John 3:1-17 "Strange, Wonderful, Illuminating Darkness"

         Some people think that Nicodemus came to find Jesus after dark because Nicodemus feared that his fellow Pharisees might discover him “consorting with the enemy,” so to speak.  Daylight would have been way too obvious, those scholars maintain – and far too great a risk for a Temple hotshot like him.  Some people think that the scenario was as Lutheran pastor Edward Markquart describes: 

         “About midnight, Nicodemus came to Jesus’ house and rapped on the door. (Knock, knock, knock).

         Jesus came to the door and said, ‘Yes?’

         ‘I know it is late, but my name is Nicodemus. I am a professor of religious law down at the temple, and I would like to speak with you a minute.’

         Jesus said, ‘OK. Shall we go out for a walk?’

         Nicodemus replied, ’O no. No, no, no, no, no. We don’t want to be seen outside. Do you mind if I would come in?’’

         However, I do not think that it was such fear that caused the Pharisee to seek out Jesus in the darkness.   You see, Nicodemus was no slouch when it came to his chosen occupation of keeper and interpreter of Jewish law.  It would take a lot to irreparably tarnish the reputation of a man such as Nicodemus, he who was one of the 71 Pharisees appointed to the Sanhedrin, the council of Jewish sages who were the de facto Supreme Court and legislative body in Judea during the Roman occupation when Jesus lived.  It would take far more than a chance meeting with a young, still wet-behind-the ears preacher to bring Nicodemus down.

         No, I do not think it was fear that motivated Nicodemus that night.  I think it was that he intuitively knew that strange and sometimes wonderful and oftentimes illuminating things happen in the darkness.   After all, the Pharisees traditionally studied the Torah – the ancient Holy Scriptures – at night.  It was when darkness fell that they had their deepest and most satisfying theological discussions – so many “ah ha” moments did they experience in the evening hours. 

         It is like when you close you eyes at night, and you are so confused with a million thoughts and scenarios playing in your head, and yet you wake up to the sunrise the next morning with a clear path forward.  Strange and sometimes wonderful and oftentimes illuminating things happen in the darkness. 

It is in the darkness that we are most apt to think outside the box and come to new understandings. 

         And so Nicodemus came to Jesus in the dead of night, moving silently through the streets and alleyways, his cloak pulled tight around him to protect him from the wind that blew in gusts every which way and perhaps to conceal himself as well from the prying eyes that might wonder for a moment what a member of the Sanhedrin was doing out and about in the moonlight. Nicodemus limped a bit down the dusty avenue because the arthritis in his left knee always acted up at night.        

         You see, Nicodemus was no spring chicken.  I picture him as late middle aged – or maybe recently eligible for Social Security – graying hair, sad and knowing eyes.  Nicodemus had been around the block a few times, especially when it came to religion.  After all, how many years of his life had he devoted to studying the Scriptures?  Surely he was one who could quote most any part of them, chapter and verse.  Yet, for too many days and too many nights, Nicodemus had experienced that niggling and rather negative and downright uncomfortable feeling that he was only going through the motions.  Was this all that there was?

         And so he sought out Jesus, the young upstart rabbi that the Temple elite was quickly coming to despise but who seemed to have a message that was resonating with the hearts of the poor, the outcasts, and the marginalized.  Not that such an audience should ever have concerned someone like Nicodemus - unless, of course, they became unruly and threatened the fragile peace that the Pharisees had been able to establish over the years with the Roman authorities. 

         But there was something about that Jesus – and the bits and pieces of that message that he had overheard – that caused Nicodemus to come out in the dead of night to find the rabbi – and maybe – just maybe – in finding the rabbi – to finally find himself.  After all, strange and sometimes wonderful and oftentimes illuminating things happen in the darkness. 

         As one should expect from the writer of this Gospel of John, the conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus was filled with puns and abstract symbols and double entrendres. As smart as he was and as well-versed as he was in the religious arts, Nicodemus found himself scratching his head, totally confused as Jesus spins a theology that our Pharisee insists upon taking literally (and that at least some of us have taken literally as well). 

         But Jesus is speaking figuratively.  However, that nuance is so far removed from Nicodemus’ frame of reference that finally the Gospel writer puts the words in Jesus’ mouth that lays it all out as simply as possible:  “God so loved the world” - that God would do anything – anything – to make it right, to make it a place like the very Garden of Eden itself, to make it the Kingdom of Heaven. “God so loved the world…”

         But to get to that point, Jesus and Nicodemus have a spirited and downright humorous conversation about birth and rebirth, spirit and the wind that blows. Jesus twists and turns Nicodemus’ perspective with wordplays and repeated phrases until the old Pharisee does not know if he is coming or going. As Lutheran pastor Janet Hunt notes, “Poor Nicodemus is standing precariously on the edge of mystery and Jesus seems to push him right in.  Because this is not intellectual parsing that is called for now.” 

         It all begins because Jesus uses one of those words that in Greek (the language of the Gospel though not the tongue that Jesus himself spoke) has more than a single meaning.  Jesus talks about being born – and Nicodemus is confused.  Jesus talks about being born “from above,” and Nicodemus thinks he is talking about being born “again.”  “From above” and “again”: same word in Greek.  It is kind of a mean trick to play on Nicodemus – he who in all his time as a Pharisee had been taught to look only at the literal meaning of the text.  After all, it was that mindset that was his original spiritual birthing.

         What Nicodemus hears is this:  Jesus says “Take it from me: Unless a person is born again, it’s not possible to see what I’m pointing to—to God’s kingdom.”

         “How can anyone,” queries Nicodemus, “be born again who has already been born and grown up? You can’t re-enter your mother’s womb and be born again. What are you saying with this ‘born again’ talk?”

         Ask any six year-old.  That is a crazy interpretation that Nicodemus is insisting upon. 

He is definitely having trouble, as New Testament scholar Charles Cousar notes, grasping “the strange ways of God, who persists in making all things new." How much more sense it makes to say:  “Take it from me: Unless a person is born from above, it’s not possible to see what I’m pointing to—to God’s kingdom.”

         And then Jesus goes on to talk about this elusive and fickle Spirit that we will encounter if we allow ourselves to be born from above, that perhaps even causes the second birth, that rebirth, to happen.  Jesus says that the Spirit is like that wind blowing outside, the one that even now as the two men talked periodically rattled the window frames or tossed up little dust vortexes in the fields on a whim.  We do not know when or why or how they will happen, Jesus declares. 

         Again, because the Greek word for “spirit” is the same as the Greek word for “wind,” Nicodemus just does not get it.  He responds with another scratch of the head.  “Huh? How can these things be?” he asks.

         And Jesus replies, “And you’re supposed to be a teacher?” 

         And Nicodemus shakes his head and says, “I just do not get it.  I better head home now.  Thanks for the wine.” 

         And Jesus called out to our Pharisee as the darkness enveloped him, “God so loved the world, Nicodemus, God so loved the world….”

         And so Nicodemus walked out into the nighttime gloom, shaking his head even as the wind played with the hem of his cloak and kicked up a dust vortex or two on the road before him. 

         It sure does not seem that he was any better off after his conversation with Jesus than he was before.  Was Nicodemus’ spiritual malaise in any way cured?  Well, if nothing else, at least he tried.  At least he ventured out into the darkness. 

         And because he did so, I like to think that maybe – just maybe - the embers of his heart, at the very least, were warmed.  Maybe – just maybe - a strange and perhaps wonderful and possibly even illuminating thing happened there in the darkness.  After all, the Gospel writer of John tells us that later, when Jesus is dead, Nicodemus tagged along with Joseph of Arimathea to the gravesite, there to pay his last respects to the rabbi who had once talked to him over a glass of wine in the nighttime gloom.  

        It seemed as though, when he came to Jesus, as UCC pastor Josh Blakesley wrote, “Nicodemus saw the world, himself, and God as existing inside a small box. His perspective was limited and therefore, it was easier for him to think that he knew things. But, as Jesus pointed out, once you let your perspective of the world, yourself, and God outside of the box—you realize you don’t know much at all. When perspective is small and rigid, it’s easy to say, ‘I know this or that’ with certainty. But once your perspective expands to be bigger and freer, you tend to say: ‘I don’t know everything and therefore, I’m open to new possibilities.’”

         New possibilities:  That is the essence of the work of the Spirit.  That was what Jesus was talking about in his conversation with Nicodemus.  When the Spirit touches us, we are transformed, maybe becoming even a bit incomprehensible.  When the Spirit touches us, we cannot help but trust our life to the God who brought us into this world.  When the Spirit touches us, we can only affirm and even embrace the mystery of God and celebrate the fact that we do not have the final word when it comes to the workings of the Holy One. When the Spirit touches us, we cannot help but live our lives as if we were in fact born to love as God has loved. Like the Spirit herself, we no longer rely on what we think we are and what we think we know.

         To be born from above, to be born in the Spirit, is to realize that there is more to life than meets the eye.  There is more than the trappings of religion that we are all so used to.  There is more than the rituals that we practice year after year. There is more than the intellectual structure and knowledge of the Gospel message.  There is more than going through the motions.

         To be born from above, to be born of the Spirit, is to break free of the shackles of a life of scarcity and enter joyfully a life of abundance.  It is to break free of the old established patterns and fearlessly try out new ways of strengthening a relationship with God. 

         To be born from above, to be born of the Spirit, is to seize with great abandon the fact that God can – and will – flit through our lives, shaping and molding us into more than we ever thought we could be.

         To be born from above is to continue to walk boldly into our Lenten journey.  It is to embrace the darkness we will undoubtedly encounter – if not along the way then surely when we stand at the foot of the cross – embrace that darkness knowing that strange and sometimes wonderful and oftentimes illuminating things can – and will - happen there.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

        

Matthew 16:21-26 "The Meaning of the Cross"

         When I was growing up, I was a competitive swimmer and spent most Saturday evenings in a red, white, and blue striped Speedo swimsuit, baggy sweatpants, and a team jacket, all ready to report for most any backstroke or freestyle event.  When not actually swimming a race, my teammates and I generally gathered at the end of the pool to cheer for our friends or simply to watch the other races. 

         I remember one girl – younger than I – who was both an excellent swimmer – and a church-going Catholic.  I knew she was an excellent swimmer by the times she posted after every race, and I knew her religious background because every time she got on the starting block, she performed a ritual of crossing herself over and over again, faster and faster, dozens of times before the starter finally raised his gun and declared “Swimmers, take your marks.”

The cross:  It is the most significant and widely known symbol of Christianity.

         It was carried as a standard on flags and shields during the Crusades and in a variety of other religious wars.  In the Middle Ages, for a church or cathedral to have a piece of the true cross (that is, a certified piece of the cross Jesus was nailed to) was a precious relic.  In fact, over time, those chips of wood venerated in churches throughout Europe, if laid together, would have fabricated a cross too high and too wide to even imagine – so many were little bits of the so-called true cross.  

         Growing up, all my Catholic friends made the sign of the cross over their chests at various and sundry times – both in and out of church – for various and sundry reasons, I suppose.  It was somewhat of a mystery to me because we Protestants were not quite that public about our faith.  However, I suppose some of us wore necklaces – a thin chain with a small gold cross dangling from it.

         I also remember in the film “The Exorcist” the young priest standing at the bottom of the staircase thrusting a metal cross upward at whatever demons were leaving their mark in the upstairs foyer.          Most recently, last Wednesday to be exact, many of us who attended our Ash Wednesday service had our hand or forehead marked with a cross in ashes, ashes traditionally created from the burning of last year’s palms from Palm Sunday.

The cross:  It is first and foremost a symbol of our relationship with Jesus

         We all know, of course, that Jesus was executed and died as a result of crucifixion.  He was nailed to a cross, one of thousands of people that Pilate, the Provincial governor at the time, condemned to this tortuous and ignoble form of the death penalty.  Pilate was a brutal and ruthless man. 

         Crucifixion was reserved for the worst crimes against the Roman Empire.  Historically then, Jesus was crucified for sedition, for his treasonous actions of showing up the oppressive domination economic and social system of Rome and for preaching an alternative system whereby the rich would not always get rich at the expense of the poor. 

         As Theologian Marcus Borg wrote, “They killed him because, in the name of the Kingdom of God, he challenged how they had put the world together – and he was beginning to attract a following. His mode of execution is unambiguous testimony to that: crucifixion was a Roman form of capital punishment reserved for those who systematically defied imperial authority.”

         Down through the ages, of course, the cross has become a focus for Christians during Lent because it is in these six weeks prior to Easter that we prepare to face Jesus in his last agonizing hours on the cross and be witnesses to his death and its special meaning.

The Cross:  Its particular meaning for us

         Throughout history, the cross has served people as everything from a good luck charm to a tool for exorcism.  However, the bottom line is that, for us as Christians, the most important event in history was what happened on the cross where Jesus Christ was executed.

         What exactly occurred on the cross is a matter of theology, nurtured in each one of us by a combination of profound personal reflection and what we are told in Sunday School or church.  Some of us would say that Jesus’ sole purpose in life was to die for our sins, that his death was payment for all the wrongs we have done or are capable of doing in the future.   Jesus paid our debt for us. 

         Others of us would focus more on the relationship between Jesus’ death and his resurrection.  They would look to the ancient (and perhaps basic to humanity) notion of dying and rising. 

         The Apostle Paul speaks about it in several of his letters to early churches.  We die to our old selves and are born into a new life in Christ, he says.  That is, through our relationship with Jesus, we are transformed – and so we continue on our spiritual journey, living and walking both in  light of Easter and in the Way of the Gospel Message with its emphasis on doing justice and loving kindness.  Whichever theology you have made your own, be assured that in both views, the cross is central to a changed heart.

         The cross may also symbolize our commitment to follow in Jesus’ footsteps.  As our Scripture this morning said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” – follow him in the ways of justice, reconciliation, and love. 

         The cross can be a powerful reminder as well to depend on God in even the worst moments, in times of inexplicable tragedy – not because God will have answers, not because God will take away the suffering or change the course of history, but because God will not abandon us.  We will not face whatever we need to face alone.

         Finally, the cross can be a sign of our gathering into a faith community.  Greek Orthodox scholar Michael Bressem puts it this way:  “The most common architectural shape for a church building is that of a cross (cruciform). Churches have crosses on the apex of their roofs, on top of their steeples, or crowning their domes. There is a cross on the wall of the sanctuary, on the altar, or hanging from the ceiling.

         The cross is central to the Church not because it merely symbolizes the Christian faith, but because all churches stand at the ‘crossroads.’ The church is the meeting place where people learn about the ‘old paths, where the good way is,’ are instructed how to ‘walk in it,’ and ‘find rest for [their] souls.’ In other words, the church-and the cross is where we determine the course of our lives and are reminded of the commitments we've already made.”

         I do not know what the cross means to you.  I do not know if it means sacrifice or service or transformation or simply the gathering of community.  I do not know if the cross is a sign of strength or a symbol of weakness for you. 

        But I do know that during the season of Lent, the cross becomes more and more central to our worship – in our songs, our images, our prayers.  And I do know that the cross has something absolutely essential to do with our relationship with God. 

         It is less important what, in your heart of hearts, you believe about the cross and more important that you believe something – and that that “something” lies at the foundation of your faith.

         Each of you will have a chance to express the meaning of the cross that you claim for your own in a hands-on way.  We are going to create an altar cloth together that we will use during Lent.  I will invite you to come forward to paint a cross on the fabric Lynn has so graciously put together for us.  The cross can be big or little, thick or thin – or some combination thereof.  But it will be your cross with your meaning for it and for the Lenten season. 

         As you paint your cross, let these words shine through your artwork:

The strongest pattern of all

Is one of the simplest –

Two intersecting lines.

One moving up from the ground,

The other stretching from east to wet.

Where they cross,

The tensile strength is such

That it will bear

Not just the weight of a man,

But that of a world sagging in its brokenness.

         Come, for the altar is ready.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church UCC, Raymond, Maine

Matthew 17:1-9 "OK, I Give Up"

         A brilliant magician was once performing on an ocean liner. However, every time he did a trick, the ship captain's parrot would yell, "It's a trick. He's a phony. That's not magic."

         Then one evening during a terrible storm, a disastrous thing happened.  The ship pitched and rolled once too often and began to sink – far from land and right in the middle of the magician’s evening performance.  All of the passengers and crew scrambled safely aboard the lifeboats, and a few of them watched in horror as the ocean liner slipped beneath the waves and disappeared. 

         As luck would have it, the parrot and the magician ended up in the same lifeboat. For several days, they floated on the now gently rolling swells of the ocean.  However, the whole time they just glared at each other, neither saying a word to the other.  Finally, the parrot broke the silence.

         "OK, I give up,” the bird said.  “What did you do with the ship?"

         That bird could not rationally explain what had happened. It was too much to comprehend, even for a smart parrot.  And so it is for us when we begin to reflect on this story of the transfiguration. 

          “OK, I give up, “ we say.  “What happened up there on that mountaintop – and whatever does it mean?”

         Well, whatever the “it” was, it happened “six days later” we are told – six days after Jesus had quizzed his disciples on exactly who those folks following him from town to town and village to village as he preached and taught and healed – who they thought he was anyway.  Some were saying he was John the Baptist or one of the great prophets such as Elijah or Jeremiah, come again.

         Then, of course, Jesus had asked point blank just who the disciples thought he was.  Peter, for once, got it right.  “You are the Messiah,” he quipped, and Jesus liked his answer so much that he called Peter a rock, the rock on which some day a church would be built. 

         It was just when Peter was basking in the glow of this particularly benevolent compliment that Jesus blew the lid off of all their expectations – not that he was the Messiah but rather what being the Messiah would entail. 

         You see, Jesus went on to tell them about the journey they all would take to Jerusalem.  He told them it would be there – in the Holy City – that the most unholy thing would happen. 

Under the hateful gaze and catcalls of the temple hotshots, Jesus said, he would die a terrible and ignoble death – which only meant one thing in that day and age – and, guess what, there would be crosses enough for all of them, he went on, should they choose to pick one up. 

         Jesus also told them he would be raised to life in three days, but it was only the death part that grabbed Peter’s attention, maybe because he could not possibly make sense of it in light of all they had hoped and dreamed for in a Messiah.  Anyway, Peter piped up again, this time all hot and bothered - and this time getting it all wrong. 

         “That must never happen to you,“ he declared, which was when Jesus called him not only Satan, but, even more cutting, an obstacle to everything that must occur.  Once again, confusion reigned among the twelve. 

         “OK, I give up.  Who is this man Jesus that we have been partnering with for the past several years?  What’s his shtick anyway?”

          It was six days after all that happened that Jesus took Peter, James, and John along the wilderness trail littered with stones and dust up to the top of a nearby mountain.  He led them on a journey at the end of which they would never be quite the same.   

         You see, when the four of them were alone at the top, all this transfiguration business took place.  First, the Gospel writer tells us, Jesus began to glow.  Soon his face shone like the sun was shining right through him, and finally his clothes turned a sparkling white. 

         Not only that!  In the mere blink of an eye, the Gospel writer goes on, Jesus was not the only one dazzling.  Moses and Elijah – the number one Jewish lawgiver and the crackerjack prophet – the great saviors of Israel - flanked Jesus on either side – like bookends - and the trio was chatting as if they were old buddies, a savior-to-savior conversation of sorts.  What ever were they talking about?

         Ecumenical pastor Russell Rathburn makes one tongue-in-cheek suggestion:  Perhaps they were just catching up, he speculates.  “Like, ‘Jesus, we haven’t seen you since the incarnation, how’s it going down here?’  And Jesus is like, ‘well pretty good — I’m not gonna say there aren’t some problems…but over all not bad.’

        Or are they doing official business? Is there something that Elijah and Moses know that Jesus really needs to know so they have to run down to earth and tell him right quick?

         It could just be to impress Peter, James and John — it’s not just that Moses and Elijah appear with Jesus — Jesus actually knows them. (Maybe) Jesus is saying to Moses, ‘Are they looking? Are they looking? OK, pretend you’re talking to me like we’re old pals and I just said something really funny.’

         And Elijah and Moses go, ‘ha, ha, ha, ha’ and slap Jesus on the back (or) give him a playful punch in the shoulder. Or maybe they’re complimenting him: ‘Jesus, those clothes are whiter then anyone on earth could bleach them — what is your laundry secret?’

         Of course, it probably was not that way at all, but the truth is that we do not know the gist of their conversation, though we do know that what happens next is pretty unbelievable as well.  I mean, right in front of him, two of the greatest figures in all of Jewish history are chatting up our rabbi, and Peter, who has absolutely nothing to add to the conversation, no matter what they were talking about, interrupts them.         

         “Peter’s like, ‘Uh excuse me, uh Jesus….Rabbi, it is really good for us to be here, lemme tell you what I think we should do: Why don’t we make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah? — then you can sit down relax — be a little bit more comfortable while you’re talking.’ Jesus just looks at him; doesn’t say a thing.”  (Rathburn)

         Only then did a cloud enshroud the mountaintop, and out of the cloud came a voice that presumably even Peter recognized as the voice of God Almighty.  “This is my Son,” the voice proclaimed, “my Beloved, the one marked by my love.  Listen to him.”

         And at that, the three disciples threw themselves facedown in the dirt, terrified.  But, hey, how else do you take in such a close encounter with the Holy One?

         And then it was over – except that Peter, James, and John felt Jesus touch their shoulders.  Actually, the Greek word that we translate as “touch” means “fasten or adher to.”

         So – Jesus fastened himself to the three frightened followers, and this time when Peter, James, and John heard a voice, it was his voice speaking – in that special way he had of being gentle and yet oh so strong at the same time.  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

         And with that phrase echoing in their hearts and minds, they walked down the wilderness trail together, and I like to believe that they really were not afraid because they were fastened to Jesus.  And I like to think deep down inside they knew that they were not alone – even as they traveled into a dark and unknown future together.  And I like to think that the unspoken words among them were:  “The journey has begun.” 

         And that, my friends, is the story of the transfiguration.  “OK, I give up, “ we say.  “What really happened up there on that mountaintop – and whatever does it mean?”

         As far as what actually happened up there on the mountaintop, I, for one,  do not know.  As Methodist pastor Jim Parsons remarks, “We live in a factual world. If we want the answer to a question all we need to do is pull out our phones and find the answer. It is right there in Wikipedia. We want answers to all of our questions and we are as demanding as a three year old as we constantly ask any authority around us, why? Why? Why?

         And the answer “just because” doesn’t cut it anymore. But the truth is what happened on the mountain…doesn’t make sense….(just like) I cannot explain to you with facts and a pie chart how the Holy Spirit is present in the sacrament we are about to partake in. I do not have an answer to how God is God (and how God goes about manifesting that Godly self).  It is a mystery.”

         However, that being said, maybe exactly what happened on that mountaintop is not as important as the meaning of whatever happened there.  And I do have a thought about that.  

         I think the transfiguration is like a preview for a movie.  It is a glimpse of what is to come.  As we get ready to begin Lent on Ash Wednesday this week, this story reminds us of what we will discover at Easter.  This story shows us the ending of our Lenten journey just before it begins. 

         And when we know the ending, we can see that this journey we are about to take – with all its dust and pebbles littered along the way – in all its darkness and unknown twists and turns – is a journey that, if we take it seriously and intentionally, will be one where we will learn oh so much about love – because, in the end, that is really what Easter is all about – love.        

         Jonathan Turtle, who is a pastor in the Anglican Church in Canada, puts it this way:  “For Matthew, love looks like (Jesus, God’s Beloved,) journeying towards death in Jerusalem…For Matthew, to love this Jesus is to listen to this Jesus, even though it means we too will end up picking up our crosses to follow him to his death, and indeed our own death….

         For the next 40 days we have the opportunity to consciously journey with Jesus towards Jerusalem. Are we willing to do this?...Are we willing to love like Jesus? Because this is the way of Jesus. There is no other way. Love looks like a life poured out for others, a life lost….Love looks like Jesus. Specifically love looks like Jesus on the road to Jerusalem. It looks like Jesus hanging on a Roman cross outside of the city walls…And because love looks like Jesus we know that (for us as well) a life poured out, a life lost, is not in fact a life lost. No, it is a life found.”

         “OK, I give up.  Previews of the end, lives lost, love poured out?  All in this one little story?  Seriously, what does this transfiguration business mean?”        

         In the end, I suppose, it means simply that Easter will come – April 20^th – whether we choose to journey through Lent to get there or not.  Easter will come whether we use these next 40 days intentionally or treat them like any other 40 days.  Easter will come whether we commit to deliberately injecting a bit of extra prayer time into our lives or a Bible study or some planned self-reflection or just a few acts of kindness and justice done in a purposeful and considered way.  Easter will come whether we make time for extra loving or not – in our homes, our schools, our workplaces.  Easter will come regardless of what we may - or may not - do.  We all know that.

         But I also know – because of this transfiguration story - that Easter will be all the sweeter for the journey taken to get there.  And the journey will be all the richer knowing that, throughout it all, we are fastened to Jesus and bolstered by his words:  “Don’t be afraid.” And the 40 days of Lent will be all the more profound by remembering the time that Peter, James, and John saw Jesus in dazzling white, and those 40 days will be all the more significant because we know that they saw with their very eyes the ending of the story and that only a God’s love could make that kind of the ending possible.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church UCC