Aliyah
Matthew 17:1-13 Mark 9:2-13 Luke 9:28-36
Yesterday, on our arrival at Caesarea Phillipi, I puzzled as to why Jesus wanted us to tarry there. A beautiful location, true, but such a small village, host to but a smattering of Jews.
Should I ask why, I knew what Jesus’ answer would be. “Ah, but lost sheep of Israel abide here,” he would say. “I have been sent to proclaim the good news to them, to do the will of the one who sent me.” More than once had I heard Jesus speak these words.
Our welcome there was lukewarm, for only a few came to hear as Jesus spoke of the Kingdom of God. The response to his call, “Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved. Come, confess your sins, be baptized in the name of the Lord!” was thin.
Thomas, Bartholomew, my brother, John, and I waited hip-deep in the Jordan to do the immersions. Alas, the response was spare. I baptized only two men, John, three.
This morning, I drowsed, savoring the fragrance of the willows, the lilt of the river’s song. Then Peter came, bringing my reverie to an abrupt end. His voice, yet hoarse from sleep, sounded as if he’d been conversing with frogs.
“James! Go find your brother! Jesus wants to climb Mount Hermon!”
What? Still muzzy, his words slipped away like eels. Let me break my fast, if you please. And what are we to do about Sukkot, the Festival of Booths that will begin shortly?
Ah, but that was the least of my confusion. Jesus’ pronouncement from last evening yet spun my thoughts like a splay of locusts.
After we had taken our supper, we gathered ‘round our small fire on Jordan’s shore. Across the river, the Temple of Augustus shone in the evening light, standing guard over the mouth of a cavern that the Romans believed to be the lair of their goat-god, Pan. The Gates of Hades, they called it, its rock-bound maw laying a-wait to gobble wayward souls into the satyr’s lustful embrace.
Jesus began with a request. “Tell me, friends, who do the people of Israel say the Son of Man is?”
Always quick to respond, Andrew said, “John the Baptist, some say!”
Mark added, “Aye, and others say Elijah, now come. Just as it has been written!”
Not one to be overlooked, our boisterous Judah said, “Hah! I have heard others say he is Jeremiah. Still others have declared he is one of the lesser prophets. Joel, the son of Pethuel. Perhaps.”
Jesus had another question. “And what of you, my friends? Who do you say I am?”
Ever since we first met with Jesus, John and I had pondered this, leaning one way then another. Matthew, the tax man, and Peter’s brother, Andrew, were certain he was the anointed one. Then there was Thomas, who carried skepticism in the wrinkles of his brow and doubted nearly everything save for God himself. Peter? His thoughts on the matter had run hot, then cold, so his pronouncement was no small surprise. “Rabboni, you are the Messiah. You are the Son of the Living God!”
Jesus clapped his hands, his grin radiant in the firelight. “Ah, Peter bar Jonah, you are indeed blessed! In all truth, I say this was revealed to you by my Father in Heaven!”
A quick glance at the others circled at our fire revealed the stunned expressions of desert owls, no less than my own. Jesus, the Son of God, now confirmed by Peter? It was not as if we had not been given fair notice, for the promises of old were clearly at hand. Miracles of healing and deliverance abounded, Jesus had shown us signs and wonders that could only have come from Heaven.
And now, here it was, the certainty from Jesus own lips – yes, he is the Messiah.
Jesus offered his hand to Peter. Peter rose, Jesus drew him close and said, “Beloved friends, I tell you, one and all – this man, Petros, is the petra upon which I will build my church.”
We were silent all the while Jesus’ words seemed to flow across the water, then echo back from the cliffside. Pointing at the cavern, laughter rich in his voice, he said, “And not even the Gates of Hades will overcome it.”
Eyes skyward, Jesus paused, waiting for … what? The right words? To hear from his Father in Heaven?
Certain that a work of God was at hand, I held my breath. Yes, this revelation revealed the truth to us: Jesus and the Messiah are one and the same! But the words he spoke next were no less stunning.
“My beloved friends,” he said, “guard your tongues lest you reveal to any man, yea, any woman that I am the Messiah. Wait until the fullness of time.
“Know this: the time will soon come when I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. With these keys comes the truth in Heaven’s own voice, that what you declare as improper or unlawful on Earth is first bound in Heaven. Likewise, what you declare as proper and lawful on Earth is in the same way loosed in Heaven, even at this very moment.
“Dear friends, you have followed me thus far. But this you must understand, fully, completely. If you want to continue to follow me, to be my disciples, well and good … but … to do so, you must deny yourselves, each one taking up his own cross day by day, then to walk the same road I walk.”
“I give you a hard teaching: who among you wants to save his life must lose it. Yea, whoever loses his life for me will save it.
Jesus’ voice now took on a new note, solemn and vital. “What profit is there for one to gain the whole world and yet lose his very soul? Nay, should any one of you, should any who follow me in years to come, stand ashamed of me before the Father and the holy angels on the day of glory, so shall the Son of Man be ashamed of him.
“Beloved friends, a time shall soon come when the Son of Man will be spurned by the temple elders and the chief priests, by the teachers of the Law. He will be arrested. He will be tried. And he will be killed.”
What? What is this? Jesus, brought before the Sanhedrin? Jesus, tried, killed? Had I heard this right?
“Take heart, friends. Be not afraid. Yes, it is true. The Son of Man will suffer many things, just as it is written. He will be killed. He will be entombed. But take heart, for after three days, he shall rise again.”
Where there was a shadow of joy in Jesus’ eyes, Peter’s countenance was that of a raincloud. As if he had suddenly found himself astride a briar-bush, Peter leapt to his feet, shouting, “Never! Never, I say! No, Lord! This shall not stand!“
In the past, Peter’s antics had made me laugh. Not here. Not now. Jesus’ eyes, suddenly took on those of an ancient prophet. His bark sliced the air like a sicarii’s dagger.
“Peter! Get behind me, satana! Cling not to the things of this world. Open your heart, man, to the concerns of God!”
Wide-eyed, I gaped at my brother, then at Jesus. Peter, one moment the very rock of Jesus’ church, now reproved for missing the point of Jesus’ declaration? The words Jesus spoke were more than I could take in.
Bone weary, confused, unsettled, I pulled my cloak close that night, hoping for the gentle sound of Jordan’s springs to lull me to sleep. It was not to be, for Jesus’ words tumbled in my mind like a scourge of crawling makaks. Eventually, weariness prevailed and I slept.
We remained there at Jordan’s shore for six more days, ample time for Jesus’ teaching, and for baptizing any latecomers who might come. Too, it was a most pleasant time for us as well in such a peaceful and sylvan place, to lend a hand with the Jewish villagers as they prepared for Sukkot.
Come the seventh morning, I awoke feeling as I had been trammeled by a herd of sheep. Peter’s demand served only to rankle my mood.
Rising, I cupped water in my hands and doused my face. I looked to where my brother had slept and saw only sand. He was not be far, for I found John lolling against a tree, laboring over a pomegranate. I informed him of Jesus’ request, and that he had red juice in his beard.
“Climb Mount Hermon? What? Why? When?”
“Now, apparently. Peter was quite anxious, ready to go.”
“It is early. Morning. It is the first day of Sukkot, the Festival of Booths, and Jesus wants us to leave our celebration, climb this … this mountain?”
“Yes. And I don’t know why. I’m just the messenger.”
“Well, if anyone else were to ask, I would say no.”
“As would I.”
John unfolded his legs and stood, his knees popping like knots of pitch in an open fire. “Where is Peter, brother of mine?”
“Last I saw, he was at the ash bishul.”
“The cook fire? Not a surprise. The man does enjoy his food. But then, if we’re to climb that beastly mountain, I suppose we should eat well before we begin.”
Peter was chatting with Barnabas, the youngest among us. “Ah, John,” he said. “I see your brother found you. Barnabas and I are enjoying bread with honey. Join us.”
We sat, took bread from the cooking stone, drizzled it with honey. My brother jostled Peter’s ribs. “What is the occasion, Peter? For what reason does Jesus want to climb Mount Hermon?”
“I have but a simple answer. We are to join Jesus in an ascent of the heights to pray.”
And there it was. An ascent of these holy heights for prayer, there, perchance, to glimpse eternity, there to feel the touch of God’s hand. How quickly did my carping and snide remarks become as vapor.
Mount Hermon was not far from Caesarea Philippi. Before I thought to go in search of Jesus, he came to us. “Ah, my dear friends. I take it you are ready for our climb?”
Peter answered, “Aye, Rabboni. I have gathered some fruit and bread, some waterskins. I believe we are ready.”
My brother asked, “Lord, what about the others?”
“Ah, did Peter not tell you? It will be just you three for our aliyah.”
An aliyah. Yes. An act of ‘going up.’ Jesus’ smile revealed a touch of humor, or was it joy?
Jesus posed that we leave now, before the sun was high, for he wished to set foot on the mountain before nightfall. That our climbing of the mountain would be a trial, none did doubt. Much of it would be done by moonlight.
Leaving the valley, we took the path that led to the mountain. With a last look on our campsite at the Jordan, I thought with no small lament how less than an hour ago I was sleeping comfortably in that very place.
But why had Jesus chosen this place, a mountaintop, of all things, for prayer? Could we not pray together just as easily at the banks of the Jordan? At Caesarea Philippi? And why had Jesus included me in this … this ordeal?
Turning north, the range of mountains that hosted Mount Hermon now unfolded before us, a vast expanse of majestic peaks and crags. In the center, cresting at more than nine thousand feet, imperious Hermon Siryon raised her head, a queen whose reign commanded lesser peaks.
As we walked, Jesus called out, “Friends, take heed to the words of Jeremiah. The Lord Almighty says, as surely as I live, one will come who is like Hermon among the mountains!’ Think upon those words.”
As we well knew, Jesus was not given to caprice. Indeed, most times when he spoke or acted, it was with purpose. Yet with Hermon’s slope in view, whatever purpose there might be for our ascent was not plain. I must confess I went willingly only because going places and doing things with Jesus was an adventure, one I was not willing to miss.
When faced with a task I would prefer not to engage, this day was no different, for with each step I found one more objection …. why are we doing this? … what is this about? … why only the three of us? … it’s too hot … it is too hard … on and on.
I must confess, for I had spun a web of misgivings at Jesus’ pronouncement, how he would build his church on a rock named Simon Peter. Surely, I knew Jesus saw things differently than I, that his call for Peter and Andrew, my brother and I to come, to learn to be fishers of men was undeniable. And yet, I had known Peter most of my life – impulsive, free with opinion, quick to anger – and could not comprehend what Jesus saw in him that I did not.
As we walked, Jesus’ hand on my shoulder quelled my grousing. His words, “Be of good heart, James. Great joy, great blessing awaits us,” caught my breath. Had he known what I was thinking?
I have little to say about our long walk save that we traversed vineyards, mulberry groves, and sparse orchards of fig and pear, and some apricot. I have little to say about our ascent of Hermon’s slope, save that our upward climb took us through straggling shrubs, oaks and rock-slabbed ravines.
I cannot say it was pleasant nor was it unpleasant, save for the setting sun that spread its glory across the skies. Again, I was reminded how the Creator of All Things blesses his creation with such wonder-filled variety.
Other than that, our walk was a walk. Our climb was a climb.
At long last, we stepped onto the summit where moonlight cast long shadows all about, giving an unworldly cast to patches of turf, pockets of snow. This night, this heavens were strewn with stars, like jewels cast upon a curtain of velvet. The chill of the air refreshed me and although my weary bones protested every movement, gratitude danced in my soul: we had finally arrived.
The four of us, weary, sat, grateful for a time to rest. I leaned my back against a boulder, dearly wishing for nothing more than to breathe deeply of the cool air, drink some water, and have a bite of bread, of fruit. Peter spoke the words we all held in our hearts, “Master, it is a very good thing that we are now here.”
Jesus agreed with a simple nod, bade us join hands. “Let us pray,” he said.
“Father-Abba in Heaven, we give our thanks for a safe journey, for our arrival in this place made sacred by your presence. With the words of Isaiah, Let the weary rest, for here is the resting place, the place of repose. Even now would that Elijah’s mission to call Israel back to you, to prepare this, our country, for your Kingdom … even now would the Law you have blessed Israel with through our ancestor, Moses, be fulfilled. For that, we thank you, Abba, Father, and for the rest that awaits us. Amen and amen.”
A flash of light, so bright as to cause us to shy away brought short my thought, what a curious prayer. But what was this? Had God struck our mountain with lightning?
No, for what we beheld, none could ever have foreseen.
We were not alone.
Two figures clothed in dazzling brightness strode toward us. Arms aloft, faces abeam with joy, Jesus rose to meet the men, their embrace a glory of light, their laughter a chorus of angelsong, their words a cascade of psalms we did not know. Although I was at a loss as to where this knowing came, at once I knew these visitors to be Moses and Elijah.
Yet how could this happen, to be in the presence of the Prophet of all prophets, Elijah, who would restore peace to the generations … to behold Moses, God’s Covenant-bearer, the bringer of God’s promise-made-real … both men, once promised, now present, here with us?
Ah, yes. Jesus prays. God answers.
But Jesus! He, too, had changed, somehow larger, stronger, shining forth a glittering aura of light … how could this be?
Nonetheless, my soul could not but regale in this blessing, our uncertainty of how or why John and Peter and I were in the presence of these exalted ancestors of the Jews a meaningless thought. To confirm I was not alone in this, surely that my brother and Peter were sharing this rapture, I gave them a glance. Doubtless, it was so for John. Leave it to Peter to confound the moment.
With all the grace of an ox trampling a pigeons’ nest, Peter cheered, “Rabbi! What blessing that we are here at this time! ‘Tis Sukkot! Festival of Booths! Let us be about be about putting up sukkahs, one for Moses, one for Elijah, one for you!”
Just where Peter thought he was going to get tree limbs and branches on this top of Mount Hermon’s bald head, I did not know. So dearly did I want to kick Peter’s backside, so typical was his headlong rush, how common his thoughtless bleat, whatever rested on his tonguetip! And this Cephas is the kepha upon which Jesus is to build his church?
John brushed my arm, whispered, “James … look!”
My eyes followed my brother’s point, alarmed at the darkness that too often heralds trouble. Or evil. Overhead, a dark cloud formed, only to grow larger and larger. Looming over our heads, it blotted out the stars and moon, then enveloped us into itself.
From within, a soft glow emerged, grew brighter and brighter, rivaling the sun and the moon as one, consuming the darkness in shining glory.
Fear grasped my innards in hard hands. A trembling overtook me as I threw myself to the ground. Face to the dirt, I covered my head with my arms, risked a sideways glance at my brother. He, too, lay prone, hands clasped on his head. And Peter? It seemed shaking and cowering was the order of the night.
Thunder rolled. From within the cloud came a voice, rich with power, plaintive with love: “This is my Son, my beloved one. With him I am well pleased. When he speaks, attend to what he says!”
If anything, my trembling increased, for I knew in the depths of my soul we were in the presence of the Creator of all things, the Heavenly Father. God.
My eyes, pressed shut against my terror, filled with tears. My mouth turned to cotton, my heart thrummed with the beat of a drum.
Shall I be dashed to dust?
As a stone statue, I lay there, unable to move, afraid to look, the only sound coming to my ears was that of my quickened breath.
A touch upon my shoulder. What? Who?
I chanced a look.
Jesus.
He spoke, laughter in his voice. “Peter. John. James. Come. Arise. There is naught to fear.”
Warily, I took in my surroundings. Jesus. John. Peter. The mountaintop. And me. Moses? Not to be seen. Elijah? Was he ever here?
All about us, night sky glimmered with stars; the moon bathed us in silver.
Dawn was not far off. Near to exhaustion, John, Peter and I struggled to remain awake, gathering ‘round Jesus, hopeful of a measure of comfort, anxious for him to explain what this … what? … visitation … was about.
Had any of this happened at all?
And, of course, it had, for God’s handprint was stamped on all that had transpired.
Before our prayers came to the amen, Moses and Elijah had appeared, welcoming Jesus, exalting him, regaling him, reassuring him of his role in the Father’s grand design.
And for the three of us? For what purpose was our witness to the change in Jesus’ appearance, the aura of glorious, heavenly light that did not merely surrounded him, but seemed to emanate from him?
Was it so complicated?
Was it was simply that we had been called to witness a celebration of the Kingdom of God, brought forth in a way we could comprehend with our meager minds.
Jesus, the blessed one, quieted our hearts, bade us rest, sleep before we began our descent. So it was on a rocky bed with a stone for a pillow, I lay myself down, wrapped my cloak tightly against the chill air and immediately slept the sleep of the near-dead.
Thin dawnlight awakened us. Against reason, I felt rested, grateful for small bites of food and sips of water remaining in my pouch. On rising, Jesus gathered us for a prayer of thanksgiving, then gave fair warning.
“Beloved ones, take care not to reveal what you have witnessed here until the fullness of time … not until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”
Ah. Yes, that reminder, how Jesus had yet to suffer and die in fulfillment of prophecy we could barely comprehend.
At last, it was time. We had rested enough. No cause remained for us to tarry atop Mount Hermon. As I stood, stretched, silently acknowledging my aches and pains, I took in the view.
Unfolding below, rolling hills, fields of grain, orchards of fruit spanned before me, compassing Israel’s time of Moses and Joshua, Judges, the Prophets, the Maccabees.
This was God’s gift to Israel, from Syria to the north where Damascus awakened, to Galilee’s loveliness, beckoning to us, calling us home. The ache in my heart was near to unbearable and I prayed soon, very soon, to take my Milcah in my embrace, rejoice at the gabble of our children, take rest in the warmth of our home in Bethsaida.
Not yet. Not yet, for our return to Caesarea Philippi must come first, where we would rejoin our fellow disciples.
I knew my weariness would deplete much of my dwindling strength on the downward journey. Hie! Our descent could have been counted as loss save for the lovely blessing that carried our hearts, for Jesus led us in psalms we knew from childhood … my favorite, from the Prophet Isaiah’s quill:
The arm of the Lord has revealed His message,
but who has believed?
From a tender shoot did he grow,
from dry and arid ground.
An everyday man,
ordinary in all regard,
despised by those who turned their faces
when didst he appear in their midst.
Crushed for iniquities not his own,
pierced for transgressions he had not done,
he took Israel’s pain upon himself,
suffered on their behalf.
See how God punishes him, they cried.
How stricken, how afflicted,
yet he does not cry out.
We all are wayward sheep,
turned aside,
turned to our own way,
all the while his back bends under the weight of our sins;
the Lord has made it so.
Though no wickedness did dwell in him,
no violence found root,
life abandoned him to the grave,
From his punishment, the Lord brings peace.
From his wounds, the Lord pours out healing.
From his suffering does our God bring forgiveness of sin.
Arise, see the Light of Life …
He comes!
He comes!
Although the psalms eased our journey with no little joy, I have small remembrance of our hours-long trek other than of my aching bones and feet.
No less weary than Peter, John and myself, I rejoiced when Jesus said, “Let us take rest in the shade of that oak.” I felt my soul cry with thanksgiving.
Peter said, “Lord, I have been thinking” – always a caution, for Peter was never slow to speak of what he did not understand – “now that we have seen Elijah, why is it the teachers of the law at the temple say that Elijah must come before the Messiah?”
Jesus leaned over and ruffed Peter’s head. “Recall, Petros, Malachi’s foretelling how the Lord will send a messenger of the covenant like a refiner’s fire to prepare the way before me. Truly, I tell you, Elijah has already come to restore Israel through repentance. Ah, but the teachers of the law, the Pharisees, the priests, they did not recognize him.”
It came to me that the Elijah Jesus spoke of was not just the same Elijah we had seen atop Mount Hermon. No, this Elijah of whom Jesus spoke was the baptizer, John, the one whose head was taken by Herod Antipas.
My thoughts whirled like a khamsin! Hinneh! Behold! The Baptizer’s call to the cleansing waters of repentance had completed Malachi’s very words! Now Elijah, be he John of the baptisms or Elijah of the mountaintop, came not to halt the suffering and death of the Messiah, no!
It was his to herald the Messiah’s coming!
There was more! God’s prophesy given unto Moses at Sinai – I will raise up for Israel a prophet like Moses, from among Israel’s brethren. I will put my words in his mouth– has been made real! We have seen it! But why …?
Jesus caught my eyes. “James, you are unsettled. What troubles you?”
“O Rabbi, I cannot but wonder how it is that we who are so unworthy, Peter and John and I, have been so favored? We have seen Elijah and Moses, we have seen you glorified in a way that clouds reason! We have heard the voice of God from the heavens! Help me, help us to understand!”
“Ah, James. Remember how I chose you, your brother, and Peter at the beginning? Great things await you, for after I have returned to my Father in Heaven, I will send the Holy Spirit who will remind you of all I have taught you, of all my commands.
“Surely you recall I have declared Peter as the rock upon which I will build my church? You and your brother, John, are no less in God’s Kingdom, for when the Holy Spirit comes, you, too, will bear great responsibility, shepherding my disciples as they go unto the nations, bearing witness to the signs and wonders I have done, to the truth I have spoken.
“You, James, will call many to repentance in my name, baptize them, teach them how I am the way, the truth and the light, that no one comes to the Father except through me.”
With Jesus’ arm about my shoulders, my heart brimming with faith in this man, this Son of Man, this Messiah who was my friend, I felt my spirit fill as my doubt yielded to the dust.
My vision, suddenly blurry, did not impair my simple response. “Thank you, Lord. “
It seemed to be enough.
“Come now, friends,” said Son of Man. “Let us go!”
Aliyah © 2026 Peter K. Schipper