"I Am With You Always (and Everywhere)" | Peyton Williams, Seminarian | February 19, 2023
When I was young, I spent summers at my grandmother’s house—those kind of firefly chasing, creek swimming, watermelon eating summers you wish that you could freeze in time.
And one summer, my sister, my cousin, and I sought to do just that. We were growing older and our summers together were growing shorter, so we made a sort of covenant with each other to memorialize the magic of our childhood home:
We decided that we would go down to the thicket and we would build a fort that would last forever. It would be our secret dwelling place that we could return to for years to come.
My cousin insisted that a lean-to against an old oak tree would surely withstand the elements long into our adult years. He was a boy scout, so naturally we took his word for it, and we got to work.
In my memory, we spent days, maybe even a week, clearing out the underbrush, dragging branches across the yard, securing them with yarn from the kitchen, and covering them with patches of moss and sprigs of Virginia pine. The end result was a sight to behold. There in the thicket, we had built our own kind of habitation for the holy.
That winter, every time we visited my grandmother’s house—for Thanksgiving, for Christmas, what have you—we jumped out of our parents’ cars and ran down the yard to the thicket, to peek through the trees and to make sure that our fort was still standing, seeking some reassurance that the promise of summer was alive and well in the depths of winter.
I continued this practice for years to come. Long after my sister and my cousin had forgotten about the fort, still I ran down the yard to check that it was there. Three years later when it was just a pile of sticks and even ten years later when nothing remained, still I returned.
Perhaps I hoped my childhood would emerge from the recesses of my imagination and greet me there. I think mostly I returned longing to retreat from the chaos of the world and to find respite there. I returned to that secret, sacred spot in the woods to feel that there was safety there.
Here’s the thing, I don’t think that Peter was foolish or shortsighted for wanting to set up his own kind of fort on the mountaintop. I imagine Peter, faced with the chaos of the world, wanted to feel safe—wanted to protect Jesus from his impending suffering, and wanted to protect himself from his impending loss. Peter was not foolish or cowardly. Peter was afraid.
In fact, Mark’s Gospel tells us exactly this—that Peter did not know what to say, for he was exceedingly afraid. Peter had learned just six days earlier that Jesus would die at the hands of the empire. And now, on the mountaintop, he is shown this wild vision: Christ suddenly shining like the sun, in the company of Moses and Elijah, two of the great ancestors and prophets of his faith! Jesus, Elijah, and Moses—it must have felt in that moment like God’s kingdom was there on earth.
And Peter fearing that the moment would pass away, knowing what was coming on the road to Jerusalem, on the way to the Cross, cries out: “It is so good for us to be here, Lord. Let us build a house on this rock. Let us make a home here.” Peter enraptured, in love, afraid, begs to stay.
Surely, we all know Peter’s desire well.
In the face of uncertainty and instability, we too cling to safety and security—we too build our own kind of forts.
We cling to relationships long past; we relive memories and repeat behavior patterns even when they no longer serve us; we store up money and canned goods (or in some seasons, toilet paper); we fixate on post-graduation, empty-nesthood or retirement plans that are far from materializing; we build stone houses with sturdy walls, heavy doors, and strong locks to protect ourselves and our loved ones from the outside world; we retreat to the mountaintops, to the woods, we bury our heads in the sand, we turn on the tv, we hide under the covers, we turtle shell—whatever your version is—in the face of fear, we seek safety.
I wonder, what does the voice of fear speak to you in those moments? What does fear whisper to you in the quiet of night or scream to you in storms of anger or cry out to you in the murky waters of grief? What does fear speak to you in the face of the unknown?
The voice of fear spoke loudly to Peter: “Do not go back down! This is as good as it’s going to get. Stay right here.”
Peter’s request to stay is still on his lips when a bright cloud envelops the disciples, and a voice from within speaks the same words that spoke to Jesus at his baptism: “This is my beloved son. Listen to him.”
The disciples fall to the ground, hiding their faces in fear, but Jesus reaches down to where they are in the mud and in the dirt and touches them. And a healing balm spills from his lips: “Get up and do not be afraid.”
“Get up, my beloved, and do not be afraid.” And when the disciples look up, they see only him.
Jesus calls them out of their fear and back into relationship with him. He touches them and he says: “Here I am. Rise up. Come down the mountain with me and do not be afraid. I am with you.”
Throughout the gospel, Jesus ascends and descends mountains over and over again as if to reveal the truth of God’s boundless movement, God’s leveling of the high and the low places, God’s loving presence in all places:
Early on in the gospel, Jesus goes up on a mountain to rest, but he does not stay long. Almost immediately, he comes down the mountain because he hears the cries of the people in the valley, and he is moved by compassion to heal them and to feed them.
And another time, Jesus goes up on a mountain by himself to rest and to pray, but immediately he hears the cries of the disciples as their boat is beaten by the waves, and he goes down to the sea to be with them there. And as he walks on the water, he calls out to Peter: “Do not be afraid!”
And, of course, Jesus goes up on a mountain to preach the sermon on the mount, but from that high place, what does he speak of? Only of the holiness of the low places: Blessed are the poor, the meek, the mournful, the hungry. Blessed are those who are persecuted, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
In his ascending and descending, over and over again, Jesus fulfills the words of the prophet Isaiah:
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low;
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together.
Indeed, the light on the mountaintop reaches all places. In the mountains and in the valleys, in the rest and in the return, in the heights and in the depths, in life and in death, in every place, God is with us.
And so, we return to our mountain this morning:
The disciples have received this strange, cosmic glimpse of the resurrection on the mountaintop. But they have a long, dark road ahead of them. And as if to sustain their faith through the suffering to come, Jesus shows them that the Spirit of God is moving with them—rising up and falling down and rising up again—Christ calls out to them: “Get up and do not be afraid. Love is here. God is here. You are safe.”
Jesus does not shame Peter in his fear. Jesus does not yell at Peter and say, “Suck it up and get moving down the mountain.” Jesus reaches out and he touches him. Jesus lifts Peter up and he goes down the mountain with him.
How intimate is this? Jesus enters into the world, into the chaos so that all people will know that God is in the valleys, in the unpredictability, in the suffering, in the dirt—that God’s transforming presence is not limited to one place on the mountaintop, but that God is transforming every place.
The mountaintop may be the sight of the transfiguration, but Jesus knows that the tomb is the sight of the resurrection. Jesus knows that they must make the journey down to Jerusalem—that he must walk the road to the cross—for the sun will only rise out of darkness.
Perhaps this is not simply a story about releasing our attachments. Perhaps it is not just a story about the foolishness of making moments into monuments. Perhaps this is a story about the promise that God is with us even in, or dare I say especially in, the dark places. That when we hide our faces in the dirt, God turns her face towards us and shines light onto our fears, promising us that we are not alone but that the sun is rising to fill even the most hidden places with light.
Thanks be to God that Peter, James, and John do not stay on the mountaintop—that they do not build walls around the love of God—that they do not use force to make Jesus stay there in order to protect him from what is to come. Thanks be to God that they do not remain hidden but that they trust God to be with them in the face of fear. Thanks be to God that they go back down the mountain.
The story of the transfiguration marks our turning towards Lent. This Wednesday, we will gather to receive the mark of the earth, to receive the cross of ashes on our foreheads and the words: “From dust you have come and to dust you shall return.”
As we bear these words, may meet our fear with love.
As we are marked for returning to dust, may we remember what life God breathes into dust, what light rises out of ashes.
As we are marked for death, may we know that nothing—neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation—can separate us from the love of God.
And as we are marked for the promise life, may we listen for those healing words from the beloved Son:
Rise up and do not be afraid. I am with you always to the very end of the age.