God in a Box
Now after six days Jesus took Peter, James and John, his brother, led them up on a high mountain by themselves; and He was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became as white as the light. And behold, Moses and Elijah appeared to them, talking with Him. Then Peter answered and said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if You wish, let us make here three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." While he was still speaking, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them; and suddenly a voice came out of the cloud, saying, "This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Hear Him!" And when the disciples heard it, they fell on their faces and were greatly afraid. But Jesus came and touched them and said, "Arise, and do not be afraid." When they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no one but Jesus only. (Matt. 17:1-8)
It seems like since the advent of Amazon, boxes bring wonderful order to our world; they keep cereal from spilling and books from tumbling. When it comes to containing stuff, boxes are great. But when it comes to explaining people, they’re not much good. And when it comes to defining Christ, there’s not a single box that works. His contemporaries tried, mind you – they designed a whole lot of boxes for him. But he never fit one. They called him a revolutionary, and then he paid his taxes. They labeled him a country carpenter, but he confounded the scholars. He defied easy definitions. He was a Jew who attracted Gentiles; a rabbi who gave up on synagogues; a holy man who hung out with streetwalkers and turncoats. In a male-dominated society, he recruited females. In an anti-Roman culture, he didn’t denounce Rome. He talked like a king yet lived like a pauper and a pilgrim. People tried to box him in. They couldn't then, but we still try today.
Like the Uber driver who keeps a miniature Jesus superglued to his car dashboard so that anytime he needs a parking place or green light, he rubs his plastic “do-me-a-favor Jesus.” Or the midnight televangelist who assures me that prosperity is only a prayer away. Just ask the “make-me-a-millionaire Jesus.” Christ, reduced to a handful of doctrines, becomes a recipe and we’ve got the ingredients. Mix them correctly and the “Jesus-of-my-making” appears. Politicians pull box-sized versions of Jesus off the shelf, too, asserting that Jesus would most certainly vote green and conservative. The “Jesus-of-my-politics” comes in handy during elections.
Box-sized gods. You'll find them in the tight grip of people who prefer a god they can manage, control, and predict. And this topsy-turvy life requires a tame deity, doesn't it? In a world out of control, we need a god we can control; a comforting presence like a lap dog or kitchen cat. We call and he comes. We pet and he purrs. Peter, James, and John must have tried, too. Otherwise, how can you explain the box-blowing expedition on which Jesus took them up the Mount of Transfiguration? It seems like the high points of Scripture occur on the high points of earth. Abraham offering Isaac on Mount Moriah. Moses witnessing the burning bush on Mount Sinai. Elijah ascending to heaven from Mt. Horeb. Christ redeeming humanity on a hill called Calvary.
No one knows for sure, but most historians place the event on a 9,200-foot-tall mountain called Mount Hermon. It towers over the northern Israeli landscape, visible from the Dead Sea a hundred miles away. This gigantic, snowy peak was the perfect place for Christ to retreat with Peter, James, and John. Away from the clamoring crowds and nagging controversies, Jesus could have the undivided attention of his three closest friends. Here they could pray. "He [Jesus] took Peter, John and James and went up on the mountain to pray." (Luke 9:28)
At some point while praying, the gentle carpenter erupts into a cosmic figure of light. "He was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became as white as the light." (Matt. 17:2) Light spilled out of him. Brilliant. Explosive. Shocking. Brightness poured through every pore of his skin and stitch of his robe. Jesus on fire. Mark wants us to know that Jesus' "clothes shimmered, glistening white, whiter than any bleach could make them." (Mark 9:3) This radiance was not the work of a launderer; it was the presence of God. Scripture habitually equates God with light, and light with holiness. "God is light; in him there is no darkness at all." (1 John 1:5) He dwells in "unapproachable light." (1 Tim. 6:16) The transfigured Christ, then, is Christ in his purest form. A diamond with no flaw, a rose with no bruise, a song on perfect pitch and a poem with impeccable rhyme.
Peter, James, and John had never seen this Jesus. Walk on water, multiply bread, talk to the wind, banish demons, and raise the dead, yes. But a standing torch? Turns out, Jesus was just getting warmed up because just then two visitors appeared: Moses and Elijah; the giver of the Law and the prince of the prophets stepped through the thin veil that separates earth from paradise. Kind of like the Washington and Lincoln of the Jewish people. Their portraits hung in the entryway to the Hebrew Hall of Fame. And here they stood.
At about this point Peter clears his throat to speak. Unfortunately for Peter, fire on the mountain became foot in the mouth: "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if You wish, let us make here three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses and one for Elijah." (Matt. 17:4) These words might seem harmless, even a clever idea to some because we like to memorialize moments with statues, tablets, or monuments. Peter thinks this event deserves a special building program and volunteers to head up the committee. Good idea, right? Not from God's perspective. Peter's idea of three tabernacles was so off base and inappropriate that God wouldn't even permit him to finish his sentence. "While he [Peter] was still speaking, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them; and suddenly a voice came out of the cloud, saying, 'This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Hear Him!'" (v. 5) Peter missed that.
He placed Christ in a respectable box labeled "great men of history." He wanted to give Jesus and Moses and Elijah equal honor. God wouldn’t have it, and Peter, James and John didn't speak anymore. No more talk of building programs. No discussion of basilicas, tabernacles, memorials, or buildings. They saw what no other people have seen: Christ in cosmic greatness. And words don't work in such moments. Blood probably drained from their faces. Skin likely ashened. Knees wobbled and pulses raced. "They fell on their faces and were greatly afraid." (v. 6) Fire on the mountain led to fear on the mountain. A holy, healthy fear. Peter, James, and John experienced a fortifying terror – a stabilizing reverence of the one and only God. They encountered the Person who flung stars into the sky like diamonds on velvet, who whisked prophets away in chariots and left Pharaoh bobbing in the Red Sea.
They were gripped deep in their gut that God was, at once, everywhere, and right there. The very sight of the glowing Galilean sucked all the air and arrogance right out of them, leaving them appropriately prostrate. Face-first on the ground. That’s the fear of the Lord.
There’s nothing neurotic about fearing God. The neurotic thing is to not be afraid, or afraid of the wrong thing. That is why God chooses to be known by us, so that we stop being afraid of the wrong thing. When God is fully revealed to us and we “get it,” then we experience the conversion of fear. Fear of the Lord is the deeply sane recognition that we are not God. And how long has it been since a fresh understanding of Christ buckled your knees and emptied your lungs? Or when was the last time that a glimpse of him left you speechless and breathless? If it's been a while, that may explain your fears. When Christ is great, our fears are not. As awe of Jesus expands, fears of life diminish. A big God translates into big courage. A small view of God generates no courage. A limp, puny, fireless Jesus has no power over cancer cells, corruption, identity theft, stock-market crashes, or global calamities. A packageable, portable Jesus might fit well in a purse or on a shelf, but he does nothing for your fears.
Maybe that’s why Jesus took the disciples up the mountain – he saw the box in which they had confined him and the future that awaited them: the fireside denial of Peter, prisons of Jerusalem and Rome, the demands of the church and the persecutions of Nero. A box-sized version of God simply wouldn’t work. So, if that’s true for them, don't we need to know the transfigured Christ? The One who spits holy fire? Who convenes and commands historical figures? Who occupies the loftiest perch and wears the only true crown of the universe, God's only beloved Son? One who takes friends to Mount Hermon's peak so they can peek into heaven?
In the book Prince Caspian, Lucy sees Aslan, the lion, for the first time in many years. He has changed since their last encounter. His size surprises her, and she tells him as much. "Aslan," said Lucy, "you're bigger." "That is because you are older, little one," answered he. "Not because you are?" "I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger." And so it is with Christ. The longer we live in him, the greater he becomes in us. It's not that he changes but that we do; we see more of him. We see dimensions, aspects, and characteristics we never saw before, increasing, and astonishing increments of his purity, power, and uniqueness. It’s then that we discard boxes and old images of Christ like used tissues. We don't dare place Jesus on a political donkey or elephant. Define Jesus with a doctrine or confine him to an opinion? Nope. We’d more easily swallow the ocean than capture Christ in a box. And in the end, we respond like the apostles. We, too, fall on our faces and worship. And when we do, the carpenter says, "Arise, and do not be afraid." (Matt. 17:7)
Here's my hunch. Peter, James, and John descended the mountain sunburned and smiling, with a spring in their step, if not a little swagger. With a Messiah like this one, who could hurt them? And here's another hunch. Mount Hermon is still ablaze and has space for guests like you and me.
Grace,
Randy
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