Visions

Matthew 17.1-9 (LIT Bible, translated by Brandon C. Vélez Johnson)

¹ Six days later, Jesus brought Jacob, his brother John, and Peter up a high mountain with him to a secluded place. ² There, he transformed before their eyes. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes glowed bright like the light. ³ Then—incredibly—they saw Moses and Elijah talking with him.

⁴ Peter responded by saying to Jesus, “Lord, it’s wonderful for us to be here. If you want, I’ll set up three tents—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

⁵ While he was still speaking—amazingly—a bright cloud enveloped them and—remarkably—a voice from the cloud said, “This is my beloved son; I delight in him. Listen to him.” ⁶ When they heard the voice, the students were terrified and dropped with their faces to the ground.

⁷ Jesus went to them and touched them. “Get up,” he reassured them, “Don’t be afraid.” ⁸ So they looked up and saw no one else was there except Jesus.

⁹ As they were coming down from the mountain, Jesus directed them, “Don’t tell anyone about the vision until the Son of Humanity is woken up from among the dead.”

Jesus stood on the mountaintop in all his glory.

Attended to by the bringer of the Torah (Moses) and the embodiment of the prophetic voice (Elijah), Jesus shone. His skin was radiant in the flesh, and his clothes dazzled whiter than white, so white they were luminous. This was Christ as we think of him post-resurrection. This was Jesus with the veil pulled back, and his essence leaking out into that holy, liminal space.

That glory brought the few disciples who witnessed this majesty face to face the human need to preserve

As I read this passage, as I imagine the scene, there’s a thought that keeps pestering me. It won’t leave me alone, and it has nothing to do with the glory of the transfiguration.

I want the cross back.

The cross has been compromised. It has been hijacked and twisted into something unrecognizable. The cross was where Christ was lifted for all to see, for all to find healing, for all to experience solidarity. But instead, it has been branded on the banners of Christendom, wielded by Christian nationalists as a declaration of war instead of the means of reconciliation.

And the cross is reconciliation. The crucifixion is God’s ultimate solidarity with all of humanity, uniting us under the banner of suffering and oppression and how these things that empire uses to keep us in line cannot take away the power of love as long as we refuse to let love be compromised. When we hold steadfast to the love of God and the love of neighbor to the point that we would rather die than compromise and give in to the ways of violence and domination, that is when we can boldly say, “Love has won.” The cross is the ultimate declaration of the victory of love.

The cross is the symbol of love’s triumph over evil and hatred… and now, in the hands of Christian nationalists It is being identified with people who are loyal to the powers and principalities that govern, animate, and perpetuate the systems of dominance and oppression that love stands in opposition to.

ICE abductions and killings.

Queerphobia.

Oligarchy.

Protecting perpetrators of child rape.

Stealing voting rights.

Fascism.

The degradation and belittlement of POC.

The list goes on and on and on. All of these actions are done using Jesus as the justification and the cross as the badge identifying who is with empire and who stands with love.

The cross has been warped and twisted into something synonymous with Christian nationalism, and I fear that we will never get it back.

That fear is at the center of my desperate thought of wanting the cross back.

It lives in me as grief, sorrow, lamentation.

I gave up being called a Christian (in part) because I don’t see any way the word can be redeemed from the destruction it has wrought. But I didn’t think I would have to give up these icons that still matter to me: the Bible and the cross. But I am faced with the fear that these things which mean so much to me, that has led me to where I am now, that have fashioned me into someone in solidarity with the poor and oppressed—I fear that I have lost it all because the core of what it means to be Christian has been compromised in our nation, and indeed in the eyes of the world.

As the few disciples that went with Jesus up to the mountaintop stood in awe of the sight of the transfigured Jesus, they sought some way to preserve this experience, some way to react to the beauty and glory that was erupting around them. They couldn’t just embrace the vision; they wanted to elongate it.

They proposed building three dwellings: one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. This way these three could live on the mountaintop and never have the glory fade.

God had other plans.

The glory of the Lord showed up in a luminous cloud that enveloped everything, and the voice that first created the cosmos spoke to them.

“This is my beloved. I am pleased with him. Listen to him”

In fear, they fell to their faces. This was too much. Not only were they witnessing the glory of Jesus and the presence of Moses and Elijah, but now Yahweh Godself was speaking to them. This was holiness reserved for the heroes and stories of old. The disciples believed that we see God would mean their demise, because no one can see God’s face and live.

So, of course, they were afraid.

With their faces pressed to the ground, they felt the familiar, gentle touch of Jesus upon their heads as he spoke to them, “Don’t be afraid.”

God boomed from the cloud of glory to listen to Jesus… and Jesus’ words are, “Don’t be afraid.”

Jesus doesn’t want us to be afraid.

Jesus doesn’t want me to be afraid.

Where I fear that the Bible and the cross have been permanently hijacked by Christian nationalism, Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid.”

See, in my fear—any time we act out of fear—I am actually trying to control Jesus… just like the disciples on the mountain were.

They wanted to set up a tent for Jesus and his glory to live in, a place that they could access this vision, maybe a place that they could control the vision.

Maybe they were thinking of Sinai, imagining themselves the new Moses, coming down from the mountain of Glory with residual glory on their skin and commands from the divine on their tongue.

Maybe they weren’t thinking of anyone else. Maybe they just wanted to stay and bask in the goodness of what was on this mountain.

Whatever their reason, they wanted to control the vision.

Just like I want to control the cross.

To me, the cross represents the promise that all will be well. In the cross I see how all will be well, through the victory of love.

So, I cling to the cross, deciding that Jesus has to show up in the cross in the ways I imagine.

But, here’s the truth: if I listen to Jesus and relinquish my fear, it doesn’t matter if I lose the cross.

Love still won.

Jesus is still divinity in the flesh.

Solidarity is still the way.

Church, scripture, Eucharist, the cross… all of these things are good, but they are just visions of glory. I might fear losing them, but if I am honest, when I look up after the touch of Christ and I let go of my fear, all that’s there is Jesus.

I can’t lose Jesus because he won’t let me go.

As Jesus—no Moses, not Elijah, no cloud of glory—walked with the disciples down the mountain, they walked away from the vision, and were told to keep the vision for themselves until it would make sense to everyone.

Perhaps Jesus is asking me to look hard at my visions and to keep them for myself, not imposing their meaning on other people. Trusting that there will be a time to share them. Letting others have their own visions and trusting that Jesus is telling us all not to be afraid.

As we move away from fear, perhaps these visions will make more sense. Perhaps not.

But either way, we have Jesus… or more accurately, Jesus has us. We don’t have to stay on the mountaintop, clinging to the vision. We have a life to live, and Jesus will live it with us, leading us into solidarity, leading us out of fear and into love.

What have I to fear if the one who remains holds me in their hand?

I am in the process of becoming a community chaplain with The Order of Hildegard. This program is designed to help form people into spiritual leaders that lead and serve from the margins. It’s for the people who don’t quite fit with the traditional church because of trauma, disability, or identity. If you, as my community, would like to help me fulfill the financial obligation this chaplaincy program has, you can give at the link below. Thank you for the myriad ways you support me.

If you’re aching to listen for God in the real stuff of life—grief, wonder, doubt, desire—I offer spiritual direction as a space to breathe and be heard. We listen together for the Spirit moving in the ordinary, the hidden, the in-between. No fixing. No formulas. Just presence, honesty, and room to be fully human before God.

If that sounds like what your soul needs, I’d love to walk with you