We were in a small group sitting on the beach, a motley crew of high school boys attending their senior retreat at the Jersey Shore: a couple of athletes, the lead of the school shows, one very quiet academic kid, and two boys that were hard to pigeonhole into a specific clique.
About an hour before this gathering – one that never would have happened in our high school hallways – we had just read surprise letters from our parents, a “retreat secret” we were sworn not to tell other classmates once we left Ocean City. For many of us on the cusp of graduation, it was the first time in a long time (if ever) we had heard that our parents loved us, were proud of us, forgave us our teen-aged indiscretions and couldn’t wait to see what God had in store for us. The entire experience left us raw, emotional, and trying to hide the signs many of us had been crying. Remember, we were 17.
As we sat on a dune overlooking the ocean, we were tasked with discussing the question: How will your life and faith change after this retreat? Little was said to one another that afternoon – again, we were 17 – but one classmate had the courage to offer this: “I really don’t want to leave this place.”
It was Ryan who said it. Everybody loved Ryan. He was popular, kind, involved in everything at our school, and knew exactly how to cuff his khaki uniform pants so that his argyle socks and burgundy penny loafers stood out. (Hey, it was 1991 – the Archbishop Prendergast girls dug this sort of thing.) It was also Ryan who had just lost his Mom a month before; she had died at age 42 from an aggressive form of cancer.
Ryan, of course, was different now. Quieter. Less involved. He was working after school and on weekends to help his dad and younger siblings; we hardly saw him outside of class. None of us knew what to say to him, for none of us at this point in our lives had experienced death so up-close-and-personal. Our beloved classmate grieved a profound loss, and all we could do was sit with him in that space of heartache and confusion.
No wonder Ryan didn’t want to leave the Jersey Shore that weekend: everything there was safe and known. At the beach, at least, he could be 17 and carefree again.
St. Peter, no doubt, was feeling something similar on the top of that mountain where Jesus revealed his divinity to his closest disciples. “Master, it is good for us to be here.”
Whatever transpired on the mountaintop that day – and it was something that left Peter, James and John both awe-filled and overcome – that moment changed Peter forever. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus was more than an itinerant preacher and friend; that Jesus was truly the Christ whom he claimed to be. The appearance of Moses and Elijah witnesses to that very fact.
And that same moment of transfiguration-revelation must have left the apostolic trio feeling a level of peace and joy beyond all telling. One of my parishioners at a recent parish Bible study compared this encounter to the experience of those whose souls make the journey back to God only to find themselves pulled back to earth to finish the mission here. “Everyone with a near-death experience has claimed that it is so very beautiful that they didn’t want to leave the Presence,” she shared.
It is so incredible to be here in this God-moment – “let us build tents,” suggests Peter. Tents that keep one rooted in place. Tents that stay forever on the mountaintop. Tents that keep disciples from returning to the valley – and the life – we live below. It’s no wonder Peter wanted to stay in that moment forever. Ryan, in his own way, was saying the very same thing on the beach that day. Who can blame them?
And yet, Jesus didn’t let them stay forever under tents. Rather, he led them back down the mountain to face one more mount that had to be climbed: a mountain where an even greater love was put on display and poured out; a love that cried out for all time: God’s promise has been fulfilled; sin and death no longer reign supreme. That mountain’s name was Calvary, and according to St. Luke, Jesus was to climb that very hill – minus Peter and James – a week later.
Transfiguration moments are empty without Calvary.
The beloved Son of the Father as proclaimed from the cloud is equally beloved as he hangs dying on the Cross, thirsting for us to return to Him. Thirsting to forgive. Thirsting to lead us to true and lasting resurrection, both here and in the hereafter.
Perhaps it was for this reason, then, that Peter, James and John stayed silent – they knew that no words could ever capture the joy of Transfiguration without seeing the supreme love of Calvary. No tents ever erected would ever match the gift of Eternal Life and Resurrection that came from the Cross.
In our humanness, it is hard to comprehend how the Cross is a gift. It’s understandable. Ryan would have never said that losing his Mom at such a young age was a moment he was willing to carry for the rest of his life. However, that deep loss – that Cross he carried daily since the age of 17 – shaped Ryan to be the man he has become, a man who chose not to spend his life wishing for tents or hiding behind them.
This second week of Lent, then, comes with both a reflection question for our hearts and a challenge for our lives:
What tents are we refusing to leave? What is it in our life that we are unwilling to face, opting instead to play it safe on the mountain of man-made shelters? Is there a vocation God is calling us to that we keep avoiding? A relationship that needs healing we’d rather not deal with? A Confession-sacramental encounter we keep putting off? Who is waiting for us in the valley below that needs our compassion and understanding that we keep running from? Ultimately: is there a Cross that we must carry – one that waits down that mountain of tents -- which we pretend or wish wasn’t a part of our journey to holiness and wholeness?
Christ is saying to us – and the Father proclaims it to us: let the Son and Savior lead the way to whatever Calvary you have to face. Don’t be afraid. Christ went first so that we know we never have to face it alone; that Jesus has already won the victory for us. He may not want us to stay under tents, but he also will never ask us to go to Calvary without Him. A love like His asks us to trust and surrender, to follow and believe that any Calvary we are asked to climb will lead us to become transfigured ourselves: to reflect the sacrificial love of God in all we think, say and do.
That’s the “crazy” thing about all of this: the Transfiguration moment happened before Calvary in order to strengthen the weary and unsure hearts of the disciples, but the Calvary encounter transfigured the same hearts of Peter, James and John to become apostles of courage, truth and agape love. After the Crucifixion and Resurrection, they lived a life for Christ without the need for tents of avoidance and ended-up radiating in their own lives the God-encounter they experienced at the Transfiguration.
The same offer is held out for us, too. The question is, though: are we willing to dismantle the tent and begin the walk back down the mountain, knowing Christ leads us in love to wherever He needs us to go, to grow, and to radiate His healing and merciful heart to the world?
Are we willing to go to Calvary, knowing Love ultimately leads us to transfiguration and resurrection?
Shortly after that senior retreat at the Shore, Ryan returned to the valley and Cross he did not choose to carry. It wasn’t always easy for him in those last months of high school, but even in those challenging days of navigating age 17 without one’s Mom, he taught us all about sacrifice, resilience and love for family. In some small but significant ways, I’d like to believe the Class of ’92 became better men because one of our own refused to stay on retreat at the Shore forever, as he wished he could.
He took down the tent … and found his resurrection.