Matthew 17:1-13

After Jesus told his disciples about his death, he climbed a mountain with Peter, James, and John. He took them there alone, as unsettled as they may have been from all of this new talk about his death, and there his earthly appearance was stripped away and they beheld him as he was, in all his heavenly radiance "his face shone like the sun and his garments became as white as light" (Matthew 17:2).

Jesus spoke with Moses and Elijah about his work and about his death which was to come.

Peter, dazed by the light, but aroused by what he saw and heard said "Lord, it is good for us to be here" (17:4) — because there on the mountain Peter could see who Jesus was and it was easy to believe in everything he had said when he stood transformed and conversing with prophets.

"I will make three tabernacles here," Peter offered. "One for You, and one for Moses, and one for Elijah" (17:4).

But before Jesus could answer, the voice of God came thundering from heaven and all three disciples fell on their faces, unable to stand or speak in the presence of such power.

The transfiguration passed and Jesus' garments faded, and the three disciples came down from the mountain and spoke only of the event in secret. Christ was mocked and crucified and buried and Peter denied Christ before he proclaimed him.

But the Transfigured Christ did what he said, he accomplished those things that he discussed with the prophets, and the Transfigured Christ, who rose from the dead and ascended into heaven, and commissioned his work on earth, became the center point of Peter's life.

As a followers of Christ, we live in the midst of the supernatural, and as we follow him, we sometimes catch glimpses of his face revealed. These moments are like spears of truth that pierce the veil we let hang between ourselves and the brightest reality. As we go about our lives, caught in worry and in fear, we forget that there is a life beyond this life and that there are only a few very immediate things that we need—most elemental of those needs is to behold that Face, remembering Christ's death and living in his resurrection.

We must build our houses in view of the transfiguration, like Peter wanted to, as close as we can get to the remembrance of who he is and what that makes us to be, holding fast to all the visions that break upon us in his presence, shaken from the dullness of the present.

We must remember that our lives are a preface to a far richer reality as we eagerly await and labor to bring about all that Christ said would come through us in His kingdom.

We must live along the fissures that open between that which is fading and that which is dawning brighter and brighter as Christ grows in us and works amongst us. The God who spoke through prophets speaks to us and lives in us now, and we must fight to remember every fragment of inspiration, every word he speaks, and to know him as he stood transfigured before Peter and now in our lives.

The sea rises up in the most unexpected places—the salt in your eyes and in your blood—the motion beneath everything, the commotion in your hollowed hand and ear, wallpapering the silence, rhythmic and haunting.

Swaying in the boughs of a walnut tree, pressed against the sky with the green paper leaves, you might think you hear the ocean in the tree tops, you might think you see the waves in the grass.

Spreading blankets on lawns and beaches to watch the cold slide of stars across a black sky. Drinking fluid night through the open windows of a train, shaking along the tracks, hearing a sound in all the vibration, reaching across all the red rooftops and grey bridges, in the middle of the land, on the top of a hill, the voice of that reaches your ears, hungry like the grinding of the surf over stones

Hungry like you.

You know that this is dangerous--waking up like the morning after a fever broke--trying your limbs and finding soundness instead of ache.

You know that real boldness is dangerous. Have a healthy sense of your own danger. Tread slowly. Don't let the fearlessness in. Don't loose yourself to hope. You might get reckless with your love again, and actually begin to forgive people for all the things they never meant to do. You might see beauty in everything. You might start to Trust.

You might start to pray recklessly again. You might ask for more than you can handle. You might try to walk on water again.

And, oh God, what then?

When I stopped to take in the reality that I am loved just because I exist — I found out how much of my efforts were about earning something I already have.

Sabbath is taking a day a week to remind myself that I did not make the world and it will continue to exist without my efforts

Sabbath is a day when my work is done even if it isn't

Sabbath is a day when my job is to enjoy period

Sabbath is a day when I am fully available to myself and the people I love the most

Sabbath is a day when I remember that when God made the world he saw that it was good

Sabbath is a day when I produce nothing

Sabbath is a day when I remind myself that I am not a machine

Sabbath is a day when at the end of the day I say "I didn' do anything today" — and I don't follow that with " I feel so guilty"

A day when my phone is turned off, I don't check my email — and you cant get a hold of me

Sabbath gives humanity the energy it needs to exist for another week

They say I looked back out of curiosity,

but I could have had other reasons.

I looked back mourning my silver bowl.

Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.

So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape

of my husb

and Lot's neck.

Wislawa Szymborska, Lot's Wife

I read a poem about Lot's wife, counting all the reasons she might have been innocent and looking back from natural sorrow or by accident. "I looked back in desolation. In shame because we had stolen away. Wanting to cry out, to go home. Or only when a sudden gust of wind unbound my hair and lifted up my robe." It's a little angry at God for His lack of mercy. "Checking for pursuers. Struck my silence, hoping God had changed his mind."

The story has always set me on edge, imagining the vivid horror of her fate, twisting from flesh to salt, humanity dropping from her, wrung from her bones in the place where she stood. I used to sympathize with her, blaming Lot, angry with him for his greedy eying of the fertile valley of Sodom, for dragging his family into the situation at all. He led his family astray, didn't he? She only followed him. It was his fault that his wife was climbing a path from this place, that she had ever lived there, that she could even miss it. Wouldn't any woman look back at the place she once lived, sorrowful at the destruction of her home?

But the angels of God did not have to listen to Abraham's plea and warn Lot, calling him out of the city. Lot and his family had learned the ways of the wicked city and lived comfortably there. If the angels had spoken to Lot only, then his wife might have a case. He had mislead her before, perhaps, and she was tired of following him. People cannot be your sole direction, after all, because people fail. If you let man be the voice of God for you without seeking Him yourself, when man fails you want to blame God.

But the angels took hold of Lot and his wife and his daughters. They spoke to all of them and their words were exact, "Flee for your lives! Don't look back, and don't stop anywhere in the plain! Flee to the mountains or you will be swept away" (Genesis 19:17, NAS) They spoke to Lot's wife just as directly as they spoke to Lot.

When I return to the actual story, in its entirety, I find more mercy than wrath. No one knows why she looked back. Everyone knows what happened. She held the command of the Lord, the only thing that could preserve her life. She had it directly from His messengers and she could feel the heat at her back.

There is sometimes a struggle to take hold of truth, a struggle to discern the direction that God desires, but when the Word comes you must abandon your old city, you must take to the hills, you must chase your calling with fury, and you must not look back. You may hear the voices of others, see scorn on their faces, you may want to turn around, defend yourself or change your actions to please them. "It seemed to me they were watching from the walls of Sodom," says Lot's wife in the poem, "and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again." But even while they may mock you, they cannot run to the hills for you. Other people cannot save you.

This is not to say that the life of faith is lived alone, that following God means isolation and denial of community. There are times when God will speak through the voice of a friend. But there are other times when you must forsake the wisdom of others, forsake the places they have failed you. The voice of God must be sought above the voices of others.

When people fail, you must recognize that He is holy beyond their mistakes. His call must be the foremost in your mind. Christ calls, and asks you to follow without regret. "No one," he says, "after putting his hand to the plow and looking back is fit for the kingdom of God" (Luke 9:23). Following Christ in light of His worth is the struggle of which Paul speaks, "Forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead. I press on towards the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ" (Philippians 3:13).

Lot's wife heard the call of the angels, felt their pull, their pulse of urgency. She knew what was coming. She could not blame Lot or anyone else, even if she wanted to. It is with regret that I read the story, with sadness for her, and also for myself, because I know that I do hesitate and doubt. I doubt the severity of His call; I listen to mocking voices; I don't always follow with the abandon that I should. So I read the story even more impressed with the depth of a mercy that seeks me out even in my faithlessness, seizes me by the wrists, tearing me from my apathy and burning down my cities of idolatry.

Salvation is not contingent upon the words of others; God is only responsible for His own deeds. You cannot escape circumstances, but you can grasp the truth that lies outside of them. Truth is the word and call of Christ, the person of Christ, who bids you to forsake all the things that bound you once and not linger upon them, who bids you to journey past the walls of your falling city and into the mountains of faith.

My baby brother wakes me up every morning as if he expects me to be gone. His feet stick to the hall floor as he tiptoes outside listening. Sometimes I catch the look on his face around the edge of the door, lips pressed together in silent concentration, eyes searching the bed for my shape. Then the burst of recognition – the quick smile of surprise – calling my name – and running to the bed to kiss me on the cheek over and over and tell me that it is morning. It is time to make pinwheels and build cities and blow bubbles in the lake, time to paint our faces and put on costumes and sneak around the house.

At three years old the world is bigger and mornings and sleepy older sisters are still miracles. There is marvel sketched across your face and your eyes will believe anything. There is mystery behind every piece of reality.

For most of my brother's life I've been away at school, home only for visits, and he asks all the time when I am going back. Yet even after months of being home, his excitement to find me in my bedroom is just as fresh, and I've been told that he goes into every bedroom in the house, before he gets to mine, and wakes everyone this way.

The world is lost a little in living, disguised by routines and expectancy. But there is a vision beyond that of the child, an instance of recognition that makes the world new. Flannery O'Connor compares the experience of conversion to that of the blind man that Christ healed, rooted in reality, but given a different layer of context and an intensity of newness. The blind man healed looks out on the world as if it was just created because he suddenly understands how it was created to be.

The vision of faith cuts through the film of familiarity, dethroning assumptions, messing up categories. The eyes touched by Christ may seem to behold strange visions – men like trees, walking around – but this is only because they no longer see impossibilities.

He who has been healed knows that there is such a thing as pain, but he also knows that there is such a thing as hope. So he speaks with confidence from his joy, knowing that the world arches widest in places of greatest pain. He runs to the darkest places unafraid, ready to wait to see them illuminated. In the shadows, the deepest miracles are born, and there the Healer will reveal the most of Himself. Watching with the attentiveness of the child, the blind man healed rejoices with the morning as if the morning had no need to come.

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him."

Lamentations 3