No one really remembers what it was like to be born. No one has a vivid recollection of being birthed into the world. But all of us know what it’s like for a child to be born. We all know that when a child is born, the baby is pulled from its mother’s womb, covered in slimy stuff the details of which I don’t think I need to go into right now. The baby’s eyes are sealed shut, wincing tightly at encountering this new enemy called “light.” The baby’s fists are clenched tighter than the grip of a cub scout holding his brand new pinewood derby car right before it’s going to race. And even the baby’s toes are curled down in some frantic attempt to latch onto something—something that isn’t there. The baby is scared.

We all know this, but none of us remember this for ourselves. On a day like today, we should recognize that the baby was us. It was you and I being pulled out of our mother’s womb. You were that little child screaming for dear life, shivering at the cold of the world and scared for your life. That was you. You were born scared.

On a day like today, it’s crucial for us to remember this. Today is the story of Jesus’ transfiguration at the mountaintop, and today is our last Sunday before we begin the journey of Lent together. It’s a terrifying story really, so let’s take a moment to remember those things that scare us.

I’m going to say a few examples, but try to go back and picture for yourself what it was like to be scared. Remember how frightened you were when you lost your parents at the grocery store; the first day of school; working up the nerve to ask that girl or that boy to dance; being escorted to the principal’s office; waiting for your parents to come home to deliver their reprimand for something you’d done wrong; getting in a car and realizing that the driver was drunk; being threatened with physical violence or sexual abuse.

Our faith in God and neighbor comforts us, and that faith assures us that we are never alone, that God is our persistent help and Christ our abundant source of hope, and that not even death can get the best of us. But fear is a human reality. It’s in our gut. It flows through our veins. And our Creator is full aware of our fears.

So, on this transfiguration Sunday, it is a terrifying mystery that the same God who is our strength and shield in times of trouble would call us all to a mountaintop. We journey with Peter, James and John to the top of this mountain so that we can be scared all over again. Why? Because God knows us, and God knows our fears. And before we launch into Lent as the people of faith we like to think that we are, God practically takes us by the arm and says, “OK, come up here.” God reminds us on this Transfiguration Sunday that we need to face our fears and leave them on this mountaintop, because our fears pale in comparison to the shining splendor of Christ’s face. Our fears are dead in the light of God.

So, what are you afraid of now? Do you fear losing the ones that you love? Do you fear the possibility of being alone? Do you fear your legacy? Do you fear the future for your children, and your friend’s children and your family’s children? Do you fear the world finding out where you’ve been, what you’ve done, and who you really are?

I think my pastor was like this. I’ve mentioned the pastor I had growing up a few times before, Browning Ware. Browning was a tall, proud pillar of a man with a public speaking voice that sounded like a cross between Jesse Jackson and Garrison Keillor. And, as I’ve also mentioned before, Browning Ware, B. Ware as people often called him, was an untouchable.

My dad often reminds me of this time that he was at the grocery store and he ran into Browning. This was a first, because Dad had never seen the pastor outside of the church. So Dad stepped aside from his shopping cart, smiled and said, “Browning!” Browning looked up at Dad, stayed firmly rooted right where he was and he smiled back this tight-lipped half-smile. And he held up his hand as if to wave, but it was blatantly obvious that Browning wasn’t so much waving as he was saying, “That’s close enough.” I wonder now, “What was he so afraid of?”

Let’s look at what Peter, James and John were so afraid of first. They’ve been working over time, following Jesus, doing crowd maintenance, and trying to make sense of his parables and teachings. They’re exhausted. And this is when Jesus calls them out, “Peter, John, James, climb this mountain with me. We need to go pray up there.”

Now, here’s the thing: Moses and Elijah, these prophets of old, they’d gone up mountains like this one and they never came back down. People believed that their spirits haunted those hills. So, when Peter, James and John find Jesus talking to Elijah and Moses at the top of this mountain, you can see why they’re a little scared. Jesus is basically talking to ghosts, and all that Peter can stupidly say is, “Hey, Jesus, it’s good that we’re here. Tell you what. Let me make three dwelling places for you and your friends and we can all stay here. You don’t have to go with them.” Peter is scared at this whole scene, but what really scares him is the thought of Jesus leaving in this moment. Peter’s afraid that Jesus will go the way of Moses and Elijah and be added to that list of spirits haunting the hills east of the Jordan.

Basically, Peter’s afraid, and his fear makes him cling for dear life to Jesus. He can’t bear the thought of losing him. But every time Peter tries to push away the thought of losing Jesus, he’s separated from him. Every time Peter tries to fend off the inevitable, he’s separated from the very thing that he loves. And God sees the fear and desperation in Peter, so a cloud comes and falls around the disciples and Jesus, and a voice booms from the unknown, “This is my son, whom I have chosen. Listen to him!” It’s as if God was telling Peter, “What are you so afraid of? You’ve got the light of the world right in front of you. Don’t be afraid; just listen!”

So, this begs the question for us today, “Is God just talking to Peter, or is God talking to us?” Peter was so afraid that he would lose Jesus that he was never prepared to actually lose him. We all know what happens: Jesus dies, and Peter is still so afraid—so paralyzed with fear—that he can’t even remember what Jesus had been telling him all along: “I’m going to be raised from the dead on the third day so that all would experience the resurrection and eternal life with God.” Peter is afraid to embrace the Easter message. And even after Jesus has been crucified, buried and resurrected, he still has to come back and remind Peter, “Don’t be afraid. I’m always with you.”

Are we any different from Peter? The more we cling to the things we are afraid of losing, the more they slip out of our hands. The more we cringe at facing those things about our lives that scare us, the more they haunt our souls. You see, as people of faith, if we don’t face our fears, then Easter doesn’t exist. If we don’t deal with our fears on the mountaintops that God calls us to climb in our lives, then we’re basically on a journey of Lent that ends up at Good Friday. And how hopelessly anti-climactic would that be?

All that fear is, really, is a side effect of our certainty. We don’t admit it, but we have pictures in our mind of how the world is supposed to be—how things are supposed to turn out. And anything that threatens that outcome in our mind is something to be feared. That leaves a lot of room for being scared.

Listen to this passage from Browning Ware’s journal. This is an entry from the pastor’s pen years after that reserved run-in at the grocery store. He writes: “When I was younger, I thought there was an answer to every problem. And for a time I knew many of the answers. I knew about parenting, until I had children. I knew about divorce until I got one. I knew about suicide until three of my closest friends took their lives in the same year. I knew about the death of a child until my child died. I’m not impressed with answers like I once was. Answers seems so pallid, sucked dry of blood and void of life. Knowing answers seduces us into making pronouncements. I’m discovering that wisdom and adversity replace ignorance with thoughtful certainty…more important than the answer is [the One Who answers].” That’s the voice of God inviting us to listen.

Friends, fear is a veil. Fear is something we wear over our faces to keep people from seeing who we really are. Fear is something that extinguishes the light of Christ that dwells in us. Peter wanted to make a dwelling place to keep Elijah, Moses and Jesus from leaving into the unknown at the top of that mountain, and we’re no different. We want to put Christ in a box of our own design, but all the while God is calling out to us, “Listen! Listen to the Spirit of Christ that dwells within you! That Holy Spirit is speaking to you! It’s imploring you to shed your fears, to let the veil down from your face and to let your light shine for your sake and for the sake of the world.”

Take the Bible. If you are afraid that the world will not end up looking the way you want it to look, and if you live in fear of the end of all things not turning out to be quite what you had in mind, then you will read Scripture with white-knuckled fear. If you fear the world around you, and you tremble at the thought of being in community with your neighbor who is different from you, then you will grip the Word of God like a newborn infant grips her parent’s finger. You will put Christ in a box and reduce God to an idol of your own design. But if you hold your hands open and offer the Scriptures up to the light of God and read the text through that righteousness, then you will begin to see your enemy as your neighbor; you will see your neighbor as your friend; and you will see your friend as you see yourself: a child of God who bears the shining splendor of Christ’s face. Above all, you will be transformed just as Jesus Christ was transfigured, not by your own doing, but by the grace and glory of God.

We were born scared, but we don’t have to stay that way. “T’was grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.” Amen.