“Religion is weird,” she said.

Recently, one of our confirmands said this. My only response was, “Yup.”

She’s not wrong. Religion is weird.

Here we are talking about stories that predate this country, the Roman Empire, and the invention of iron and bronze. I mean, we’ve spent the Epiphany season talking about beating the winter blahs with a sticker. Listening and playing music. Laughing. Tipping your server 20%. Making an altar to thin spaces or thin times. Moving your body based on these stories. Weird advice, pastor. Yes, but how have you found it?

I don’t promise much, but I do promise this: if you do these things, you will feel better about the world. But it’s weird, right?

The confirmand seems to think so.

“What do you find weird,” I asked.

“Well… the bible,” she said.

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” I said. “Like the deal with the talking snake and stuff?”

There are a dozen ways to kneel and kiss the ground, but I’m partial to our approach. We tell these ancient stories for wisdom. We could read stories of talking snakes and think, “Oh, this must mean the earth is a few thousand years old,” and that leads to that stupid museum in Kentucky. It’s wrong and easily dismissed by an elementary understanding of science.

That’s weird and it’s not so wonderful. It’s harmful and emphasizes the wrong thing.

There are other interpretations of Genesis.  For example, how about a time that we learned something we’d rather not have… Something we didn’t want to learn:

• When that diagnosis came into our lives.
• When someone we loved died, and we had to carry on without them.
• When we sat in health class and learned what our parents did to bring us here.

Then we truly learned what it is to live east of Eden. We learned that there is no returning to the garden. Some snake told us something, and we were left feeling naked and afraid. But God came and clothed us and sent us on our way. That’s a far more faithful and real reading of our holy scriptures, in my humble opinion.

Because it means these ancient stories, told thousands of years ago by countless generations before writing existed, and later written on parchment and papyrus, copied and recopied, somehow made their way to us. And when read this way, they aren’t just being read. They’re being lived. That’s weird. And rather wonderful.

Peter, James, and John had something weird and wonderful happen to them. They went on a little camping retreat and saw Jesus transfigured. Weird. Wonderful.

Today’s scripture begins, “Six days later…” So what happened six days before?

Jesus foretold his death and resurrection. Peter said, “No! This can’t be!” And Jesus rebuked him: “Get behind me, Satan! You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Then Jesus taught them that if any wish to follow him, they must take up their cross and follow him. Those who wish to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for his sake will find it.

Nowadays, we wear crosses. Little gold ones in our ears or around our necks. In Jesus’ day, crosses wore people. Rough wooden instruments of death. A modern reading might be: “If you want to follow me, take a seat in the electric chair.”

Following Christ is not a casual undertaking. It’s a scary world out there. People are mean. People are rude. And the people we like are always dying on us. And Jesus calls us to love. Love our neighbors and our enemies and those who do harm to us. That’s a weird response, I’d rather love my friends and put the sword everyone who annoys me. Yet that’s not what we’re called to do.

There are many ways to deal with the horrors of existence. We could numb ourselves. We could ignore it. We could start thinking, “Well, they did this to themselves.”

Or we could feel it. Be bleeding hearts and get really concerned about events happening thousand miles away that we have nothing to do with. That leads to burnout. Compassion fatigue. Or the outsized idea that we can effect global change on our own, which just isn’t true.

Energy and attention are limited goods. No one can live in a constant state of emergency. When the absurd and the atrocious become everyday occurrences, we desensitize and run out of outrage. It’s exhausting being human. You’re either ignoring the horrors of the world or feeling awful about them.

Which is why Jesus took three of his disciples on a walk. They moved their bodies up the mountain. They went on a little prayer retreat. When your teacher and friend tells you he’s going to die, rebukes you, and says that you’re going to die too… it’s time for a getaway. Some things you’d rather not learn.

And on that camping trip, they see Jesus transfigured. Moses and Elijah appear. The law and the prophets meet in one dazzling moment. And then they hear the same voice Jesus heard at his baptism: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.”

Weird. Wonderful. But how do we live this out? We already have.

The spiritual disciplines invite us into noticing small moments. Being present in small things. And when we do, we start to recognize God dancing in the light coming through our morning window. We give thanks that the days are getting longer. That warmer days are coming. And we also give thanks for the beauty of a frozen pond. A snow-covered meadow. The artful placement of deer tracks in the snow.

We risk seeing God in our neighbor. And when we do, they become less of a threat or inconvenience. Sometimes we even see them transfigured.

“This is my child, the beloved. Listen to them.”

And maybe, just maybe, we hear those words spoken over ourselves. We remember our baptism. We remember the love of God and neighbor that formed us and still forms us. We don’t want to miss the miracle happening right in front of us, all the time.

But headlines distract us. Suffering overwhelms us. Outrage consumes us. Callousness toward immigrants and strangers creeps in. Even though we are all descendants of immigrants, we somehow forget.

How then shall we live?

We’re choosing the less helpful route of faith. Certainty. Old ruts we’ve grown accustomed to. Jesus is doing Jesus things today. Leading his disciples out of their ruts and up the mountain for a new perspective. And they get it. And they’re afraid.

Peter, ever hospitable, wants to build three dwellings. But when the voice speaks, they fall to the ground in fear. And then Jesus comes, touches them, and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And suddenly, it’s just their friend again.

Each day, I start with a spiritual practice. Sometimes it’s working out. Sometimes it’s touching that sticker by the bathroom mirror or on my church notebook. Sometimes it’s walking the dog. Learning my server’s name and tipping well. Being church with you. That chili cook-off was some real good church.

I see my kids transfigured before my eyes. Sam played a major role in his middle school play. Eve played at Severance Hall with the Medina High Symphony Band. I caught a glimpse of the divine in them. And I caught a glimpse of them not needing their Papa as much anymore.

And I was afraid. I was also reminded that this is the job of a parent: To become less needed. Or needed in different ways. There’s no going back to a simpler time. And yet, there are thin places everywhere.

With the eyes of faith, I keep coming back to this weird and wonderful religion. It teaches us to consider the lilies. The sparrows. Ourselves. Our neighbors, near and far. With practice, we begin to see Jesus in them. In ourselves. And the kingdom of God draws closer. There is more peace. Less fear.

Friends, there is no shame in being afraid. Sometimes fear is the appropriate response. The problem is when we build a residence there and never leave. We are called to take up our cross and follow Jesus. When we follow Fear instead, we put others on the cross.

Now this will sound more radical than I mean it to as it’s counter programming to the fear and outrage machines we’re steeped in the rest of the week. From the 24/7 cable news or the outrage cycle of social media telling us to fear our neighbors and labels folks. But many folks who have been “othered” are actually no threat to you.

Others like trans people. They are no threat to you. Get up and do not be afraid.
Others like immigrants. They are no threat to you. Get up and do not be afraid.
Others like whoever is filling your headlines right now. Yes, there are real threats in the world. But what’s the worst that’s going to happen? Kill us? As Jesus said, “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.”

The more I practice the disciplines, the less afraid I become. I’m not numb. I’m not burned out. There’s room for joy and laughter, not to ignore suffering, but to help alleviate it.

The world needs people who are not afraid. People who keep the main thing the main thing. People who know that our God is bigger than the threats we face. Jesus faced them. They did their worst. And he came out the other side, passing through locked rooms, breathing his Spirit into the church.

So what is there to fear? Get up. And do not be afraid.

In a world obsessed with shock and awe, be weird. Be different. Be kind. In a world obsessed with individuality, choose one another and community. We can choose another path. It’s a weird and wonderful path. May you find the courage to know that in a world such as ours, weird is a wonderful thing to be called. May you hear the words, “These! These are my beloved with whom I am well pleased! Listen to each other!”

Amen.