Last Sunday after the Epiphany Sermon

This story we’ve just heard – “The Transfiguration” – stands as hinge in the story of Jesus’ life. Everything up to this point had been pretty good – really good, in fact. He was popular. His ministry was popular. There was so much excitement growing up around him and everything he did.

And it reaches this point, this crescendo (for him, anyway, and for a handful of his disciples) when they go up a mountain by themselves and this thing happens, this miracle, this transfiguration, where Jesus’ countenance takes on a luminescent appears; when Jesus literally sees Moses and Elijah; and when the disciples literally hear the voice of God. It’s this extraordinary moment that validates everything Jesus had been teaching and modeling about who God is and what the Kingdom of God is all about and who Jesus is. What Jesus was doing was real – really real – in the deepest sense of the word. He was embodying the deep reality of all existence. He was in himself the portal between heaven and earth; he was, the fully human-fully divine one by whom we humans could best see and perceive the nature of God. And, who knows? Perhaps this moment itself was just as instructive for Jesus in perceiving his fuller identity.

And then…everything began to change. From the moment Jesus stepped down from the mountain, he began his trek to Jerusalem – to the Golgotha and the cross. From this moment onward, Jesus began to face resistance. The disciples grew increasingly frustrated when they couldn’t understand his teaching. The religious authorities became increasingly hostile. This was the point when life got hard for Jesus, in a new and intensifying way. So hard, in fact, that he ended upon a cross.

And, although Jesus never had the opportunity to become middle aged, as I read this story at this stage of my “well-into-middle-aged life,” I can’t help but see the parallel between his experience and ours.

The first half of life is understood by those who study these things, to be a season of building up: of bolstering the ego, of growing a career, a family, a home, a reputation, a sense of identity and stability. You’re pulling everything together that you can to gain confidence in who you are and what your place is in the world. But at middle-age – in the 40-60 year range – (if life is progressing in a normative way) we begin the process of letting go. The “I” begins to grow into more of a “we.” It’s no longer so much a “procuring unto yourself” as a “giving life away.” It’s less about self-preservation and more about blessing. We begin to see and believe, more and more, that our own point of view is just one point of view and that everyone has a vantage point as distinctive as our own.

The middle-aged years are a hinge between youth and old age, of birth and death, just as Jesus’ Transfiguration was the hinge in his ministry between popularity and rejection.

During this season of Epiphany, different parishioners have spoken most weeks, sharing something of their story along the theme “Safe, but uncomfortable.” How, in their lives, do they find belonging to St. John’s – belonging to the church – to be “safe, but uncomfortable”? Dennis spoke about physical health. Pam shared about financial insecurity. Lisa spoke about what it is like being a citizen in this political environment. Kae was supposed to speak today, but she’s still sick and had to cancel. So that leaves me to share.

And as I think about my life through this lens of “safe but uncomfortable,” and as I consider this concept that Jesus’ Transfiguration can be a metaphor for the middle-aged season of life, there’s one part of the story in which I find particular resonance, and that’s the presence of Moses and Elijah.

These two characters, from way back in Israel’s history, appear to Jesus in his present moment as companions, I think – as ones who know what it’s like to go through what Jesus is about to go through. They were also leaders. They also led in difficult circumstances. They also knew what it was like to go from being trusted to being rejected.

So, in God’s gracious sovereignty, knowing what Jesus must soon endure, God gives his son these friends to speak with him about what’s coming ahead.

Just like with me. Here I am, middle-aged, facing a more complicated future than I’ve yet known. Until recently, my life trajectory followed a familiar and respectable pattern. There were difficulties, certainly, as there are with anyone. But by-and-large, I followed the standard life formula for a priest: I explored various ministries, went to seminary, got married, had kids, got ordained, started out as a curate, moved on to being a rector. It was all absolutely “first half of life” stuff: the forging of an identity – and in my case – a Christian identity, and more specifically, a Christian minister identity.

But, of course, as with everyone, during those same “first half of life” years when we’re trying to pull everything together and build an identity for ourselves, we are doing so in response to the often-unnamed fears and shames that lie in the shadows. After all, very early in life we learn that this world is dangerous and our place within it feels tenuous and threatened.

When I came out as a gay man, it had the potential to be quite destructive – to my family, to the church, to myself. Knowing this, and knowing how easily fear and shame could take over, I chose early on to seek companions who could counsel me at every step along the way in how to do it wisely and responsibly.

In the language of this Transfiguration story, God gave me many Moseses and Elijahs. But, unlike with Jesus, their companionship has not been restricted to the memory of a single moment on the mountaintop. It’s kept going. I’ve got four in particular from whom I choose to hide nothing, especially anything that has the potential to cause fear and shame: two retired priests, a spiritual director, and a close friend (and – less frequently, but just as vulnerably – our bishop).

Their counsel, joined with the counsel of many others, has been invaluable. They’ve helped me to navigate my way. But even more significantly, they’ve given me the deep, soul companionship of not needing to walk this journey alone.

Ultimately, just as it is for each of us, every choice remains my own. I am the steward of this life I’ve been given. I have agency and it is my duty to live it as well and responsibly as I can. But I’m not alone.

Is this season of life “uncomfortable?” Sure. Certainly. But am I “safe?” Oh, yes, absolutely. And that is entirely because of my experience of belonging to the church.

As I’ve met other men in my situation, I increasingly discover how privileged I’ve been. Over and over again, I hear in one way or another, “Eric, no one gets it as good as you’ve got it,” meaning, no one gets the quality of companionship you’ve had and still have. For most men coming out, they’re just left to wander in the wilderness, filled with threats and fears and so much not knowing, vulnerable to any number of forces that have no interest in their well-being. But that hasn’t been my story at all.

And what I try tell them is, “It’s ‘cause I’m an Episcopal priest.” It’s so paradoxical, given the history of the church on this topic. But for me, it’s true. It’s pure privilege to live when I do, where I do, in our little corner of Christianity.

And this quality of companionship I experience in the church extends beyond this particular context of my life. It’s much broader than that and it includes all of you.

It’s pure privilege to be living this life in a community like this – where I can return day after day, week after week, to a place so filled with hope and love, for me and for one another.

Jesus’ Transfiguration was a moment in which the veil was pulled back and God could declare that everything Jesus was saying and doing was true – true of who God is and what God values. And my experience at St. John’s does the same for me. Every day there’s something – some moment of companionship with you when I bear witness to the Kingdom of God in our midst as true.

On Friday Doug Hughes went in for heart surgery. It was scary for him and for his wife, Carol, of course. But Carol wasn’t alone. Two other women in the church cancelled their plans and went to be with her, to wait with her. It wasn’t planned or organized by the church. It was simply the church functioning as the church, the body of Christ, as companions together.

Last Thursday St. John’s hosted the Veteran’s Café – a monthly breakfast St. John’s offers the veterans in Gig Harbor. There’s no program or agenda, just an open door and good food and the space for them to be together. When it was over, after cleaning up, a St. John’s volunteer dropped into my office to tell me about one of the guys who comes regularly. He’s a Vietnam vet and he told her, “Coming here every month is the most healing place I’ve been to.”

Belonging to the church doesn’t mean we’ll get it all right. We’re still human. We’ll make mistakes. We won’t always know what to do in any given circumstance. Fear and confusion can still seep in.

But what a gift – what a gift! to belong to such a community where, in every circumstance, we can keep affirming the deep hope and priority of everything Jesus taught and showed us. There is no occasion in which love is not the better option. There is no sin in which forgiveness is not the stronger force. There is division in which reconciliation can be withheld. There is no moment when we are alone, for God is with us. And we, the image bearers God, are granted this great dignity of being Christ for one another – companions in the journey.

Who knows what lies ahead – for us each as individuals, for the church, for the nation, for the world? Certainly, not I. But what I do know is that we do not need to be afraid. We are safe. In every discomfort, even unto death, we are safe. The gospel is true. The Kingdom of God is the eternal kingdom, right now and for every tomorrow. Amen.