Another day in Lent 2020, and another of forty selected photos of windows I’ve seen on various journeys. And some words, always some words.
Stunning, isn’t it? It’s a church window that looks perfectly out toward the views of Grand Teton National Park. No doubt the builders of this small sanctuary situated the church site so that this view would be the focus of the worshipers’ attention. And then there’s the cross.
The altar is that of the Episcopal Chapel of the Transfiguration. “Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them…” (Mark 9:2) The mountain Jesus and his three close buds climbed wasn’t like these peaks! But if you’re going to situate a chapel facing these grand, majestic heights, you may as well name your church something that links the life of Jesus to the sights.
There’s a little conversion experience that happens when you enter this chapel. After all, you’ve already experienced the grandeur of the Tetons. The immense beauty surrounds and envelops and embraces you. When you first glimpse the mountains on a clear day, yes, it takes your breath away. Then, in that sublime setting, you breathe easier as you take in the awesome wonder of creation. You don’t just glance, hop in the rental Subaru, and drive off to the next view. You stop. You look, You listen. You are moved as you take it in and it takes you in. That’s not the conversion experience though.
That comes when you enter the chapel. And you see the view through the altar-framed window. If it wasn’t quite in focus outside, it is here, with the peaks seen behind the cross. The vacation, wondrously enjoyable as it was, is transformed, if even for a moment, into a religious experience. I smile as I type these words: a mountaintop experience in a box. No longer surrounded by creation’s ravishing artistry, as we settle into a chapel pew the framed wooden structure forces us to look in that one magnificent direction: purple mountains’ majesty, as we have sung since we were six or seven. And the cross. Reminding us where we are.
I’ve climbed several mountains. At least, they were called mountains. They weren’t at all like the Grand Tetons, but grand in their own way. Cadillac Mountain in Maine’s Acadia National Park. The Priest, on a backpacking hike along the Virginia section of the Appalachian Trail. Montreat’s Lookout Mountain, maybe the easiest trek in the Black Mountain area. We hiked a little ways up Mt. Rainier once, just to see it from more than a distance. And, with hiking mountain paths being Joan’s very favorite thing to do on any vacation, we have climbed countless hills and peaks, wondering “how much further?” as breath and muscle complained.
And at the top? Each time: stop, look, listen. And breathe. And wonder. And pray. It’s no wonder that Jesus’ friends saw him in a new light that day. And that his life and mission came into clear focus. And that they wanted to linger, more than linger…set up a headquarters with four corner offices with picture windows looking out over the panoramic views of God’s good earth.
But Jesus saw more than mountain majesty. He saw the cross. What else he saw or understood or imagined we cannot pretend to know, though theologians and preachers (like me) have framed twenty minutes of presumptive commentary. Jesus saw enough that day to know there were needs to address, people to serve, life lessons to teach, until his last breath.
We’ll close with a hymn today. One verse, from the poet/hymn-writer Episcopal priest Carl Daw.
Sing of God made manifest on the cloud-capped mountain’s crest,
where the law and prophets waned so that Christ alone remained:
glimpse of glory, pledge of grace, given as Jesus set his face
Towards the waiting cross and grave, sign of hope that God would save.
Comfortable and stunning as the chapel is, we must move on…to the next path, the next peak, the next wonder.
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 