Mark 9.2–9

Last Sunday after the Epiphany | February 11, 2024 | Mark 9.2-9 | Richard O. Johnson |

Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.

As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead. (Mark 9.2-9)

Septuagesima, Sexagesima, Quinquagesima: To Lutherans of a certain vintage, those words will bring back memories of the pre-Lenten Sundays—a way that very serious Lutherans used to prepare for the preparation of Lent! Those words are a bit of a museum piece now, and they have dropped out of our vocabulary and out of our liturgical practice. Today, as we come to this last Sunday before the beginning of Lent, we are not yet into penitence and sackcloth. Quite the reverse. On this last Sunday after the Epiphany, we stand on the Mount of Transfiguration, and we behold the glory of Christ. It is a familiar passage, a story we hear every year at this time—and yet it is one that never loses its strangeness. What was going on up on that mountain? What did it mean for Jesus? For the disciples? For us?

There are many dimensions to this story, but today I’d like to focus on what is always my favorite part: the bungling confusion of Simon Peter. Here he is with Jesus on the mountain, he and James and John, and they see this incredible vision in which their friend, their rabbi, is transfigured—changed before their eyes, into a glowing white glory that is meant to reveal him as God. For good measure, Moses and Elijah appear alongside him.

And what is Peter’s response? “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah”—and then Mark’s very telling comment about Peter, “He did not know what to say, for they were terrified.” He did not know what to say. Oh, I love that verse! He did not know what to say. Who hasn’t been there? Who hasn’t been in that place where you don’t know what to say, and so you blurt out something that actually sounds really stupid!

When you don’t know what to say …

Experience teaches us, you know, that when you don’t know what to say, sometimes it’s best just to be quiet. That’s kind of what happens in the story, isn’t it? Peter’s silly remark is suddenly forgotten as a cloud overshadows them and the voice of God drowns out Peter’s bungling remarks: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Listen to him! Listen to him! When you don’t know what to say, it’s probably better just to listen.

That’s good advice in the real and practical world, but it’s good advice in the spiritual life as well, and it would be worth pondering as we begin our Lenten journey together. Finding more time for silence is a worthy goal for anyone interested in a deeper relationship with God.

Sit and knit

Archbishop Anthony Bloom tells a story about an elderly woman who came to see him shortly after he was ordained, seeking some advice about her prayer life. He felt inadequate for the task, but he listened to her and then suggested that perhaps she was talking so much that she didn’t give God a chance to get a word in. He suggested that she go to her room, put it in order, sit in her chair, look around for a moment, and then just knit for fifteen minutes before the face of God.

She didn’t think much of that advice; it didn’t seem very pious. But after a while, she tried it, and she came back and reported that this had really helped her. She began, she said, by liking the idea that she had fifteen minutes to do nothing without feeling guilty. She looked around and discovered what a pleasant place she lived in, and then she began to feel quiet and peaceful. Then she knit before the face of God.  These are her words:

“I became more and more aware of the silence. The needles hit the armrest of my chair, the clock was ticking peacefully, there was nothing to bother about, I had no need of straining myself. Then I perceived that this silence was not simply an absence of noise, but that the silence had substance. It was not absence of something but presence of something. The silence had a density, a richness, and it began to pervade me. … All of a sudden I perceived that the silence was a presence. At the heart of the silence there was He who is all stillness, all peace, all poise.” [Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray (Paulist Press, 1970), 92-94]

The silence is the presence

“The silence was a presence.” And that presence, you see, is God. It is God, just being with us, loving us. We miss him when we are too busy in our praying! I think that’s what is in this story on the mountain, too. Peter didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t need to say anything. He needed to be quiet, to listen. The silence is the presence.

It’s tough to find silence in our world. Sometimes when I am home alone I try to find silence, but it is almost impossible for me. The sound of the refrigerator, the noise of the furnace, even the unrelenting sound of distant traffic—they all intrude. And, of course, the noise of my own heart is the loudest of all, as thoughts and concerns and musings just don’t want to be still.

Perhaps “silence” is not quite the right word for what we need. After all, unless we’re traveling in outer space or underwater, absolute silence is almost impossible to find. Maybe we could think instead of “quiet.” I may not be able to find complete silence—that is something I cannot really control. But I can be quiet. I can, like the Psalmist in Psalm 131, “calm and quiet my soul.”

Space for inner stillness

 I need to find space for that inner stillness, and so do you. When you don’t know what to say—and especially when you don’t know what to say to God, when your praying seems to be dry and you don’t know how to find the words—that’s when you need to be still and listen. Could that be your goal doing Lent? Could it be to find time for stillness, time to listen to God?

There’s another aspect of this, though, and one that struck me as I reflected on this passage. Mark tells us Peter didn’t know what to say, but he also didn’t know what to do. He blurts out these words, but what he really wants is an action plan. “Let us make three dwellings . . .” You see, when you confront something that you don’t understand, or something that you fear, often the impulse is to do something. Remember Edith Bunker, on that old TV show, “All in the Family”? When she’d be talking with her husband Archie or her daughter Gloria and the conversation was getting a little uncomfortable, Edith’s inevitable response was, “Let me go make a nice cup of tea!” Our human impulse is always to want to do something. It’s the Mary and Martha thing, isn’t it? Mary is able just to sit quietly at Jesus’ feet and listen, while Martha gets preoccupied with what must be done.

It’s easier for most of us to be Martha rather than Mary. Truth be told, Martha is important, and what she does is important. Martha and Mary together represent the totality of the Christian life. There are things that must be done—all those directives about serving the poor, loving the neighbor. But perhaps in this coming Lent, you might put those aside, just for a season, or just for some significant moments during the season. Just sit and be quiet. Listen. Enjoy the presence of God.

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Pastor Richard O. Johnson

Webster, NY

roj@nccn.net