Have you ever been so confused that you didn’t know up from down, black from white, in from out?  Have you ever forgotten someone’s name?  I’m sure we’ve all done that.  However, I’m not talking about someone we’ve only met once or twice.  I’m talking about someone we really know—a person whose name we ought to remember.  I’ll admit, that’s been me on more than one occasion!

Now that is being confused.  We could think of other examples of confusion, unless we’re too confused to do so.

In 1 Kings 19, we catch someone in his own state of confusion, the prophet Elijah.  We’ll get to that later on.

Here’s a bit of the back-story.  Ahab is king, and Jezebel is his foreign wife.  Her father is a priest of the goddess Astarte.  Astarte, also known as Asherah, is the consort, the companion, of Baal.  At this time, the land is experiencing a terrible drought.  Elijah, the prophet of the Lord, says the rain will come only when he gives the word.  The priests of Baal can call on their god all they want.  Only the prophet of Yahweh can announce the end of this vicious drought.

In chapter 18, we have a quite bloody scene.  Elijah challenges the prophets of Baal to see which god can burn up the sacrificial offering which has been laid out.  When fire from heaven descends and consumes the offering, Elijah is proven right.  In a moment that can only be called zealous, he has the other prophets put to death.

But before all the butchery, there is a note of humor!  While the prophets of Baal are crying out to their god, Elijah decides to be a comedian.  He says, “Cry aloud!  Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened” (v. 27).  Some translations, instead of “he has wandered away,”[1] have “he is relieving himself,” or he “is out sitting on the toilet”! (New Living Translation, Living Bible)

[not the same Baal, but maybe the point is made]

So basically, that is what’s been going on as we get to chapter 19.

The king lets the queen know what Elijah has done.  To say that Jezebel is displeased with Elijah would be an understatement.  She sends a messenger to tell the prophet, “You’re a dead man.”

So, on the heels of his greatest victory, Elijah takes to his heels!  He has defeated the prophets of Baal; the rains have returned at his word, but he is scared for his life.  He takes off, and not only does he take off; he leaves the country.  Elijah flees all the way to Beer-sheba, about one hundred miles away, in the southern kingdom of Judah.

Something to understand about Elijah is he is considered perhaps the foremost of the prophets.  For example, in the book of Malachi, his return is expected.  “See, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.  He will turn the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children to their parents, so that I will not come and strike the land with a curse” (4:5-6).  Receive his family counseling or else!

On the nights when the Passover seder is observed, a chair is always left empty for Elijah.

In the New Testament, Jesus says Elijah has come in the person of John the Baptist.  This is right after he has taken Peter, James, and John up the mountain where the Transfiguration occurs, and Moses and Elijah have had a little conversation with Jesus (Mt 17).

So Elijah winds up with some hefty credentials!

Very briefly, he leaves his servant in Beer-sheba, and strikes off alone into the wilderness where he finds “a solitary broom tree,” also known as a juniper tree (v. 4).  He lies down, ready to die.  An angel visits, giving him food and water, and lets him know he must continue his journey.  Elijah travels “forty days and forty nights,” symbolic in the Bible of a very long time (v. 8).

He takes refuge in a cave at Mount Horeb, where Moses received the Ten Commandments.

“Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’” (v. 9).  Here’s his response.  It’s rather lengthy, and we’ll hear it again.  “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts, for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword.  I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away” (v. 10).

What are you doing here?

On the face of it, the answer seems obvious.  He just woke up; he had been asleep.  Of course, that’s not really the question.  Aside from the “here,” there’s the desire to know, “why are you here”?  Putting a finer point on it, we might see it as, “Why did you run from Jezebel?”  Why were you afraid?  Why did you fear?

Is it possible that the full weight of hearing a death sentence pronounced shook his resolve?  Does it make it more real?

The Lord tells Elijah to take his place on the mountain, as Moses did centuries earlier, because there’s about to be a divine visitation.  Where is the Lord?  A storm arrives, leaving destruction in its wake.  But no, the Lord isn’t there.  Then there’s an earthquake, shaking up the place, sending boulders loose.  After that, a raging fire breaks out, filling the sky with smoke.  Still, neither one is a sign of God’s presence.

After all the drama—after the blowing, shaking, and burning—there is an eerie stillness.  Remember if there’s anyone who can appreciate spectacle, it’s Elijah.  We are introduced to him just as he’s going to confront the king regarding the drought.  And of course, there’s the high drama when he faces the prophets of Baal.

As verse 12 puts it, there was “after the fire a sound of sheer silence.”  The King James Version has the familiar “after the fire a still small voice.”

[photo by Kelly3339 on Pixabay]

“When Elijah heard it…”  He heard in the quiet of the hush.  He listened to the absence of sound.  Elijah…  Elijah…  Elijah!

“What are you doing here?”

I said earlier Elijah has his own state of confusion.  This, I would submit, is evidence of such.  I also would submit there’s a bit of speculation on my part!

What is Elijah’s response?  “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts, for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword.  I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away” (v. 14).  Wait, haven’t we heard that before?

Elijah repeats his previous answer verbatim.  (Here’s more speculation.)  It seems to be rehearsed.  Does he have nothing else to say?  Is he making excuses?  Could he be trying to prove his worth?  Is he trying to convince himself of something?  Is he trying to convince the Lord?

Thinking of Elijah’s repeated answer as a narrative as to where he is, I wonder if there’s a narrative I hold onto?  Do I have a story I repeat to deflect those kinds of questions and concerns?  Why am I here?  Why do I run, not necessarily from Jezebel, but from whatever?  Why do I fear?  Are there excuses I make?

However, more importantly, whose am I?  To whom do I belong?

In the collected Letters and Papers from Prison, there is a poem by Dietrich Bonhoeffer which he wrote about nine months before being executed by the Nazis.  He was killed mere weeks before his prison camp was liberated by the Allies.  Here are the final lines of the poem, titled “Who am I?”[2]

“Who am I?  This or the Other? / Am I one person today and tomorrow another? / Am I both at once?  A hypocrite before others, / And before myself a contemptible, woebegone weakling? / Or is something within me like a beaten army / Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

“Who am I?  They mock me, these lonely questions of mine, / Whoever I am, Thou Knowest, O God, I am thine.”

Can anyone relate to the thought, “Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?”  I think Elijah demonstrates that vividly.  In ways, I feel like I also display that quality.

And then, those final words.  “Who am I?  They mock me, these lonely questions of mine, / Whoever I am, Thou Knowest, O God, I am thine.”

The Lord answers Elijah.  The Lord gives him a mission.  He is to be a kingmaker: Hazael in Aram and Jehu in Israel.  As his protégé, he is to anoint Elisha.

To Elijah, the Lord affirms, you are my prophet.  You are my servant.  However, you aren’t the only faithful one.  Verse 18 says, “Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him.”  That’s both a comfort and a correction.

The Lord uses the language of “kiss,” with all the intimacy and consequences it carries.  Every mouth that has not kissed Baal.  The faithful ones have not given themselves to this foreign god, this false god.  They have not pledged their allegiance.  They have not promised their hearts.

We should take note: in Hebrew thought, “heart” is not the seat of emotion.  It is not where we feel love, the way we reckon it.  It is the source of attention, choice, concern, imagination, understanding.  It is where we love God and love our neighbor.  Pledging ourselves to a false god, to an idol, interferes with all of that.  Indeed, it sends it in the wrong direction.

We have here a tale of rediscovery.  Despite his protests to the contrary, Elijah’s actions reveal he has forgotten he is a prophet of God.  He flees in disorder from victory already achieved.  Elijah is reminded who he is.  True to his nature as one with a flair for the dramatic, when he ascends from the earth, he does so in a chariot of fire.

So often, we forget who we are.  As the children of God, as the saved of our Lord Jesus Christ, as those sustained by the Holy Spirit—when we remember that and act on it—confusion is set aside.  Harmony and order are set in place.

Though we might flee in disorder from victory already achieved, Jesus makes us more than conquerors.

What are you doing here?

Whatever I am doing, whoever I am, Thou Knowest, O God, I am thine.

[1] the word for “wander” is שִֺיג, sig

[2] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison: The Enlarged Edition (New York: Touchstone, 1997), 348.

Sometimes, events happen that simply must be addressed in a sermon.  Unfortunately, this is one of those times.  When the president and first lady tested positive for the coronavirus, that pushed its way to the front.  It’s a tragedy when anyone contracts Covid-19.  It has happened tens of millions of times worldwide.  Over one million people have died.

I don’t think I’m going too far when I say 2020 has been a year unlike any other for every human being alive on planet Earth.  (I know we’ve said that for various years in the past—but this time, it’s really true!)

Aside from the global pandemic, which is way more than enough, demonstrations have spread across America, the political landscape has been incredibly volatile, the ice caps continue melting, the oceans are getting warmer, but guess what?  The Spirit of God is moving.

And I trust the Spirit of God was moving me when I wrote this sermon.

In July, I started noticing something else about 2020.  I began a frequent ritual of gazing into the night sky.  From our vantage point, Jupiter and Saturn have been doing a nocturnal dance since early this year and will continue to do so for the rest of 2020.  The two largest planets in our solar system have recently begun sharing the sky with our neighbor, Mars.  I often like to await the appearance of Jupiter as the sky gradually darkens.  It becomes visible well before any stars.

Seeing those planets has been a gift.  They are my cosmic friends!  I have been reminded that, in the grand scheme of things, our problems—as genuinely serious as they are—still are part of a vast intergalactic tapestry.  Contemplating such matters has become almost a spiritual discipline.  It has been therapeutic.

“The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.”  So says the beginning of Psalm 19.

That psalm is one of my favorites.  It would seem I’m not alone in that.  It has been celebrated down through the ages for its poetic beauty.  A prominent writer in the 20th century also had great admiration for it.  That would be C. S. Lewis, professor at Oxford and author of numerous books, including The Chronicles of Narnia and Mere Christianity.  A professed atheist, he came to Christ, partly due to his conversations with his friend J. R. R. Tolkien, who wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

Lewis’ praise for the psalm has been widely quoted.  “I take this to be the greatest poem in the Psalter,” he wrote, “and one of the greatest lyrics in the world.”[1]  I wish he had said how he really felt!

He spoke of how the psalmist describes “the sun, the bridal joyousness of its rising, the unimaginable speed of its daily voyage from east to west…  The key phrase on which the whole poem depends is ‘there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.’  It pierces everywhere with its strong, clean ardor.”

He’s really passionate about this psalm!

Psalm 19, which displays the eternal word of God, is laid out in three sections.  The first part, verses 1 to 6, is an exaltation of the majesty of creation.  Verses 7 to 11 glorify the written word, with the benefits thereof: it is perfect, sure, right, clear, pure, true, and righteous.

It revives the soul.  It makes wise the simple.  It rejoices the heart.  It enlightens the eyes.  Its beauty puts gold to shame.  And how does it taste?  Sweeter than honey, child!  Psalm 119 agrees.  “How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (v. 103).

We end with verses 12 to 14 with a prayer of repentance and protection—and that includes protection from oneself.  You did know we can be our own worst enemy?  The psalm ends with words that might be familiar.  “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.”  (More about that one later.)

So there’s a lot in this psalm, but I want to focus on something I know I need help with—silence.

I started with speaking about admiring my friends, those radiant beauties in the night sky.  I think of how long it’s taken their light to reach me.  (Minutes?  Over an hour?)  I can’t hear them, but they proclaim the work and word of God.

Verse 3 speaks, “There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard.”  Recall the line from our call to worship: “Without a word being spoken, all creation bears witness to the goodness of the Lord.”  Their voice is not heard, and yet, “their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world” (v. 4).

Maybe if I would just shut up, I could hear their silent statements, their wordless words.  Maybe if I weren’t too busy thinking about what I could say about them, I could listen, and my soul would be enriched.  I could pass that blessing along to others.  But no, I have to focus all my attention on myself.

Sometimes my dog joins me on these nightly sojourns.  After a little play time, he will lie down and occupy himself with chewing on a stick, or he’ll walk around, sniffing stuff.  He doesn’t say much.  I could take a lesson from him.

I want to revisit that final verse: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart, etc.”  The word translated as “meditation” is an interesting one.[2]  It carries the meaning of a “murmuring sound.”  It’s compared to the sound of a harp when struck.  There’s that lingering sound as it begins fading to silence.  It’s not like a drum, something percussive, something rat-a-tat.  It’s smooth.

Another translation speaks of “the whispering of my heart.”[3]  It is as loud as a whisper.

We’re reminded of the prophet Elijah when he is on the run from the wrath of Jezebel, wife of King Ahab.  Elijah has presided over the killing of the prophets of Baal.  Jezebel is not happy, and she gives orders to her hitmen.  That’s when Elijah hits the road.

In the desert, the word of the Lord comes to him.  It isn’t in the wind or the earthquake or the fire.  It isn’t in any of the sound and fury.  It is in sheer silence, a small still voice.  It is “a light murmuring sound” (1 Kg 19:12, NJB).

We tend to be quite uncomfortable with silence.  We can notice that in worship.  Moments of silence can seem to go on and on.

There’s another thing I want to mention in this psalm.  Verse 13 says, “Keep back your servant also from the insolent; do not let them have dominion over me.  Then I shall be blameless, and innocent of great transgression.”

The poet wants protection from the insolent, the arrogant ones.  The plea is to be shielded from the harm they would do.  However, as before, the Hebrew word (אֵל, el) can have another nuance.  It also refers to “proud thoughts.”  It can also mean inner insolence.  I wonder if that isn’t the meaning that better applies to most of us.

You know, I have my opinions.  (And of course, they are always the correct ones.)  But at the end of the day, they pale in comparison with Jupiter and Saturn and Mars, who keep doing their thing.  The noise we humans make doesn’t affect them at all.  And my opinions pale in colossal fashion in comparison with the one who says in Isaiah, “as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (55:9).  Period.

Our proud thoughts affect the way we treat others.  They affect the way we treat planet Earth.

Besides being World Communion Sunday, today is also the feast of St. Francis of Assisi.  He is considered the patron saint of ecology.  He was noted for befriending the animals!

For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been doing prayer walking.  Last Monday, I considered something with which St. Francis would be an excellent guide.  I reflected on how we called to tread lightly on the earth.  Indeed, walking on God’s good creation can be an act of prayer in itself.  Think of it.  We easily disregard that.  We pave over everything.  Our bombs and weapons of war kill more than just humans.  Lord only knows how many plants and animals we kill.  We dump poison and plastic on land and in the sea.  We foul the atmosphere.

We destroy ourselves, and in doing so, we defile the presence of God within us.  We grieve the Holy Spirit.

As I move toward my conclusion, I’m not going to tell you to do anything.  Just turn off the noise.  Open yourself to the word, however it appears.  When we befriend silence, we can better hear the word of the Lord; we can better hear those wordless words.  Let that sweetness fill you up.  “O taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps 34:8).

[1] reiterations.wordpress.com/2017/07/26/c-s-lewis-on-psalm-19/

from Reflections on the Psalms (New York: Harper One, 1958), pp. 73-74.

[2] הׅגָּיוׄן, higgayon

[3] New Jerusalem Bible

On the mountain of the Transfiguration, seeing Jesus in glory, along with Moses and Elijah, Peter wants to set up camp.  He wants to capture the moment; he wants to stay, take this instant and freeze it.  That is his proposal.  But as Luke tells us, he doesn’t know what in the world he’s talking about.

Then a voice sounds from on high, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (v. 35).  Peter is basically told to shut his trap.  Or as the delightful Mt. T would put it, “Quit your jibba jabba!”

In Psalm 99, the poet encourages anything but jibba jabba.  The whole world is exhorted to “praise [the Lord’s] great and awesome name” (v. 3).  If Peter, James, and John are struck by elation (and alarm) by their encounter on the mountain, the psalmist does one better when he proclaims, “The Lord is king; let the peoples tremble!  He sits enthroned upon the cherubim; let the earth quake!” (v. 1).

Peter would like to stop time; he wants to preserve the experience.

We do that as well, sometimes in trivial ways.  Some of us (and I know I’m going to get in trouble for saying this) like to photograph the contents of our dinner plate.  But who am I to talk?  No doubt, I take too many pictures of my dog.  (Still, if I’m able to catch him yawning—with the sound he makes—I’m going to try to get that on video!  That would be an experience to preserve.)

Maybe you can understand what I’m trying to say.  We often want to freeze life, to take a timeout, for good or ill.  Life is calling our name, and we’re not always sure how to answer.  The psalmist invites us to enter in, to allow the transfiguration light to guide us.  The disciples would do well to heed what the psalmist says.  They need to listen.  That goes for us, too.

As with much of Hebrew poetry, Psalm 99 is well constructed.  Stan Mast, who teaches at Calvin Seminary, says something about it.  “It deliberately uses the Hebrew number of perfection and completeness, the number 7, mentioning the Lord seven times and using 7 pronouns to refer to that Lord.”[1]  And in three places, it points out that the Lord is holy.  (Three is also a key number.)

Structure in poetry can be important.  It imposes a certain discipline, even in limericks.

A few days ago, Banu and I were at Wegmans.  They had the tasting stations set up around the store.  The one at the deli had something called chicken epicurean sausage.  I was struck by the word “epicurean.”  It dates back to the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus.  Very roughly speaking, he taught that happiness is the greatest good in life.  He focused on simple pleasures.  Today, we think of an epicure as someone who likes the fine things, especially fine food and drink.  I told Banu it reminded me of an old limerick:

“An epicure dining at Crewe, / found quite a large mouse in his stew. / Said the waiter, ‘Don’t shout, / or wave it about, / or the rest will be wanting one too!’”

Admittedly, that’s not the best example of showing the discipline of structure!  Still, structure can mean being careful to transmit the message, and it helps in recalling it if there’s good rhyme and rhythm.  After all, it’s easier to remember something if you listen to the music!

Psalm 99 is broken into three sections, each of which has something to contribute to the whole.

Verses 1 to 3 praise the Lord for reigning worldwide—being king of the world!  Verses 4 and 5 praise the Lord for justice.  Verses 6 to 9 praise the Lord for entering into relationship.  Moses the lawgiver, and Aaron and Samuel, perhaps prototypes of priest and prophet, are highlighted.  Of course, the starting point throughout is the focus on Israel: in Zion, in Jacob, in the pillar of cloud—with each of them expressing a different stage in its history.

I won’t go into great detail, but I do find verses 4 and 5 especially interesting.  After the first section urges all nations to praise the Lord, we now get a sense of who this Lord is.  “Mighty King, lover of justice, you have established equity; you have executed justice and righteousness in Jacob” (v. 4).

What does justice mean here?  What is justice for this Lord?  The God of Israel, the God of Jesus Christ, is an ethical God.  By that, I mean this God cares about ethics; this God cares about how we behave.  This God is not like other gods, the blood drinking gods who lash out in blind fury if they don’t get their sacrifices.  As long as they are appeased, they don’t care what their worshippers do.  (Sometimes we treat our Lord the same way.  If we pay our dues, what we do doesn’t mean quite so much!)

Reinforcing that idea is verse 5: “Extol the Lord our God; worship at his footstool.  Holy is he!”  We are called to worship a holy God.  Verse 9 agrees: “Extol the Lord our God, and worship at his holy mountain; for the Lord our God is holy.”  We are called to worship twice in Psalm 99.  We are called to listen to these words.

Stan Mast comments, “Unlike the gods of the nations who cannot hear or speak, God both hears the cries of his people and speaks in words they could hear.”  God speaks through visions and dreams and written words and through his servants, the prophets, and of course, through Jesus the Messiah.  God speaks through the still, small voice of prayer—the sound of silence.  We are called to listen, like those early disciples.

Listening is easier said than done.  Listening is hard work.  Prayer and meditation are hard work.

There’s a concept originating from Buddhism, but I think it applies to everyone.  It’s called “the monkey mind.”  It refers to a sense of restlessness, thoughts bouncing from one thing to the other, constant chattering.  It’s called “monkey mind” because it’s like monkeys swinging from one branch to another.  One thought leads to another and another and another.

Whenever we enter silence, it is inevitable that thoughts will surface.  “I need to do that today.”  “What’s that dog barking at?”  “I wish I could get that stupid song out of my head.”  Thoughts will come and go, but the trick is to not hold on to them.  Let them pass through.  I believe that, at least in some way, it’s expressed by St. Paul’s comment on “the peace of God which passes all understanding” (Ph 4:7).  We can hear the voice of transfiguration, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

I will not claim to be an expert practitioner of what I’m saying.  As I said, it takes work—and patience.

As I said a moment ago, the psalmist calls us to worship.  We are celebrating the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist.  (“Eucharist” comes from the Greek word which means “to give thanks” [ευχαριστεω, eucharisteō].  It appears all throughout the New Testament.)

Today being Transfiguration, it provides the theme.  Part of the service is the Great Thanksgiving.  It’s the prayer reciting the story of salvation, the history of salvation.  Here’s part of the prayer:

“You are holy, O God of majesty, / and blessed is Jesus Christ, your Son, our Lord. / On a lonely mountain / his human body was transfigured by your divine splendor. / In his face, we have glimpsed your glory. / In his life, we see your love.”

Here’s a question: how does listening tie together worship and the justice the psalmist is talking about?  Does worship lead us to seek justice outside these walls?

Our friend Stan says, “This emphasis on justice and righteousness is something many North American Christians don’t appreciate as much as we should.  We praise God for his grace and mercy and love, not his righteousness and justice and judgment.”  He does say “many” Christians focus on God’s mercy and not God’s righteousness and judgment.  In reality, all of those things go together.  You can’t have one without the rest.

However, it’s definitely not “all” Christians who take that approach.  There are many who think of God’s judgment as someone wielding a sword preparing for execution, rather than someone making sure all is put right—all is restored to proper balance.

I’m sure none of you have ever encountered this: the one with a scowling disposition, harshly critical, the finger-wagging party pooper.

Still, the point is made.  We who live in warm houses, who have plenty of food to eat, who live in safety, too often can’t relate to those around the world and those here at home who do not have such things.

Listening to the voice from on high, listening to the voice within—that still, small voice of the Spirit—we are called to move into the light leading us into action.  We listen in the light; we listen to the one who is called the Beloved, the Chosen.  We are guided by the light shining in the face of Jesus Christ.

[1] cep.calvinseminary.edu/sermon-starters/last-epiphany-c/?type=the_lectionary_psalms

I’m a fan of Star Trek—of all of the TV series and the movies.  But I’m not one of those characters who wear Vulcan ears or try to speak the Klingon language!  One of my favorite episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation is the one called “Transfigurations.”  (What a coincidence!  Today just happens to be Transfiguration!)

For those who don’t know, and especially for those who don’t care, I’ll try to be brief in my description!

The crew of the Enterprise discovers in the wreckage of a ship a seriously wounded alien.  (They’ve never encountered his species.)  It turns out that he has amnesia, so they refer to him as “John Doe.”

“John” makes astonishing progress in recovering from his injuries.  But there’s something else about him.  His body is undergoing transformation at the molecular level; every now and then, he convulses in pain.  Still, one wouldn’t know it by his behavior.  John has a comforting, peaceful presence; it endears him to everyone he meets.  And John has power.  He demonstrates his ability to heal—and even to bring somebody back from the dead!  (Does this sound familiar?)

Slowly, John regains his memory.  When he’s told by Capt. Jean-Luc Picard (played by Patrick Stewart) that they’ve figured out the location of his home world—and plan to return him there, he says that he can’t go back.  But he still doesn’t know why.  He only knows that he was trying to escape from his planet.  He believes that he’s on some kind of mission.

Eventually, we find out what it is.  The Enterprise is stopped by a ship from his home planet, the captain of which demands that John be turned over to him.  The man is furious at John, but more than that, he’s afraid of him.  He claims that John is a fugitive, sentenced to death for subversive activities.  When Picard dares to question this other captain, the Enterprise is hit with a field that paralyzes everyone on board—they can’t even breathe.

John touches a wall and sends a wave of light throughout the ship, healing the entire crew.  In that moment, he attains perfect clarity.  He now knows who he is and why his leaders are terrified of him.  He explains that his species is on the verge of a wondrous transformation.  That’s why he had to flee—to have time to let the process run its course.

And then, before everyone’s eyes, John is transfigured.  His entire body begins to glow with intense light, until he is transformed into a being of energy.  He says there is now nothing anyone can do to prevent him from returning to his people and telling them that they, too, can embrace the transformation.  No one can stop him from letting them know that they, too, can be transfigured.

The story of this transfiguration is a fictional one.  (By the way, I think the plural title “Transfigurations” speaks to how all those witnessing John’s transformation are also changed.)

There is, of course, another transfiguration which is mentioned in St. Peter’s Second Letter.

A quick note on that: this letter was written after Peter’s death.  There’s a reference in chapter 3 to the letters of Paul, which are now being gathered together and beginning to have the authority of scripture.  The deaths of Peter and Paul were pretty close together in time.  There’s no attempt by the author to trick anyone.  Writing in the name of someone else was a common practice in those days.  It was a way to honor revered teachers, to speak in their voice.

Now, back to the transfiguration of Jesus.  As we see in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up the mountain (17:1-9).  And then, before their eyes, he begins to shine like the sun; he radiates with the glory of God.  He is joined by the epic figures of the Old Testament: Moses, the giver of the law, and Elijah, the prophet among prophets.

Second Peter is addressed to an audience which is plagued by disbelief and mistrust.  The years are going by, and the Lord hasn’t returned.  Prophecies and predictions are spreading around.  People are gathering followers and saying, “Listen to me!  God has let me in on the secret.”  We might even say they’re promoting conspiracy theories.

Isn’t it great that we don’t have to deal with that foolishness today?  Hold that thought!

Our author says, “Ignore those false prophets, those silver-tongued, slippery devils.”  Instead, he says, “we did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty” (1:16).

I like how the Revised English Bible puts it.  “It was not on tales, however cleverly concocted, that we relied…”  It wasn’t even on tales as cleverly concocted as Star Trek!  Another version says “any sophisticated myths.”[1]

Maybe that’s ironic, since we might consider ourselves today too sophisticated to believe such a ridiculous story.

The late Dwight Peterson, who taught at Eastern University, deals with what we just saw, our writer’s concern to establish the reality of the apostles’ experience and to not simply dismiss it as fantasy.

He says, “His appeal to the Transfiguration is an attempt to root the eschatological expectations of the church in the eyewitness (and ear-witness) experience of those who were present at the Transfiguration.  They saw Jesus ‘receive honor and glory from God’ that day, and they heard the authoritative voice from heaven: ‘This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased.’”[2]  They saw the majesty with their own eyes, and they heard the voice with their own ears.

This letter is presented as Peter’s last will and testament.  Right before today’s reading, we see in verses 13 to 15: “I think it right, as long as I am in this body, to refresh your memory, since I know that my death will come soon, as indeed our Lord Jesus Christ has made clear to me.  And I will make every effort so that after my departure you may be able at any time to recall these things.”

There’s an effort to reassure the church that even when Peter is dead and gone, his message will continue as a firm foundation.

The false prophets are presenting a competing version of reality.  To refer to them as “false prophets” and “false teachers,” as he does at the beginning of chapter 2, is definitely putting a negative spin on things!  This is a picture our author (or artist) paints of people who are, not simply mistaken, but have an intent to deceive.  I’m not sure all of them have such motives, but nowadays we have become familiar with the term “alternative facts.”  It’s kind of like the movie The Matrix (1999), in which the human race is dealing with parallel realities, and the truth depends on whether or not you’re aware of the other reality.

Fortunately for the early church, they aren’t held hostage to alternative facts.  Second Peter exposes the alternative gospel that is being disseminated.  The writer bases his argument on “the prophetic message” (v. 19).  Another version says, “All this confirms for us the message of the prophets,” that is, the true prophets, adding, “to which you will do well to attend” (REB).

He wants them to pay attention; it will serve them well.  It will serve as “a lamp shining in a dark place” (v. 19).  Hold on to this reality; hold on to this gospel “until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts”—“until day breaks and the morning star rises to illuminate your minds” (REB).

The glory of transfiguration shines into our sophisticated, sarcastic, and jaded darkness.  The temptation to be cynical these days might possibly be the greatest any of us have experienced.  For those, while yawning, say they’ve seen it all—maybe for us, if we say the same thing—that light of transfiguration, the radiance of the morning star, will glow ever more brightly and show us the new thing that God is doing.  That is, it will happen if we throw open the shutters.  That revelation cannot be denied.

Like the story in Star Trek with the transfiguration of John Doe, it happens before everyone’s eyes, including the frightened captain who would have him killed.

That prophetic message is true, because it isn’t based on “human will, but [on] men and women moved by the Holy Spirit [who] spoke from God” (v. 21).

We are on the doorstep of Lent, a time of reflection, repentance, and even lament.  Too often, our eyes are closed.  We turn away from the light.  What transfiguration needs to happen in our lives?  Or perhaps better, to what transfiguration do we need to bear witness?  To what do we need to testify?  There are those who would convince us of alternative facts, false prophecy, a fake gospel, fake good news.

The good news for us is that we can say, “We saw it for ourselves.  We heard it for ourselves.”  We have been eyewitnesses of his majesty.

[1] Bo Reicke, The Epistles of James, Peter, and Jude (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 156.

[2] www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=28

[special note: In a recent sermon, I spoke about the apostle Paul in Galatia, mentioning the difficulties he was having, some of them self-imposed. That’s especially true regarding the colorful language he uses about his detractors. In particular, I noted his bloody joke about those who demand circumcision, hoping for their self-castration. That, among other things, might raise questions about him: is he “driving or leading” the people?]

There’s a story from 1 Kings 21 about King Ahab of the northern kingdom of Israel, and in case you haven’t already figured out from the title, my supposition is that he’s “driving, not leading” the people.

What I would like to do is to use this story of King Ahab, his wife Jezebel, and Naboth and his vineyard as a study of conflict. There are some crazy things going on!

Verse 1 begins, “Later the following events took place.” At the end of chapter 20, a prophet chastises Ahab for making peace with Ben-hadad, the Aramean king. It’s a peace that will not last. The final verse says much about his character. “The king of Israel set out toward home, resentful and sullen, and came to Samaria” (v. 43). Keep those words in mind: “resentful and sullen.”

So, in today’s story, Ahab has his eyes on a vineyard that belongs to Naboth. It’s adjacent to his land, so he makes a proposal. “Naboth, I would like to use your vineyard as a garden, so let me have it, and I’ll give you one that’s even better. If that doesn’t work, I’ll pay you for it.”

That sounds like a pretty good deal—better than anything you can find on Craigslist or Pinterest!

Imagine Ahab’s surprise when Naboth rejects his offer, doing so in no uncertain terms. “The Lord forbid that I should give you my ancestral inheritance” (v. 3). For Naboth, the vineyard represents more than its usefulness or a financial transaction. He sees himself as the steward, the guardian, of what has been passed down to him by his ancestors. That’s a distinction that is lost on Ahab.

So what does Ahab do? He goes home, “resentful and sullen” (v. 4). And like the grown man he is, he curls up in bed and refuses to eat his dinner! The king decides to pout!

Enter Jezebel. We first meet her in chapter 16, where we learn that she is the daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians. Ahab marries her, and alongside with Yahweh, he serves her god, Baal. The author of 1 Kings says that Ahab “did more to provoke the Lord, the God of Israel, to anger than did all the kings of Israel before him” (v. 33). That doesn’t sound like somebody who was invited to the wedding!

Anyway, back to the current scripture. Try to imagine the scene. Jezebel asks him, “What’s your problem? Why aren’t you eating anything?” Ahab responds with his sob story. Jezebel must be looking at him and saying, “Are you the king or not? Get up. Go eat your dinner. I’ll take care of it.”

And the way she takes care of it is by rigging the legal system. A fast is proclaimed, elders are summoned, and a couple of unscrupulous fellows are hired to falsely accuse Naboth of a capital offense. He receives the death penalty, and Jezebel lets her husband know that the way is clear for him to take the vineyard.

There’s still one complicating factor, and it comes in the form of the prophet Elijah. The king and he have some history. Elijah has called out Ahab on his misdeeds before, and he does so again. The prophet tells the king that he has set himself on a course that is doomed. Everything will end in tears.

Refocusing on the idea I mentioned earlier, that is, using this story as a study of conflict, here’s my question: where does conflict appear in this story? It’s possible to see it in several places.

One place conflict appears is in the initial event, between Ahab and Naboth. They have conflicting plans over the disposal of the vineyard. Ahab fails in his God-ordained commission to protect the rights of his people. Naboth is affirming the tradition, going back to Leviticus 25 that land must remain within the possession of the family.

Without a doubt, there’s conflict between Ahab and Elijah. Elijah is remembered as possibly the greatest of the Hebrew prophets. He confronted the king of Israel in spectacular fashion. The showdown with the prophets of Baal in chapter 18 is truly a case of high drama.

There is also conflict within Ahab, within the man himself. Howard Wallace notes that Ahab gives his children names that a worshipper of Yahweh would select. He hasn’t abandoned his faith in the Lord, at least, not entirely. “Ahab personally bears the tension between worshipping Yahweh and worshipping Baal.”

Just before the showdown with the prophets of Baal, Elijah says to the people, “How long will you go limping with two different opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal, then follow him” (18:21). Elijah’s talking to the crowd, but the person it fits better than anyone else is the king.

Making the decision to marry Jezebel has brought plenty of complications. And yes, there is definitely conflict—ongoing conflict—between the king and the queen. (That seems to be an age-old quality to married life!)

It might be helpful to look at Jezebel’s side of the story, which we don’t get in the Bible. As throughout history, this marriage was no doubt part of a political alliance. It’s quite possible that Jezebel knows that she has to look out for herself, being the foreigner in the equation.

Jezebel has her own sense of honor, as well as need for protection. She has her own set of expectations, based on her cultural background.

We’ve looked at some places in which conflict appears in the story. What can we learn from it? How do we deal with the conflict?

Something we should acknowledge up front is that conflict is not necessarily good or bad; it simply is. In fact, it is inevitable. Actually, it’s possible to say that conflict, in and of itself, is a good thing. It is a good thing, in the sense that it is necessary for life. Living things, by definition, engage in conflict. One of the easiest ways to see this is by looking at the food chain. There’s conflict between the eater and the eaten. Conflict among humans stimulates new ideas, new ways of doing things.

So maybe we can reframe this, and think of dealing with conflict in ways that are not destructive.

Certainly, it helps if there are preventive measures to head off problems before they blow up. It’s always easier to deal with conflict before it escalates into full-scale war. If there are clear guidelines in place, clear expectations, then that helps to prevent false impressions.

In the context of our story, Ahab’s marriage to Jezebel is shown to be ill-advised. It has reinforced whatever character flaws he already possessed. This marriage leads him to stray from the path of the faithful, the path of the wise and the just. Why is that? As we’ve seen, and as Nancy deClaissé-Walford reminds us, Ahab is a king “who, apparently, or largely, because of the influence of his wife Jezebel, is unwilling or unable to be fully faithful to Yahweh.”

With Ahab, the clear guidelines and expectations of a king of Israel do not exist. Instead, we have the mixed messages that come from trying to follow the Lord and Baal at the same time. To put it in less dramatic terms, it would be like trying to work with two contradictory job descriptions—or no job description at all. Misunderstanding will ensue.

As we see in the story, and as we see in our own lives and congregations, we don’t always have the pre-emptive measures that prevent conflict. We’re not always on the same page. We can think of that as literally not on the same page by thinking of confusion on policies and procedures. There can also be unspoken stories that drive how we behave—stories that go back for years, even decades.

In his book, Congregational Leadership in Anxious Times, Peter Steinke has a list of observations about congregations and conflict. I like the way he begins: “I have worked with troubled churches for 20 years. I never cease to learn from these experiences.” (113) This comes from someone who is frequently cited as an expert in the field. I find his sense of humility to be quite refreshing. He strikes me as one who works at leading, not driving, people.

One of his observations I found especially relevant when considering today’s scripture reading. Here’s verse 20: “Ahab said to Elijah, ‘Have you found me, O my enemy?’ He answered, ‘I have found you.’” Then the prophet continues by laying out the verdict on Ahab.

This is Steinke’s observation: “Secrets—that is, hidden agendas and invisible loyalties—in most cases need to be brought to light. What about sin and evil? Expect it; expose it. To expose the demonic, name it.” (115) He then cites the story of Jesus and the demon-possessed man in Mark 5.

What I take from this is that Steinke isn’t necessarily talking about demons, but he is addressing those hidden, unnamed powers that stir up conflict. Just as Elijah has identified Ahab—just as he has “found” him—we also need to find and name those things that bedevil us. Once we get a handle on something and drag it out into the open, its power begins to wither. We work in concert with the Spirit of Christ and allow that breeze to disperse the fetid, stagnant air.

I mentioned the sermon on the person of the apostle Paul as he deals with the Galatian church. In 1 Kings we get a look at the person of King Ahab as he deals with Naboth, Jezebel, and Elijah. Both men are embroiled in conflict, but only one has a grasp on how to deal with it.

Conflict within us, if left unaddressed, gets projected outward. It affects our relationships. It affects our communities, be it the people of Israel, Paul’s audience in Galatia, or our own congregations. It turns us into people, into groups, that are driven, not led.

So we need to ask ourselves, “How do we address the conflict within?” That’s something for consideration and meditation!

[originally posted on 16 June 2013]