Standing at the Edge
Text: Deut. 34:1-12, Luke 9:28-36
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The people of Israel had been mourning and weeping for thirty days. It was hard to believe that it had been a month since Moses had died. What would they do now? There was no one like him; no one who could raise a staff and part the waters of the Red Sea, or defy Pharaoh with signs of power and terror, or strike a stone and cause water to come flowing out to quench their thirst. There was Joshua, son of Nun, who had been Moses’ aide, upon whom Moses had laid his hands and appointed him the future leader of Israel. Joshua would be the one to lead them into the land promised to them. But it was still frightening, the prospect of carrying on into this unknown land filled with violent pagans and warmongering kings, people who sacrificed children to bloodthirsty gods and drowned the land in battle and blood. Filled with apprehension, they were standing on the edge of something enormous: the conquest of the Promised Land.
Standing on the edge of something can be scary. Whether it’s a cliffside or loading up a moving truck; if it’s in that clear glass ledge at the Sears Tower, or the peak of a rollercoaster just before it starts down that first big drop, it can be a fear-filled experience being on the edge of something. It’s hardwired into us.
Jesus’ disciples Peter, James, and John knew this too. Their Lord had taken them up a mountain to pray. On that high precipice they saw something glorious and terrifying, something so marvelous and wonderful and holy that it awoke a fear that cut through the drowsiness that weighed down their mortal eyes. On the edge of sleep, on the edge of a mountain, at the edge of every Old Testament prophecy and foreshadowing coming true, they saw Jesus for who He was: the eternal Son of God, radiant and bright, His face shining like the sun and His clothes dazzling like starlight, like the visions of Him granted to the prophets of old. And there, at the edge of all things, they were filled with fear. The holy God had revealed Himself to them. He brought with Him Moses, the greatest prophet and leader of Israel, and Elijah, the prophet who, it was said, would return when the end was about to come. And talking with them face to face was Jesus. The three of them were talking about Jesus Himself being on the brink of something too: His own exodus, His departure, which He was about to accomplish in Jerusalem. Jesus Himself was at the edge of something larger and grander than anything else that had ever been.
Peter didn’t know what to say, of course. But he spoke up anyway. “Master it is good that we are here. Let us make three tabernacles, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.” If these figures from Israel’s ancient history were here as heralds of the end, then surely it must mean the end was coming. Change was coming. Jesus was departing. So instead, let’s rebuild the tabernacle, or better yet, three tabernacles. Let’s stay put. Don’t rush into what’s ahead. It’s unknown. It’s scary. Don’t depart from us, Jesus; don’t go on your own exodus. Don’t go over the edge.
We’re the same though. We don’t want to go over the edge. It’s a scary thought—plunging into the unknown, leaving something behind, trusting that God will catch you. It’s a frightening thing to face the sheer cliffside of depression or poverty. No one wants to jump into the fog of an uncertain diagnosis. And even though most graves are only something to tune of six feet deep, when we’re standing right at its yawning mouth, it seems much, much deeper. It grips our heart in apprehension to think that we have to lose control of a situation and walk forward into the dark, to not know what comes next, to go over the edge. So we do what Peter did. We don’t know what to ask for. We offer to build tabernacles in exchange for staying comfortable. “Lord, if you do this for me, I’ll do that for you. If you make me happier or richer or better looking or more respected or stronger or healthier or whatever, then I’ll do that thing I’ve been meaning to do. I’ll do something big and grand for you. I’ll build you that tabernacle.”
But this is where we are in the Church year. The Church on earth is standing at the edge of something big. Like the Israelites poised in Moab, getting ready to cross over into the Promised Land; like Peter, James, and John on the mountainside with the Lord; like Jesus talking about His departure—His death—with Moses and Elijah at His transfiguration, we’re standing at the brink of Lent. In just a couple days, your pastor is going to tell you that you’re going to die. Dust you are and to dust you shall return. You’re going to leave behind alleluias. You’re going to jump out of the warm glow of Epiphany and into the somber violet tones of Lent. Your Lord’s image will be veiled. You won’t be able to see as clearly once you take the leap. You’ll be reminded your sin, that deep divide plunging down into hell and separating you from your God. You’ll be reminded of your mortality. You’ll even be reminded of that uncomfortable hard truth of God’s wrath over those things He has said are not good. And if you truly give thought to these things, they will scare you as much as any cliffside or precarious ledge.
And in that moment, when you’re frightened by your sin, or by God’s wrath over it, when you’re scared that maybe the devil’s accusations are true; in that moment when you actually wonder if you need to do something to make it up to God by building a tabernacle or performing some sacrifice to appease Him or bargaining your way into His good graces—in that moment, stop. Let the voice come out of the heavens, as it did at the Transfiguration, ringing out from the cloud: “This is my Son, my Chosen One; listen to Him.” And then listen to Jesus.
When Peter, James, and John were terrified by the thought of plunging into the unknown as Jesus was talking with Moses and Elijah about His death, God the Father told them to listen to Jesus. Because His departure would rescue them. It would save them from all those frightening things that threatened them. It would save them from the pit of sin, from the grave, from the depths of hell. Jesus’ departure, His exodus outside Jerusalem on Calvary, would lead them out of the unknown and into their own Promised Land.
God did not abandon Israel when they were to enter the land promised to their ancestors. After Moses, He gave them Joshua to lead them. And in what is more than coincidence—what is divine providence, God pulling together all the history of the world to point us to His Son—the name Joshua is Hebrew version of the name Jesus. God gave them Joshua then to lead them through the unknown and into the land flowing with mild and honey. He gives us the greater Joshua, Jesus, now. And just as Joshua led God’s people Israel into the Promised Land, our Joshua, Jesus, leads us into our own Promised Land of eternal life.
After the voice from the cloud spoke, we read that Peter, James, and John looked up and saw Jesus alone. That’s what Lent will do for you. As you take the leap, as you step off the edge into the coming season of the cross, you will be led to see Jesus alone. Not Moses and his Law. Not Elijah and the prophets. Not your sin, your fears, your disease, your death—nothing but Jesus alone. Follow Him, even to the cross, even through the unknown, even into eternal life. In the name of Jesus, the Son of God. Amen.
