There probably aren’t many of us who have never had to climb that mountain. If we’ve been alive very long, if you’ve tasted more than a sip of the sweet and bitter drink of life, we’ve probably had to pull against the weight of feeling dispirited, or depressed, or sad, or hopeless, or deeply disappointed, or abandoned — and trudge, step by disheartened step, up that mountain.

Peter was climbing that mountain now, climbing into the dusk at the end of the day, climbing into the darkness. But it had not always been dark. No, it had been so bright, so bright. The healings (so many healings), the miracles (so many miracles), the wisdom (so challenging, so transforming), the huge crowds, the buzz, the excitement, the expectation, the anticipation, new life breaking out everywhere — it had been such a bright time of hope and possibility.

And Peter had had his moment in the sun. "Who do you say that I am?" Jesus had asked. "The Messiah of God," Peter had answered. This was the Christ! This was God’s anointed! This Jesus, this Jesus who had called Peter, this Jesus whom Peter had left everything to follow, he was it! It would be through him that God would act. It would be through him that God would punish the nations that oppressed Israel. It would be through him that force would be used for the right cause, for his cause, for God’s cause. This was the messiah who would unite the people and wield the power and force of God Almighty like a sword. And he, Peter had been the one to say it: "You are the Messiah of God." It was his shining moment.

But his shining moment barely had a chance to flicker before Jesus snuffed it out. "I will suffer," he said, "and be rejected, and killed, and on the third day be raised. And if you want to follow me, every day you must take up your own instrument of shame and pain and sacrifice, and follow me, and give your life to me."

Peter was a fisherman, a practical man. He knew the laws of cause and effect. He knew that you could not haul in the net without pulling the rope. And he knew that this, this plan to be God’s Messiah by being rejected and killed, this simply would not work. Even while Jesus was still talking, Peter had felt his spirit deflating as he thought, "How strange, how sad. Ever since that day when I left my nets to follow him, I’ve wondered who he was. And now, now that I’ve said it, my shining moment, now I wonder more than ever. He is going to throw it all away. He is going to make himself a victim. He will be ground under the stone of history and forgotten. Nothing will be accomplished. We face wills of iron, wielding weapons of iron. And he tells us that his ‘plan’ is merely to add one more tragedy to a tragic world."

And then, as he stood there, stunned by Jesus’ words, he tried to stop the thoughts from coming, but he could not: "‘Who do you say that I am?’ I don’t know. I don’t know." And he fought it, but he could not stop it, couldn’t keep it from appearing in his mind: "‘Who do you say that I am?’ Perhaps, oh God, perhaps — a madman."

It had been over a week now, a long week as Peter tried over and over to keep the dark thoughts away, but could not. "Oh, God. Oh, God, a madman." And then Jesus had asked him and James and John to climb that mountain at the end of the day, to pray in the darkness. And so now he was climbing, climbing into the setting sun, into the darkness, step by heavy step, weighted down by hopelessness, despair, disillusionment, and deep, deep disappointment.

I believe that there probably aren’t many of us who have never had to climb that mountain. We climb it when we lose a loved one, and feel such a hollow, empty place in our souls. Or perhaps when we face our own death, perhaps (we feel) an untimely death, and wonder, even against our belief and our desire, wonder whether that’s all there is. You live, and then you die. Period. End of story. How could there be more? Is this all sound and fury, signifying nothing?

We climb that mountain when we feel so deeply Saddam Hussein murdering his own people, murdering children. And we climb that mountain when we feel so deeply American bombs burning Iraqi children alive. And we climb that mountain when we think that for thousands of years, this is how it has been. Iron against iron, steel against steel. How else can it be? How else can we face iron, steel? With what? With love? Get real!

One of the ways I find myself climbing that mountain is when I reflect on the church. I have given my life to the church, not in some pointy-headed metaphorical or theological sense, but in a very practical way. I work for the church, full time. All day, at least five days a week, and often more. This is what I do.

The task of the church is to transform the world it lives in. And I look around me. Rape, murder, violence, children abused, war, cuts to programs intended to help those who can’t help themselves — while military budgets burgeon. Children in Haiti starving. AIDS ravaging Africa. And in many places in our country, young people finding meaning, hope, and community — in gangs. I open the doors to the church, and I look around, and I find myself on that mountain.

If you’ve been alive very long, if you’ve tasted more than a sip of the sweet and bitter drink of life, I suspect that you’ve probably, sometime, sometime, had your own experience of that mountain, of things in your life may have made you question whether this sacrificial love business is, in the final analysis, just ineffective, or actually madness. When you are on that mountain, climbing into the darkness, it is a fair question to ask: "Is this the Messiah of God?" Or, as seems so much more likely during that climb, "Is this instead — a madman?"

Scary question, but I don’t think there’s much middle ground.

We started Epiphany by baptizing David Wagner. That was great fun! We heard of Jesus’ own baptism, and it was so easy to be a Christian that morning as we welcomed this bright, thoughtful young man to follow the one who came up out of the river to the heavens being ripped opened, to the voice from heaven saying, "You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased." It was a wonderful morning, that first Sunday of the season of Christ’s manifestation.

But now it is the sunset of this day of Epiphany. And now we know more about this Christ than we knew in the bright, sweet waters of the River Jordon. Now, we learn that we must climb the mountain.

Peter and James and John climb. And on the top of the mountain, there is only prayer. No iron. No power. Just prayer. And the sun sets. In the darkness, they fight sleep.

And then, and then — you know what happens then! Shining face! Dazzling white clothes! Moses and Elijah, the titans from Hebrew history, appearing in glory! And Peter, because he’s Peter, running around saying, "Let me make booths for you; let me make booths for you!" Then the cloud coming over, and they are terrified, and then — the voice, the voice from the baptism, the voice from heaven that spoke on that exciting, shining, heaven-ripped-open morning when Jesus came up out of the river, and when following him was new and fresh and exciting and fun. Now that voice speaks on the mountain. Now that voice speaks to Peter, to us, who have climbed that mountain, who have dared to ask that question: "Messiah of God, or madman?"

The voice from the cloud says to the terrified men: "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him." "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him."

As we stand on top of that mountain, we look down and see that we are to travel through the thorny path of Lent, of self-denial and discipline, and then we are to walk with Jesus as his path leads him directly into the power, and suffering, and tragedy of the world. It would be foolish of me to tell you that you probably won’t have to climb that mountain again. Peter did. I certainly have, and expect to again. I expect most of us will again. But we need to let the Transfiguration, that shining on the mountaintop, always remind us that our journey, even when we walk in the darkness, is not into darkness. We need to let the Transfiguration remind us, inspire us, that the way of sacrificial love really is God’s way. We need to let that shining light remind us that, yes, the steel of hatred will cut the flesh of love, but the sacrifice is not futile. Yes, Jesus became another tragedy in a tragic world; yes, Jesus was ground under the stone of history. But the stone was rolled away, and the blood of the martyrs became the seeds of the Church, and sacrificial love lightened the darkness and overwhelmed the empires of the world.

When our way seems most futile, when the darkness seems impenetrable, we, my brothers and sisters, will not despair. We will respond to the darkness by being who we are — children of the light.

May Christ, the light of the world, so enlighten your heart, and be so manifest in your life, that you may be the light of Christ to each life you touch. Amen.