"A Lamp in Dark Places"
A Sermon Preached by The
Rev. Thomas C. Leinbach
February 3, 2008 - Harwich, Massachusetts

Preaching Text: "You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." (2Peter 1:19b)

During my first pastoral assignment, I worked alongside a senior pastor who was known for interesting, but long sermons. In fact, his communion "meditations" were indistinguishable in length from his regular sermons (why he continued to designate them as 'meditations' remains a mystery yet!).

One of the more faithful members of the congregation who also happened to have a lively sense of humor once offered him a deal. "If you preach a sermon that's five minutes or under," he said, "I'll buy you lunch."

Needless to say, he never had to make good on the offer - and the minister never did get his free lunch.

Now I know what you're thinking. When was the last time you heard me end a sermon in less than five minutes? Now don't worry, I'm not likely to meet that standard today - or ever! But it may be slightly less long today!

The topic for today's "meditation" is, not surprisingly, Jesus' transfiguration on the mountaintop, that moment when suddenly he is transformed, radiating God's holy, ineffable light and stunning his three closest disciples with a moment of ecstatic transcendence, which takes them far away from their everyday lives and into the dizzying heights of God's revealed glory.

Before discussing the implications of this for the disciples, it may be helpful to consider this story's placement within the liturgical year.

The Transfiguration of Jesus, you see, signals the mid-point between Christmas and Easter. At Christmas, we celebrate the light having come into our world, a divine spark set against the darkest of nights. And we see yet again the evening star that has guided the magi to that place where the world finds the source of its greatest hopes.

But then Herod has his say, slaughtering all the newborn children in the area; forcing Jesus and his family to flee. Then John the Baptist is killed as the dark rages relentlessly against the fragile light.

All along, though, the reader is mindful of what is yet to come. For one day, the light shall grow strong, we know, stronger than a thousand suns, and will defeat the darkness in one final showdown on the cross. At that time, the star that illumined the magi's path shall raise the dawn, as morning follows the darkest night. What is implicit in the manger only now is manifest fully on the cross (by means of the resurrection that follows).

The light thus has come into the world and the darkness did not overcome it.

I read a few years ago about a British study that named January 24th (I think it was) as the most depressing day of the year! The reasons, as I recall, were varied, though not all that difficult to explain.

For one thing, by January 24th, the holiday celebrations have faded, with spring stretching way off in the distant future. And following the frenetic and joyous "holy days" comes that long strength of endlessly dark, short, cold, uneventful days - the "doldrums" of mid-winter.

To make matters worse, we even may find ourselves saddled with a slew of unpaid credit card bills! Or perhaps all those New Year's resolutions we made and began with such fanfare and promise have fizzled out completely by now. The treadmill purchased at Christmas now stands as the most expensive clothes rack we never could afford in the first place!

In the church, too, our celebrations have faded, with many of our friends having flown the coop for warmer, more hospitable climes, leaving the new year now looking conspicuously a lot like the one that just ended. Those of us still here are left to deal with budgets and programs, along with the many other day-to-day realities that settle in all around us like the dull gray of mid-winter. What's worse, the drudgery of Lent looms large, beckoning us to those dark places we'd rather not go, and into that long, dark night standing between us and daybreak, when the morning star shall rise and long sunny days return.

Meanwhile, on the mountaintop, Jesus rejects Peter's offer to build dwellings there, that they might remain forever in that blissful, radiant place, far from life's disheartening daily grind. For Jesus knows they must descend back into everyday life in order to complete God's mission to the world. They must go back down from the heights to Jesus' appointed time in Jerusalem, back down into the heart of this world's deepest pain.

Amid life's limitations and disappointments, amid mid-winter's murky doldrums, it's easy to lose sight of why we do what we do as those seeking to follow Jesus.

We can forget why Jesus came into our world, or lose hope in his promise to bring the light of God's love into a world that knows too much darkness. Such darkness can blind us from believing that Christ has come to cure our broken hearts, and to set our world free by means of God's light and grace and peace. This, Jesus knows, cannot be accomplished by remaining joyously aloof atop a mountain, but can be effected only by going down into the thick of life's valleys, down among a people covered in much darkness, whose struggles are very real and palpable.

As Christ's disciples, most of us experience from time to time those transcendent moments, times when we know, somehow, God extra-ordinary power and grace. Yet the Christian life consists not in happily garnering God's blessings and gifts for ourselves alone, but in sharing those blessings and gifts with those God has given us.

Taking our blessings and gifts into the dark places of this world is, of course, rarely easy. The inner light threatens to go out so quickly, precisely because life's challenges and hardships are so powerful, and because our hearts can be broken so easily. Thus, our best intentions can grow faint and weary, so very quickly.

As the disciples prepare to follow Jesus to his appointed place on the cross, God, therefore, fortifies them for the journey. The Transfiguration itself offers a glimpse of the glory of the Resurrection to come. The curtain is lifted momentarily, revealing but a peak into the grand glory that lies ever beyond life's darkest shadows. The disciples need not fear whatever awaits them, for they have glimpsed this truth: that the darkness shall not overcome the light, and that God's victory over death and hopelessness has been assured.

We, too, know those moments when ordinary life stops, if but for a moment, when suddenly we see: we see clearly that this life is not all there is somehow, that there is a light beyond - and within - a light more real than the dark which ever seeks to conceal it.

Standing high on a precipice, looking out beyond the distant horizon, this glimpse of God's glory serves as a light for our path, as fortification for the journey, as share Christ's love in whatever ways we can. As the darkness of mid-winter settles in as if forever, we carry forth faithfully and confidently.

A lamp lights our path in and through the darkest places of this life and world, until, as 2 Peter puts it, the day shall dawn and the morning star rise, and the lamp is outshined by the eternal brightness of God's heavenly glory fully revealed.

Amen.