So already, the story weaves itself into the rich tapestry of Old Testament allusions. Moses, himself strangely (but only partially) transfigured on Mt. Sinai, meets with Jesus, who is completely transfigured, with a face that shone "like the sun" and dazzling white clothes. As if that weren't enough, the holy prophet Elijah is thrown into the mix, so that just in case the meaning of the transfiguration is over our heads, we can at least see that, flanked by Moses and Elijah, Jesus is the fulfillment of both the Law and the Prophets.

O.K. So far, so good. But then Peter has to go off half-cocked (which seems to be a habit with him), and make this random remark about "three dwellings." It takes a bit of digging to decipher this bit, but then if we look back on the instructions for celebrating the holiday of Sukkoth in Leviticus, we read there that one of the ways the people of Israel remembered their wilderness wanderings was to build little tents out of tree branches and live in them for a week. So Peter apparently is tapping into this piece of his religious heritage.

But why? I suspect Peter, in his enthusiasm, really wants to show the folks that he "gets it," that he understands what's going on and knows the appropriate response. He obviously thinks it's a great idea: "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." It's kind of embarrassing to watch him kiss up to his boss like this--who knows, maybe there's a bit of unspoken competitiveness going on between Peter and those two brothers, James and John. Peter's going to beat them to the punch.

But as so often happens, Peter's suggestion isn't just ignored, it's rebuked. God interrupts Peter mid-sentence: "While Peter was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, 'This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!'" Understandably, Peter's exuberance turns to apprehension, as he and the others fall down filled with fear.

It's as if God is saying to Peter: don't try to domesticate this experience. Your desire to build little domiciles, to dominate the conversation, to domesticate this thing isn't going to work. Peter begins with trying to apprehend what's going on, and ends being filled instead with apprehension.

How often am I like Peter! I have a need to show God that I "get it," and that I know what to do in response to the overwhelming, fiery brightness of God's revelation of God's self in Christ Jesus. But, as in other areas of my life, I'm just fooling myself. And the funny thing is, I'm really annoyed by the other people who play Peter, the ones who hold forth on texts like this, spewing little factoids and opinionettes. For instance, in preparation for taking on this most challenging of stories, I read this one reviewer, who wrote "incoherence in the present form of the text must be read in light of its formation, and that the process of growth must be grounded in concrete social and political contexts. The results can be summarized in three phases." Yadda yadda yadda.

"This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!" What's incoherent in that? What's really incoherent is not so much the text itself as it is our response to it. For it leaves me wondering: what do I do with something like this, not as a preacher, but as a Christian? If I were faced with a transfiguration in my own life, would I respond like Peter? Or worse yet, have I responded like Peter and not even known it?

Have you ever noticed that the people who most get on your nerves do so because they remind you of things about yourself that you don't like? For instance, I really hate know-it-alls. Of course, that's because I'm a know-it-all kind of guy. So when I see Peter being a know-it-all kind of guy, I identify with him not with a smile but with a wince. Shut up, Peter! Listen to him! Shut up, Nathan! Listen to him!

I'm reminded here of the monks of the monastery of Saint Catherine in the desert of Sinai, who claim to have the burning bush that Moses saw when God called him to lead his people out of bondage in Egypt. Bruce Feiler, in Walking the Bible, reports that next to the shrine of the bush the monks keep a fire extinguisher. This leads him to ask, if the burning bush began to burn, would the monks put out the fire? If God begins to burn in us, do we put it out by talking, by getting distracted, by failing to listen? It makes me wonder, how many times have I taken a fire extinguisher to my own faith?

It's amazing how much a story can burn you if you really pay attention to it. Suddenly, I, too, hear God's rebuke as if it is addressed to me. I, too, cower in fear--not on the top of the mountain, where the elite disciples of Jesus' inner circle are, but at its base. For if a guy like Peter needs to stop trying to domesticate the deity, how much more so do I, a lowly deacon? How much more so do we all need to try to stop domesticating the deity, dominating the conversation between ourselves and God? We all do it. While God is trying to effect transfigurations within us and all around us, we talk about inane little things like building little dwellings, niches in which we can conveniently store our lawgivers and prophets and messiahs, in which we can memorialize and remember what exciting things God has done for us, but without the danger of actually having to listen to what God might have us do in response. I'm reminded of a passage in a book by Barbara Brown Taylor, a noted Episcopal priest and preacher. She writes:

Even now, some Christians have trouble listening to God. Many of us prefer to speak. Our corporate prayers are punctuated with phrases such as "Hear us, Lord" or "Lord, hear our prayer," as if the burden to listen were on God and not us. We name our concerns, giving God suggestions on what to do about them. What reversal of power might occur if we turned the process around, naming our concerns and asking God to tell us what to do about them? "Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening."

Sometimes I think we do all the talking because we are afraid God won't. Or, conversely, that God will. Either way, staying preoccupied with our own words seems a safer bet than opening ourselves up either to God's silence or to God's speech, both of which have the power to undo us.

How many of us can truly claim Samuel's prayer, "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening?" Or are we more like Peter, who pretends to know what to do, and makes helpful suggestions on what Jesus should want us to do, a "Lord, hear our prayer" that really means "Lord, do what I want?" Peter is careful to couch his suggestion in pious language "Lord...if you wish, I will..." And I don't mean to be too hard on Peter--he's right, "it is good for us to be here," on this mountain, on this hill. The problem is, when things are going great, and we're hangin' with Moses and Elijah and Jesus, when we're in that inner circle of the disciples, our own egos get in the way of paying attention to what's really going down. And so, instead of being transfigured ourselves, we all fall down. Then it's not so good to be here, any more, is it?

But thanks be to God, for Jesus doesn't just leave us in the. Instead, he comes over to us, whether we're on the top of the mountain or just on our own little molehills, and touches us. It was pointed out to me that every time Jesus "touches" someone in Matthew's gospel, it is a healing touch. And after being rebuked by God, Peter was definitely in need of some healing touch, a little tender loving care that says "Get up and do not be afraid." So you messed up, weren't listening. What else is new? Get up anyway, dust yourself off, and as God has said through patriarchs and prophets, through angels and archangels and even the Messiah himself: "Do not fear." (In fact, my know-it-all self counted over 150 instances in the Bible where we are told not to be afraid.) Do not be afraid. It's the eternal message, but a message we can only hear once we stop trying to domesticate the deity and instead look upon the transfigured Beloved, and listen to him. Amen.