Where the miracles happen [Last Epiphany C - Luke 9:28-43a]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 9:28-43a

 

Where the miracles happen

Christ Church, Gilbertsville

 

On this day, eleven years ago, I skipped church.  I just didn’t show up.  That wasn’t the plan.  I went to bed fully expecting to preach and celebrate at both 8 and 10am.  But I didn’t.  Because, unexpectedly, something else came up.

 

Or perhaps, I should say, came out.  At 9:58am, on Sunday, March 2, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, in the year 2014, I met Isaiah Williamson.  And the first thing he did was scream at me.  And the first thing I did was fall in love with him.

 

Every year, on his birthday, we celebrate the special person Isaiah is becoming.  And also every year, in my mind and in my heart, I am transported back to our first meeting.  It is a day forever preserved in the amber of aching joy.  And something in me wants to build a dwelling in that perfect day.  And just live there.

 

It was snowing outside.  And peaceful.  Out our window, the beautiful park across the street was blanketed in sparkling stillness.  It was as if, on that one day, the city Toledo decided not to disturb us.  Somewhere, the troubles of the world still whirled around us.  But, for once, we didn’t notice.  We were safe in that moment.

 

A sweet, little family of four finding our sea legs together on this earth, our island home.  Uncertain but complete.  Wading into this new, but ancient, love.  In our cozy hospital room: mechanical bed, vinyl chair, television bolted to the wall and yet also a paradise.  And for a brief moment it felt like nothing else existed. 

 

Something in me didn’t want to leave, ever.  I wanted to hold onto that precious moment.  I wanted to live in its tender beauty.  I didn’t want to go back to real life.  I knew about real life with its monthly barrage of bills and its steady stream of work stress.  And a leak in the roof.  And the piles of laundry.  And the old furnace.  And the sleepless nights and the food and toys on every surface and in every crease and crack.     

 

But the hospital would not let us stay forever.  Other families needed to find their refuge in our room.  And so we loaded up and left for home.  And the cold world that looked so still from the window was not.  Because life with a newborn and a toddler is never still.  And all of those things I longed to escape caught up.  I couldn’t find anyone to cover Ash Wednesday and the oldest, longest member of my church died before the week even ended.  And the bills kept rolling in and the house needed attention and the laundry grew with the family and so did the messes.  And we might still be catching up on our sleep.

 

And also, life unfolded.  And it was beautiful.  Isaiah grew and learned and discovered a charming personality.  We watched two little humans become brothers.  Those brothers are teaching each other how to live.  Jen and I learned a deeper love – for each other and for our children and for a world of imperfect people who once themselves were but little babies. 

 

And we have never fully recaptured that March 2, eleven years ago, but in the messiness and complexity of life we are finding miracles.  God lives out here too.  Life is too big to box up in a room.  Or even in a precious moment.  Life needs to stretch its legs, to unfold, to unfurl.

 

Peter, James, and John wanted to stay on the mountain.  They wanted to live in their perfect moment.  And it was perfect.  Because, for a time, in that place, life wasn’t confusing; it made sense; it felt easy.  There was no opposition; no angry religious professionals hurling insults; no murderous Romans threatening murder.  There were no crowds of needy people with their messy problems and persistent demands.  There was none of that uncomfortable family tension; they didn’t have to worry about their Jesus/work/life balance.    

 

And there was clarity.  They left everything to follow Jesus.  But they weren’t sure.  Charismatic charlatans do exist – and some are quite convincing.  But on the mountain they were sure: Jesus was who they hoped he was.  Moses, Elijah, and God confirmed it.  They were in Heaven, not literally, but almost literally.  And they never wanted to leave.

 

But they did.  Because they had to leave.  Jesus made them leave.  And at the bottom of the mountain, just as they feared, real life was waiting for them.  All of it.  The crowds were still waiting.  Still needy.  The demons were still tormenting people.  The opposition was still watching and waiting.  Crosses were still lining the streets, taunting their future.  The valley was every bit as messy as they remembered.  It was nothing like the mountain top.

 

But it was where the miracles happened.  They heard God on the mountain.  But God didn’t stay there either.  God was here, at work in the messiness of life. 

 

To some extent, every Sunday is a mountain top experience.  We gather with the people we love to hear the Word of the Lord and experience the real presence of Jesus.  It feels good in here.  For a moment we find refuge from the messiness of life – the despair of our social media existence, the tension of our divided nation, the dread of an uncertain future.

 

But then we are sent out.  Dismissed.  Called to leave these comforts and go into the world.  Into a world of needy people with complex lives, broken hearts, and ragged emotions.  It is not always a pleasant place.  And that means we don’t always want to go.  But what we know about Jesus is that he needs us to leave, to follow him out into the world, where the restless and desperate crowds are gathered.  We are called to join God in the messiness.  Because the messiness is where the miracles happen.