God's Grace: A Transformative Moment in Life

The chair at the front of the room 7 min read There's a story about a kid named Tom. Charming when he was little, outgoing, but a rascal. And as he got older, that rascal tendency grew. He got himself into trouble at home and especially at school — disrupting classes, making jokes, appearing completely uninterested. By high school, the principal had a file on him. Teachers were complaining. The only option left seemed to be expulsion. Except for Mrs. Warren. Mrs. Warren was an English teacher, an excellent one, but she also had this gift for working with troubled kids. The ones making problems or having problems. So the principal talked to her about Tom, and she agreed to take him into her English class and a homeroom at the end of the day. The principal wanted to make sure she knew what she was getting into. He started reading through the complaints. She stopped him. "It's okay. I've heard about Tom. I know what I'm in for. I'm happy to have him in my class." Tom showed up and sat in the back. Disinterested. Ignoring the teacher. At one point he bumped the guy in front of him, whispered something funny, made him laugh. Mrs. Warren looked up. She didn't reprimand him. She didn't say anything against him. After a moment, she moved a chair next to hers at the front of the classroom. Then, in a voice so inviting Tom couldn't refuse, she said, "Tom, would you like to come down here and sit in this chair with me?" He went. She turned to the class. "Look, Tom's new and he hasn't had a chance to do the work you've done. So I don't expect him to have read what we're up to. I'd like to indulge him and you and read the passage you read at home." She began to read from A Tale of Two Cities. She read with such passion, such inflection, that Tom and the others couldn't help but be caught up in the story. He felt it as she told it. That night, surprising everyone in his family, Tom did his homework. At least Mrs. Warren's assignment. From that day forward, he never missed another day of school. He cut classes, but never hers. After things settled down, he asked if she could suggest a list of books he could read in his spare time. She compiled one. He began to read. Then he began staying after school to discuss what he was reading and learning. They talked for a long time. All was going well until one day there was a blow-up at home. He stormed out and joined the Navy. He didn't even say goodbye to Mrs. Warren. She felt she'd failed. What could she have done differently? What did she do wrong? Seven years later, she was packing up her desk at the end of the day when there was a knock at the door. She looked up. It was Tom. She recognised him straight away — bigger, more muscular, filled out. But it was Tom. "Come in." He rushed over and hugged her so tightly her glasses fell off. When he let go and she put them back on, she looked at him. He looked happy. Content. Well. "What are you up to?" "I've been getting some education." "But I thought you were in the Navy." "I was. But they allowed me to do school there. I started doing more schoolwork. Then I enrolled in some college programmes. When my enlistment finished, I kept going. I married a girl. We've got a child. I settled down. Then I did some graduate study. I'm a teacher." "What do you teach?" "I'm an English teacher. I specialise in children who've got troubles, who are causing problems. Just like I was." Something shifted in Tom in that class with Mrs. Warren. In her inviting, accepting, treating him with respect and dignity. Something shifted in him and changed the direction of his life. Helped him to see the world in a different way. A vision on a mountain This week is the end of the season of Epiphany. The last Sunday is called Transfiguration Sunday. It comes from a story in all four Gospels, but this year we're in Matthew. Jesus has just asked his disciples, "Who do you think I am?" They declare him to be the Messiah. He says, "You're right." Then he goes on: "We're going to Jerusalem. There I'll be arrested by the religious leaders, handed over to the Romans. I'll be crucified, die, and rise again on the third day." Peter's response? "What? That's not what we just said." For Peter and the disciples, the Messiah was supposed to be a military, religious, kingly figure who would restore Israel under God. Gather the armies. Drive the Roman oppressors out. Restore Israel to its former glory. Jesus says, "No, that's not who I am." "But you're the Messiah. That's what we're expecting." "That's not who the Messiah is." In this week's story, Jesus takes three of the disciples up a mountain. Mountains are important in Matthew's Gospel. Up there they behold this vision where Jesus is changed. He glows white. He's standing, talking with two Old Testament heroes — Moses and Elijah. He's the senior figure, the holy one. They're talking with him. Peter and the disciples are filled with awe and wonder. Peter says, "Maybe we should build three tents — for you and for Moses and Elijah." Peter wants to hang on to this scene. Hold it forever. Cling to it, define it, control it, not let it go away. But even while he's speaking, a cloud envelops them. A voice out of the cloud says, "This is my son, my beloved, with whom I'm well pleased. Listen to him." The same voice Jesus heard at his baptism. The disciples are afraid, cowering. Jesus goes up, touches them, says, "It's okay." They look up. The cloud's gone. Jesus is standing there in his normal state. He tells them not to tell anyone. Not until it's all fulfilled. Down the mountain They go down the mountain. The other disciples are wrestling with a problem — a father and a son who's having epileptic seizures that won't let him go. The disciples are trying to help, to heal him, but they don't know how. Jesus shows them through prayer, naming the demon, releasing the boy. On the mountain there's this revelation, this vision of Jesus glorified. But what it is, really, is the realisation that what Jesus is saying about himself is true. Listen to what he's saying. He will die and rise. That confuses and astounds the disciples even more. Their whole consciousness has been transfigured. Twisted. Changed. From expecting a messiah who's a military leader — who will lead with violence and power and might — to one who will suffer and die and rise. Whatever that means. And when they go down the hill, this is where life is lived. Not up on the mountaintop in the vision, in the great place, the beautiful place, the awe and wonder. It's down where reality hits the road, where there's pain and struggle. That's where we're called to be and to minister. In this story, there's this transfigurative moment where the disciples begin to see the world in a different way. The expectations, the hopes, the dreams that had come out of their tradition and experience are transformed into this new way. Where it's not about violence and military might and power. It's about love and connection and resonance and relationship and community and prayer and healing. Where life will come out of death. Where the power of God is not revealed in dominating and power over and violence and strength, but in love and justice. This one will die for the sake of love, of hope, of peace, of truth, and of justice. And invites us into this way. This way of life is about giving of self and learning from another. The way of life. What will it take for our worldview to shift from the dominant worldview around us to this reign of God? A reign of love, justice, hope, and peace. Amen. Based on a sermon for Transfiguration Sunday