Unlike Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, I have very little experience with being on a mountain.  Between these three figures, there have been a multitude of encounters set on mountains: from Sinai to Horeb, Carmel to Calvary, Tabor to Hermon. As for me, there’s just one—Mount Pilatus. 

In the summer after my sophomore year of high school, I had the opportunity of a lifetime to travel across central Europe on a trip sponsored by my school, visiting Germany, the Czech Republic, and Switzerland. We visited these countries in that very order, and as we traveled from one to another, our excitement and our geography only got higher. You see, the very last thing on our itinerary was a trip to Mount Pilatus, the tallest mountain range in the Swiss Alps. It was for us the metaphorical and physical climax of our entire trip. 

As we went into the gondola lift—the aerial cable car—transporting myself and my peers to the peak, I remember placing my hands under my thighs, bowing my head down so it was parallel with my feet, closing my eyes, and praying. I prayed that the car could bear the weight of myself and my travel companions, and that the neither the cable not the mechanical arm would break. I prayed that the ride would end soon because it felt like it had been going for so long that by the time we reached our destination the next school year would have already begun. I prayed that I would not only make it to the top but that I’d be able to come down afterward. 

When we finally reached the peak of Pilatus, we stepped out onto the visitor platform, at which point I said a new prayer—one of thanksgiving. I gave thanks not only for having safely make the trek up the mountain, but also (and especially) for the opportunity to witness a sight I would have never dreamed of seeing in the flesh: the majestic mountain ranges of the Alps, the rivers and lakes which lay at their feet, and the sight of Switzerland, Germany, and Italy along the horizon. 

How good it was for me to be there—to see across the vast expanse of the Alps into  the surrounding lands and witness the raw beauty of God’s creation, the vastness of earth, and the complexity of humanity, all while growing in the knowledge that there is far more than what  the eye can see, all while being in the company of my peers and other visitors. Indeed, it was good because those very moments were a clear sign to me that I was not alone; I was surrounded by people and by nature, things both living and nonliving, all of who find their source and sustenance from the Divine Creator who remains ever present. How good it is to know you are not alone.

Neither Moses nor Jesus was alone while on the mountain—they had company. For Moses, he was in the presence of God, and upon his descent was greeted by Aaron and the Israelites (Ex. 34:30). For Jesus, he was accompanied by Peter, James, and John, who were eventually joined by Moses and Elijah (Lk. 9:28,30). No matter if they were in the midst of thunderous crowds or utter isolation, neither Moses nor Jesus was ever alone—for God was with them. 

Yet, I think it is not enough to say that their proximity to God was merely presence, for it was much deeper than that; I’d rather say it was being in God’s company—just as how, when we enter into communal spaces, we are in the company of others. It is this very same This sacred luminescence—this brilliant light which shines forth—is brought about by the embrace of the “goodness” of relationship, of company (Lk. 9:33). 

But there is a reason why, unlike Moses, Jesus shone brighter than him or any other figure we find in scripture (Ex. 34:29-30; Lk. 9:29). Like the burning bush present in Exodus, Jesus was truly alight with the divine flame because he is God. The bush burned with such ferocity and radiance because it was Godself who was present in and speaking through the bush. Jesus, appearing in glory alongside the prophets of ages past, transfigured into “dazzling white” because he himself is God, the second person of the Trinity, God-become-human (Lk. 9:29). 

This light casts away the shadows, mist, clouds, fog that dull the eyes of our bodies and the eyes of our hearts. The light casts it all away so that we may witness to the truth of reality—that we are not alone. 

Moses does not stand alone, for he is within the divine pattern of individuals called by God throughout history to communicate the divine will to humanity and holding us to account. Jesus does not stand alone, for he is descended prophetically from Moses, and with the Father and the Spirit is the God of all. We do not stand alone, for we have God and each other; we have our friends and acquaintances, families and communities, groups and collectives. 

We are now approaching the threshold of the Lenten season, in which we are called to enter into the wilderness with Jesus. But friends, we are not alone. God has been, is still, and will continue to through the barrenness of this season and beyond. Even in the midst of the confusion, complexity, and desolation of this spiritual wilderness, we can still find goodness—the goodness of the Gospel, which translated from Greek means “Good News.” Indeed, how good is this news: that God became human and made sure we knew we are not alone. 

Friends, let us be glad, for it is truly good for us to be here. Amen.

This text is of a sermon I wrote and preached for the Eighth Sunday after Epiphany (Year C), with the scriptural passages set out by the Revised Common Lectionary.

The scriptural passages assigned to the Eighth Sunday after Epiphany (Year C) by the Lectionary are Exodus 34:29-35, Psalm 99, 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2, and Luke 9:28-36.

This sermon was preached at my home congregation of St. James’ Episcopal Church in Fremont, CA—within the Episcopal Diocese of California. Linked below is the service recording/livestream, with my sermon beginning approximately at 24:15.