Reflections from The Hill – Silence – Luke 9.28-36

 

They’ve built a church there, of course, a huge and ornate structure set on a mountain and filled with glorious art work. At least that’s what the pictures show.

 

It’s visited each year by thousands of onlookers, many hoping that a bit of the glory might fall on them. Even a small cloud would be enough.

 

It seems that Peter got his own way, even though there’s only one booth, not three. My crazy mind asks “Who missed out? Moses? Elijah? Jesus? Maybe all three?”

 

Let’s not be too hard on Pete, though: if the truth be known, we’re all a bit that way inclined. We all like our hammers, hanging on to them for dear life with our memories of glory.

 

We all know what it’s like to be an onlooker, gawking, helpfully offering to do unhelpful things. “Er, um … here, look, I’ve got a hammer, let me use it, let me nail this moment down.”

 

We God-botherers do it all the time, creating space where people can somehow enter the glory. We’ve studied the Word, you know. We know, too.

 

We’ve designed the Pew Bulletins and written the sermons. We know. We’ve done the study, got the degree. We know. Our hammers are word-shaped: words, words and more words.

 

It’s tough talk to encourage preachers to not use these hammers, and yet – apart from Pete’s blurt – that’s what happened: “And they kept silent …”

 

If the experience of glory only leads us to keep silence, why speak? Why write? What is there to say?

 

It’s a great paradox. On the one hand there’s the reality of The Presence, drawing us to a face so radiant and clothing so bright that our Ray-bans are useless, a Presence that so many of us long for, sing about, anticipate just the same.

 

It’s not unlike remaining in the movie theatre to watch the credits roll, not being quite ready to make the transition from what we’ve just seen into the chaotic world outside. “It’s good for us to be here.”

 

One of those emails that regularly appear in my Inbox said it better: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

 

The other side of the paradox is the demise of The Transfigured One, told with poignant alacrity. It is well to note that the distance from Mt Tabor to Golgotha is not so great that we should lose sight of either.

 

The point is that glorifying God always leads to sacrifice. As if on cue, the Reading for today is followed by the clamour and chaos of a shrieking, convulsive boy.

 

Coming off the mountain introduces us to the accompanying valleys of sorrow, despair and illness. We are led minister in that mess all and every day.

 

Before that, though, The Big Fella directs us to listen, an action that requires us to be silent, not just from words, but also from the noisesome pestilence of our inner desires and intentions.

 

That there are paths from the mountains to the valleys may be obvious and, to be fair, expected. What isn’t clear is their location: these paths are very difficult to find.

 

Listening becomes an overture to the symphony of following and doing but it is a key. Get this one right and the rest follows.

 

While the space between Sunday and Monday maybe sometimes huge, the ever-present danger is to stay behind and to get lost in the clouds.