Sunday next before Lent – morning
Sunday 23rd February 2020
1 before Lent – morning
Exodus 24. 12-18
Matthew 17. 1-9
Revd Preb Maureen Hobbs
How many times have you toiled up the mountain, only to find at the summit that you are lost in the clouds?
This might be a real physical mountain; I know many of you are, or have been, keen walkers – and with Snowdonia not too far away and the Shropshire hills almost on our doorstep, this may be a very common occurrence for many?
I used to work with a colleague who would spend most of her weekends off hill climbing and fell walking in the Lake District. I vividly recall Monday mornings with her regaling us of yet another weekend spent feeling absolutely physically exhausted, of being freezing cold and soaking wet, of finally – after many hours – stumbling into a bothy (if she was lucky) with no heat, no bedding and then having to put together some sort of meal. “Lovely!” She would cry – “can’t wait to go again!” I confess that I felt it had lost something in the telling! Not an experience I ever envied her!
But of course I can appreciate the attraction of climbing to high places. Where the sky seems vast and open before you; where you feel very close to Nature, and God; where your everyday worries and concerns maybe get left behind on the valley floor, or at least where you gain a fresh perspective on them. And in these times where suddenly everyone seems to be speaking about their mental health and the struggles to protect that sense of well-being, it is very good for us all to get out in the open, the fresh air, to feel more connected to the natural world. And if that means you need to find a hill or mountain to climb – then so be it.
But we all have other kinds of mountains to climb at times… Mountains that can seem just as daunting and impossible when regarded from the foothills. Mountains represented perhaps by debt, by relationship worries, by workplace bullying, by doubts about our sexuality, by others’ prejudices or expectations that confront us. How are we meant to overcome them? Often – just as with the real, physical mountains, by just putting one foot in front of the other and conquering the mountain one step at a time. Until suddenly we emerge at the top and can look down and see just how far we have come. And such journeys are nearly always made easier if you have companions on the way. People who will encourage you and give you confidence that you can beat this if you just keep going.
But what about those times when you do reach the top, but the clouds come down around you and there is nothing to see? Then we can feel far worse. We may become completely disoriented, despairing, unable to see how to move forwards. And if we then put a foot wrong, we may fear that we will stumble and fall! Well again, the presence of good friends who will come alongside us; maybe hold out a hand in the darkness and fog that is all around; stick with us and not spend their time telling us how stupid we have been to get into this situation in the first place! The presence of such individuals and our ability always to take our doubts and uncertainties to God – even when the fog and the cloud seem most dense – those are the things that can help us and bring us eventually safe down the other side until we emerge – maybe blinking, maybe a bit scratched and bruised and grazed, maybe very weary, but nevertheless with the sensation that something important has been achieved. And we too are transfigured, changed.
Both Moses and Jesus feel called by God to ascend the mountain. It has been said that Lent is a season destined to be spent on the plain – or in the desert – in sombre, austere mood. But just days before we embark on that wilderness journey, we are invited to join Moses and Jesus and the disciples for a mountain-top spectacular. A glimpse of something wonderful and luminous, a unique preview perhaps of the Glory to come. Faces appear radiant and everyone is changed by the experience. The disciples, elated and fearful by turn, see their familiar friend in a completely new light. They discover him not only as their teacher and confidant, but as one who has a universal, cosmic role, linked to the great stream of history of his people. He is not only ‘theirs’. He is not even only for the Children of Israel as Moses was. He is for all time and for all humanity – even for us!
No wonder their minds are blown by the vision and they hurry to try and contain it; to make sense of it on their terms. But it is bigger than they realise.
The mountain top is the place of all creative religious experience – it was the venue for all the significant moments of Israelite life. The giving of the Law and the sealing of the covenant, the place where God shows something of himself to mere human beings.
And for Jesus, the mountain was the place of the new covenant, the scene of transfiguration, the mount of crucifixion.
The mountain experience breaks the monotony of the plain that it relates to. It was the exception for Moses, for Elijah and for Jesus. Between those high points were years and years and miles of flat land and sinking hearts. For if the vision of the mountain top were to be prolonged, it would become an indulgence, not an inspiration. Maybe that is why, so often, the cloud descends – so that we are only granted the occasional glimpse of the way ahead. So that we are forced to feel our way carefully and to call on the help of God and of each other? But those glimpses are magical! Providing us with the fresh experience of the God who meets us from the future, to raise our sights and enlarge our horizons so that we may leave fulfilled and joyful.
So as you approach Lent, as you journey through the week ahead, spare a thought for the mountains that others may be trying to climb. Offer them a helping hand – or at least some companionship along the way. That way, we may all emerge from the cloud of our unknowing together. Amen.