slip in on occasions. While I didn’t feel God’s presence that morning on Mt. Sinai, I’ve felt it other places. Perhaps you’ve felt God at some of the same moments, in approaching the table to receive the Lord’s Supper, in a piece of music or a hymn that affected you profoundly, in the Sacrament of baptism, in a time of prayer, on a mission trip or a retreat, and perhaps even as the Word is read and preached.

I’m betting that most all of us have had those moments that aren’t quite explainable, moments where God felt especially near, where, as with the disciples, there was nothing that really could be said, where the only appropriate action was silent awe, wonder, and thanks.

We need such moments. Perhaps we especially need them now, when the world seems to be coming unglued. We need those times when God is more than an idea or a concept, when God becomes real and tangible. We need those mountain top experiences, those burning bushes. And for our sakes God provides them. The church has often been suspicious of mystical experiences and mystics, but experiences of the divine are a necessary part of faith.

But there is a potential downside to the desire for mountaintop experiences. There is a danger that we may pursue God’s presence as an end in itself, forgetting that God calls us into relationship in order that we might become Jesus’ disciples and do the work of ministry.

Perhaps that’s why our gospel reading changes so abruptly as it moves from the mountaintop to the valley below. We move from the heights of religious experience to Jesus’ exasperation with the disciples over their inability to do their work. It’s a not too subtle reminder that beyond the mountaintop lies the often difficult work of ministry to which each of us is called.

We’re all called to ministry, but to hear that call we do need to experience God’s presence. Experiencing Christ with you through the Spirit is not something I or anyone else can give you by way of explanation, but there are ways you can be open to it. Deepen your prayer life, learning to listen as well as speak. Set aside times for reading the Bible and for silence. Finds times and places where you can practice being still. Form groups for prayer and study and support. Perhaps seek out a spiritual director.

Along with all these, cultivate an openness to God’s presence here, in worship. Here where the community of faith gathers, lifting up our voices in praise and straining to hear and experience God’s grace in word and sacrament—here in this place, surely God is present. Surely the Spirit moves through this place, and if we are not too weighed down with our own concerns and agendas, it may become real and tangible to us as we sing, as we pray, as we celebrate the joyful feast at the table, as we hear the stories of God’s love again.

And when God’s presence touches you and claims you as a beloved child in Christ, remember that the love that claims you also calls you to a new life of discipleship. Embraced in the love of God in Christ, let us live as children of God, following the path that Jesus shows us.

 

That is the end of this sermon, but in light of Russia’s brutal invasion of Ukraine, I feel compelled to consider how the life of discipleship is to be lived out in such a moment. To be honest, I struggle to find something to say that isn’t obvious. Russia’s actions are evil. The suffering is horrible. We should pray for the people of Ukraine and for peace. But surely I do not need to tell you any of that.

But perhaps I might encourage you to discover, if you’re not familiar with it, the language of lament. Go to the book of Psalms and you will find lament in abundance. By most people’s counts, psalms of lament of by far the most common type. They cry out in anguish to God. How long, O LORD? Why, O LORD, do you stand far off: Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD.

Lament is an act of faithfulness, sometimes the most faithful act available to us. If God is at all real to us, how can we not cry out in anguish at the state of the world, at its brokenness beyond our power to mend? How can we not plead for the final triumph of good, of life, of resurrection, praying, Come quickly, Lord Jesus! Come quickly, Lord Jesus!