Down Here

sermon by Carrie Eikler
2 Kings 2:1-12, Mark 9:2-9

When I was in college, I did a study-abroad semester in South India. After the semester was over, I tested my newly acquired independence, and probably tested a bit of my parents nerves, and chose to travel with another student for about two weeks in the northern part of the country. First take a train to Calcutta, and then up farther into the foothills of the Himalayas.

We had planned to hike from town to town (or “trek” as the real outdoorsy people called it) in the small state of Sikkim, a largely Tibetan Buddhist area, with steep green hillsides, misty valleys, and the breath-catching views of the distant Himalayan mountains. Now, I probably put too much faith in my youthful enthusiasm to think that all I need to do this trek was some hiking boots and my pack. Which is true. But I was not prepared for all that trekking involved, and the preparation I lacked: to face the exhaustion, the blisters, the rivers to ford, the...leeches.

After three days of trekking, it looked like a seemingly endless uphill climb was coming to an end, and we were going to spend a day or two in a little village at the top of the mountain to recuperate before heading onto the largely downhill return trip. I think I spent most of that time at the top soaking my feet and eating instant noodles…with a reverent nod to the Tibetan prayer flags that beckoned at the nearby temple. Those fifty yards to get to that place of prayer felt just… too much.

In that time of recovery, I was comforted that I was heading back “downhill.” Gravity would be my friend. Downhill is always easier. Right? Wrong.

All those muscles that were stressed on the upward climb screamed at me…every. muscle. fiber. My steps were more like shuffles and climbing over rocks on the way down takes so much more effort, and tedious footwork than climbing the other way. Who would have thought that going down would have been harder than going up?

Well, the child who climbs up a tree with such ease and enthusiasm, and then realizes how high he is…he knows.
The roofer who scales a tall ladder to do repairs three stories up…she knows.
The toddler who easily crawls up to the top of the stairs, and turns around, wondering what its body needs to do to get back down…oh yeah. That’s hard.

But it’s not just those physical heights, but the emotional ones that are hard to come down from.

For some, the post-holiday blues creep in shortly after New Year’s, when the boxes of lights and tinsel have been put away, and life as usual in the dark cold winter plods on.

Or when a college graduate, high on graduation festivities and the possibilities of a new life and adventures… recognizes that finding a job in this economy is a far cry from the exciting new life they had hoped for.

Or when the wedding is over and the hard work of sustaining a marriage begins.

Or when the eagerness of retirement freedom is replaced with a bewildering, “what do I do now?”

Those mountain top experiences are times when we are highly charged, when energy is flowing, when we are seeing new vistas, new futures, we maybe even encounter God in new amazing ways. But it doesn’t mean they are always happy moments

After someone dies, for example when the picture collages have all been made, or the slideshow of the person’s life has been displayed. When the funeral is over and all the out-of-town relatives have gone home. When all the business of “details” have all been deal with, the details that has somehow distracted the grieving from the entirety of their grief …and people think the worst of it for you is over…. We see that the worst of it is only beginning. Because now is the struggle of making a new life, down here, where life goes on…miles away from the mountaintop of busyness.

Whether the mountaintop is one of joy or sadness, a heightened point of emotion, we know that life down from the mountain is hard. And that fact is echoed in today’s scriptures, two mountaintop stories. Two stories about coming off the mountain.

In the first, Elisha walks with his teacher, the prophet Elijah, to the mountaintop which is their final walk together. It’s an emotional scene, Elisha reassuring his teacher saying “I won’t leave you,” only to have Elijah whisked away on chariots of fire.

As one commentator notes “Elisha has received the double share of Elijah’s spirit [which is what he asked for]. But all he can do is [tear] his clothes in grief; he has gone up with Elijah to the place of his ascension, but he must return […] alone.”

In our scripture from Mark, Jesus leads Peter, James and John up to a high mountain where he is transformed, or transfigured into blazing white light, while prophets and fathers of Israel’s past surround him…including Elijah. Peter is ready to just set up camp and stay here, make booths or tents for these dazzling creatures, but almost as quickly as it comes, it fades away. And the disciples and Jesus head back down the mountain. Oh, and again (remember from two weeks ago)…Jesus says “don’t tell anyone.” Really?!

The mountains get our attention. I remember traveling on summer vacations a couple times out West to visit family in Colorado. The plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado just seemed to go on forever, but at one point my brother and I would begin straining our eyes to get a glimpse of those first crests of the Rockies on the horizons. A promise that the monotony of the plains would give way to peaks of beauty and excitement.

The Same is true in the Bible. Just think of all the mountain top experiences: Noah’s ark finds its first dry ground on a mountain. Moses receives the commandments on Mt. Sinai. Jacob wrestled with an angel (a.k.a “God”) on a mountain. Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount…well, I mean, it’s in the name. The start of the drama of Jesus’ arrest begins with his prayer at the Mt. of Olives and ends on the hill of Golgotha, the hill of skulls, crucified high on a cross.

God moves with power on mountains. Real and metaphorical meoutnations. In the emotionally-high points of our lives, it is easy to see that something amazing is happening. We respond to the moments of adrenaline-pumping encounters, leaving us clear about our selves, connected with God and nature and others and the world around us. We stand on the mountain top looking out above all the obscurity and smog and noise of the world. And then it happens…

We realize we can’t stay there. Yes, we have seen Elijah whisked away and it was amazing. We saw Jesus transfigured and we’re changed forever. Just let us make dwellings here and live with this. But even Elisha had to continue on with his life, but without his teacher. Jesus went back down the mountain and the disciples had to figure how how to continue their work, now that they’ve seen what they’ve seen. And so must we…Because this is where real life happens, down the mountain.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a killjoy who believes we are destined for a life of mundane monotony. That real life is the life of the grindstone, the rat race, the cog in the wheel boredom, just waiting for the next high—physical, emotional, or spiritual. In fact, I feel quite the opposite and it’s these mountaintop stories that help me see that. Because the people go on to do the work they are called to do.

Because while the Jesus in the gospel is the Jesus of the mountain more often than not, he’s the Jesus of down here. He’s the sacred in everyday life. Rather than retreating from the needs of the world, he embraced them. He cured those who were unclean and diseased rather than avoiding them. He forgave those who had sinned rather than condemning them.

It can seem all rather messy—not the lovely experience of the mountain. But as one writer reflected, “When we meet others in solidarity at the places of disjuncture and fracture in their lives and our own, we find God waiting for us.”

God. Here. Always has been. Walking with us. Down here.

Alice Walker is a novelist whose most popular book is The Color Purple. But she also wrote short stories and in one of these stories called The Welcome Table, Walker writes about an old woman who was banned from church because she disrupts others from their ardent prayers—their “time with God”—and she has her own transfiguring experience with Jesus. Not on any mountaintop or in an ecstatic vision, but in a slow, long walk.

“All he said when he got up close to her was ‘Follow me,’ and she bounded down to his side with all the bob and speed of one so old…They walked along in deep silence for a long time. Finally she started telling him about how many years she had cooked for them, cleaned for them, nursed them…She told him indignantly about how they had grabbed her when she was singing in her head and not looking, and how they had tossed her out of his church…A old heifer like me, she said, straightening up next to Jesus, breathing hard. But he smiled down at her and she felt better instantly and time just seemed to fly by. When they passed her house, forlorn and sagging, weatherbeaten and patched, by the side of the road, she did not even notice it, she was so happy to be out walking along the highway with Jesus.

“She broke the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad she was the he had come…and how she never expected to see him down here in person. Jesus gave her one of his beautiful smiles and they walked on. She did not know where they were going; someplace wonderful, she suspected. The ground was like clouds under their feet and she felt she could walk forever without becoming the least bit tired. She even began to sing out loud some of the old spirituals she loved, but she didn’t want to annoy Jesus, who looked so thoughtful, so she quieted down. They walked on, looking straight over the treetops into the sky, and the smiles that played over her dry wind-cracked face were first clean ripples across a stagnant pond. On they walked without stopping.”

And on we walk, without stopping. I don’t know who among you are on a mountain top right now. Who is on your way down. Who is in the deepest valley. Or who is just going along as usual, neither high nor low. Just there. Being. That hard place.
This week, take a day and write down what you do. Not just the significant things. But write down the insignificant things, the rhythms of our lives down here. These are things that present themselves to us everyday, acts of love and devotion to ourselves and others that are ripe with divine potential.

Everyday we have the chance to meet God. It might not be with chariots of fire or in blinding brightness. But if we believe in a God of the Incarnation, we believe that God is within all places that we step into with faith. When we care for a child. When we laugh with a friend or chop an onion or, as the 17th century monk St. Lawrence discovered, witness God moving through the pots and pans of our kitchen. When we stand up and shout out for the mountains…the real mountains. When we do our work with intention and attention. When we stop to notice life around us. When we go to bed in the darkness and look back on the day—just a regular day—nothing worth noting really. But everything—everything worth celebrating.

When we do this, we break the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad we are that he had come, and how we never expected to him down here in person. And on we will walk, without stopping.