Boxes
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)
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. But he never fit one. They called him a
revolutionary; then he paid his taxes. They labeled him as a country carpenter,
but he confounded 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 pilgrim. People tried to box him in. They couldn't then, but
we still try today.
Like the taxi
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-buck 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 laundry; 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. The Washington and
Lincoln of the Jewish people. Their portraits hung in the entryway to the
Hebrew Hall of Fame. And here they stood.
About this point
Peter cleared 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 good
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 permit him to finish the 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 drained from their faces. Skin
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 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 not to 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? Since 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 calamity. 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 he saw 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 fires? Who convenes and commands historical figures? Who
occupies the loftiest perch and wears the only true crown of the universe,
God's 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. 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's still ablaze
and has space for guests.
Grace,
Randy
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