What it takes for everything to shift

There's a story about a boy called Tom. As a young child he was charming and outgoing, but a bit of a rascal. And that rascal tendency grew as he got older. He got himself into all sorts of trouble — at home and especially at school. Getting offside with teachers, disrupting classes, always making jokes, never appearing too interested in anything.

It got to the point where the high school principal had a file on him and felt the only option left was expulsion. He was disrupting everything. Teachers were complaining. There seemed to be no way forward.

Except Mrs. Warren.

Mrs. Warren was an English teacher. An excellent one. But she also had this gift of working with troubled kids — children who had problems or were making problems in class. The principal talked to her about Tom, and she readily agreed to take him. When the principal started reading through the list of complaints, she stopped him. "It's okay. I've heard about Tom. I know what I'm in for. I'm happy to have him in my class."

The chair at the front

Tom turned up to Mrs. Warren's English class and sat in the back. He appeared disinterested, ignoring the teacher, not taking much notice of what was going on. At one point he bumped the guy in front and told him something funny, made the guy laugh.

Mrs. Warren looked up. She didn't reprimand him. She didn't say anything against him. After a moment, she just moved a chair next to hers at the front of the classroom and said in a very inviting voice, "Tom, would you like to come down here and sit in this chair with me?"

It was so inviting and so lovely that Tom couldn't refuse. So off he went and sat in the chair next to hers.

Then she said to the class, "Look, Tom's new in our class and he hasn't had a chance to do the work that you've done. I don't expect him to have read what we're up to. So I'd like to read to him the passage that you've read at home." And she began to read from A Tale of Two Cities. She read with such passion and such inflection in her voice that Tom and the others couldn't help but be caught up in the story. He felt the story as she told it.

That night, surprising everyone in his family, Tom did his homework. Or at least Mrs. Warren's class assignment. From that day forward, he never missed another day of school. He cut other classes, but never Mrs. Warren's.

After things settled down, he asked her to suggest a list of books he could read in his spare time. She compiled a list and he began to read. Then he began to stay after school, after the other students had gone, to discuss with Mrs. Warren the things he was reading and learning. They talked for a long time.

All was going well until one day there was a blow-up at home. Tom stormed out and joined the Navy. He didn't even go and say goodbye to Mrs. Warren. He just ran off.

Mrs. Warren felt she'd failed. She'd failed Tom. What could she have done differently? What did she do wrong?

Seven years later

She was packing up her desk at the end of the day when there was a knock at the door. She looked up and there he was. It was Tom. She recognised him straight away. He was bigger and more muscular and filled out. But it was Tom.

She said, "Come in." He rushed over and gave her a hug — hugged her so tightly that her glasses fell off her face. When he let go and she pulled back, she put the glasses on and looked at him. He looked happy. Content. Well.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

"Well, I've been getting some education."

He told her the story. He'd joined the Navy, but they allowed him to do schoolwork there. He started doing more. He enrolled in college programs. When his enlistment finished, he kept going. He married. They had a child. He did postgraduate study.

"I'm a teacher," he said.

"Oh, what do you teach?"

"I'm an English teacher. And I specialise in children who've got troubles, who are causing problems — just like I was."

Something shifted in Tom in that classroom with Mrs. Warren. In her inviting, accepting, treating him with respect and dignity. Something shifted in him and changed the direction of his life. Helped him to see the world in a different way.

Transfiguration Sunday

This week is the end of the season of Epiphany, and the last Sunday is called Transfiguration Sunday. It comes from a story found in all four Gospels, but this year we read it in Matthew.

Jesus has just asked his disciples, "Who do you think I am?" And the disciples, caught in this question, declare him to be the Messiah. He says, "You're right." And then he goes on to say, "We're going to Jerusalem, and there I will be arrested by the religious leaders, handed over to the Romans. I'll be crucified, I'll die, and I'll rise again on the third day."

And Peter's reaction is — what? That's not what we just said. You're the Messiah. For Peter and the disciples, the traditional understanding of the Messiah was a military, religious, kingly figure who would restore the well-being of the nation of Israel under God. Who would gather the armies and drive the Roman oppressors out and restore Israel to its former glory.

Jesus says, "No, that's not who I am."

But you're the Messiah. That's what we're expecting.

"That's not who the Messiah is."

Up the mountain

In this week's story, Jesus takes three of the disciples up a mountain — three being the inner core, but also the number of witnesses needed to testify to what God is doing. Mountains matter in Matthew's Gospel.

Up there, they behold this vision where Jesus is changed. He glows white. He's standing talking with Moses and Elijah — two of the Old Testament heroes — and he's the senior figure, the holy one. Peter and the disciples are filled with awe and wonder. Peter says, "Maybe we should build three tents — for you, for Moses, and for Elijah." Peter wants to hang on to this scene, to hold it forever, to cling to it and not let it go away.

But even while he's speaking, a cloud envelops them. And a voice out of the cloud says, "This is my Son, my beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him" (Matthew 17:5, NIV). The same voice Jesus heard at his baptism. The disciples are afraid, cowering down. Jesus goes up and touches them and says, "It's okay."

They look up. The cloud is gone. Jesus is just standing there in his normal state. He tells them not to tell anyone — not until it's all fulfilled.

Down the hill

Then they go down the mountain. And the other disciples are wrestling with a real problem. A father and his son who has epileptic seizures. The disciples are trying to help him and heal him, but they don't know how. Jesus shows them — through prayer, through naming the demon, through releasing this boy.

This is where the story gets its teeth. On the mountain there is revelation, vision, glory. But down the hill is where life is lived. Not up on the mountaintop in the awe and wonder. Down where the rubber hits the road, where there's pain and struggle. That's where we're called to be. That's where we're called to minister.

A different kind of power

In this story there is a transfigurative moment where the disciples begin to see the world in a different way. The expectations and hopes and dreams that had come out of their tradition are transformed into something new. It's not about violence and military might and power. It's about love and connection and relationship and community and prayer and healing. Life will come out of death. The power of God is not revealed in domination and force and strength, but in love and justice.

This one will die for the sake of love, of hope, of peace, of truth, and of justice. And he invites us into this way. This way of life is about giving of self and learning from another.

Something shifted in Tom when Mrs. Warren pulled up a chair. Something shifted in the disciples on that mountain. Both moments asked the same thing: will you let go of what you expected and receive what's actually being offered?

What will it take for our worldview to shift — from the dominant worldview around us to this reign of God? A reign of love, justice, hope, and peace.

That's not a question with a quick answer. It's one worth sitting with.