St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD
February 11, 2024
Year B: The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
2 Kings 2:1-12
Psalm 50:1-6
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9
Sacred Ground
Many of you know that I took some vacation time last week. I was out in San Francisco for a few days, just in time for the torrential rains – the so-called “atmospheric river” - that soaked the California coast.
The worst of the rain hit San Francisco last Sunday.
That morning, I woke up to the pouring rain and the howling wind. I reconsidered my plan to walk up to Grace Cathedral – the grand Episcopal church that sits at the top of swanky Nob Hill.
I thought about what it would be like to walk up the steep hill to the Cathedral, certain that my flimsy umbrella would be no match for this fierce storm.
I imagined finally reaching the cathedral, soaked, chilled, and exhausted.
I also thought, I mean, I go to church all the time – so maybe I could sit out this one Sunday.
But then I thought of you, how so many of you manage to get here even when the weather isn’t so great, even when it might be tempting to just stay in bed, to roll back over and get more sleep, or just take some time for yourself, maybe pouring a leisurely second cup of coffee.
So, I prepared for the storm as best I could and ventured out.
As it happened, the storm let up a bit as I huffed and puffed up California Street – and it felt good to reach Grace Cathedral, to once again step onto that sacred ground - to enter that holy place – to take in its vastness and early morning quiet.
The service was beautiful – the congregation welcoming and seemingly happy to be there, despite the weather.
I had the rare-for-me experience of being a person in the pew – or the chair, actually – totally anonymous and not having to worry about what I was going to say or do next.
By the end of the service I had just about forgotten about the storm outside.
But when I reached the cathedral doors, the wind was whipping around the top of Nob Hill, the rain was coming down in great sheets, and I could plainly see why they call it an “atmospheric river.”
A bunch of us waited in the cathedral vestibule, looking out nervously for any sign of let up, checking the weather app on our phones to get the latest forecast.
But finally, one by one we faced reality, zipping our jackets and pulling up hoods, opening our umbrellas, stepping out into the raging storm, getting on with our lives, leaving the safety and serenity of the cathedral and making our way down the hill.
And now here it is a week later and I’m back on our holy hill, on sacred ground, with all of you.
It’s the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, the final Sunday before the start of Lent on Ash Wednesday.
And, as we do on this day every year, today’s gospel lesson takes us up yet another holy hill, to sacred ground.
We heard the story of the Transfiguration as told by the Gospel of Mark.
Jesus and his “inner circle” of disciples – Peter, James, and John, head up the mountain for some time away, away from all those people hunting for Jesus, hungry for his teaching, begging for his healing.
While they’re up on the mountain, Jesus is transformed before their eyes – his clothes whiter than any white – and he is joined by Elijah and Moses, two towering figures of Israel’s past.
What does one say or do in response to such a vision?
Well, Peter makes the totally reasonable suggestion of building dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. Maybe he’s thinking, let’s try to hold onto this moment for as long as we can.
No sooner does Peter propose this capital project then a cloud overshadows them all and the voice from heaven declares,
“This is my Son, the beloved, listen to him!”
And then, after the voice grows silent and the cloud and Elijah and Moses vanish, it’s time for Jesus to head down the mountain and face all that awaits them: the Cross, the Tomb, and New Life.
But before we move on, I’d like to circle back to Peter and his mountaintop building project.
When Peter proposed the dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, he was probably recalling the exodus of his Israelite ancestors from Egypt, when God would meet with Moses in what was called the “tent of meeting.”
Up on the mountain, Peter recognized that God had come among God’s people once again, and so it seemed right that some kind of shelter should be constructed on this sacred ground.
I think Peter should get half-credit for this.
He’s not wrong but the truth is even more amazing than he can yet grasp.
In and through Jesus, God has come among us again – come among us as one of us.
But Jesus sanctifies much more than just a piece of mountaintop real estate.
Jesus, God’s Son, makes holy the parts of the world that are obviously beautiful like Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill in San Francisco and St. Thomas’ Church here on our little hill above Garrison Forest.
But Jesus doesn’t just stay up on the mountain.
No, Jesus, comes down the mountain, down into the depths and the mess, down into the storms of life, making holy the parts of the world – the parts of our lives - that might not seem beautiful at all – the places of suffering, fear, and death.
I’ve been fortunate to visit San Francisco a bunch of times, and over the years, I’ve discovered places I like to go each time, different restaurants and parks and walking routes.
But when I planned this trip, I decided I wanted to see and do some things that I hadn’t seen and done before.
So, I attended a beautiful concert by the San Francisco Symphony.
And I also visited the Tenderloin Museum.
If you know San Francisco, you may know that the Tenderloin has long been the city’s Skid Row – the neighborhood where the poor and the addicted live, either in Single Room Occupancy hotels or just out on the sidewalks.
Frankly, it’s one neighborhood that I’ve always avoided.
After all, I was on vacation – and I certainly don’t have to travel across the country to witness poverty and despair.
But I was intrigued by the Tenderloin Museum, interested to learn more about this seemingly God-forsaken neighborhood.
Of course, to get to the museum, I had to walk the streets of the Tenderloin and, while I wasn’t afraid, I was certainly on alert and it was painfully sad to see so many people camped out on the sidewalk, imprisoned by illness, by addiction.
The museum itself, however, is a bright, clean, modern space.
I was the only visitor at the time.
It was so quiet in there – even prayerful.
Making my way around the exhibits, I learned about the neighborhood’s history, how it had long been home to oppressed and marginalized groups – waves of newly arrived immigrants, gay and transgender people – people who fought for their rights, doing the best they could for themselves and their neighborhood.
And the museum had information about some of the Christian congregations and organizations that have stuck it out in that challenging soil.
Sure enough, Jesus is in the Tenderloin, too, making it sacred ground.
There’s Glide Memorial Church, a formerly Methodist church that has long thrown open its doors to the poor and the hurting and advocated for their well-being.
And there is St. Anthony’s Mission.
Back in 1950, a Franciscan priest named Father Alfred Boedekker opened St. Anthony’s Dining Room. On the first day he expected to serve 150 meals and ended up serving 400. And they’ve been at it ever since, just like our own Paul’s Place, gradually expanding their menu of services, shining the Light of Christ on a place long neglected – a place not God-forsaken at all, ground made sacred by Jesus Christ the Son of God.
Since Lent begins on Wednesday, you may have been making plans for what to give up or to take on during that holy season.
After my San Francisco experience, after my trip up and down the mountain, I’m going to ask God to remind me that God has come among us in Jesus Christ, who has made the whole earth – from swanky Nob Hill to the suffering Tenderloin – has made all of it - sacred ground.
Amen.
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