We were on top of the world. I had just asked Laura if we could spend the rest of our lives together and she said yes. And so that night, we sat with her parents and celebrated. We talked about all of the things that needed to happen to plan a wedding for the following year. It was wonderful and we were all so very happy.

Four nights later, we were with her parents again. The glow was still bright as we discussed things like possible venues and colors for bridesmaids’ dresses. Then, about an hour after I got home, Laura called me to say that something was wrong with her dad – her vibrant and healthy dad. That night was unforgettable, the bright glow had faded to a grim black, and wedding planning turned into funeral planning. 

We often say in my family that life is filled with hills and valleys. Sometimes you descend into a valley slowly and down a gradual path. But sometimes you encounter a cliff.

In today’s second reading from Paul, he talks about falling under a cloud and passing through the sea. He is referring to their ancient ancestors who wandered through the desert in search of the promised land.

For some reason, this made me think about the apostle Peter, a man who had himself fallen under a cloud and passed through the sea. In last week’s Gospel, about the Transfiguration of Christ, we heard about an amazing visual spectacle, of Jesus appearing with Moses and Elijah. That had to have been quite the sight and it prompted Peter to gleefully state: “Master, it is good that we are here.” But then the sky darkened, a great cloud appeared, and they became frightened. From joy to terror in an instant. A cloud, a cliff.

And we also remember Peter walking on water toward Jesus in a storm, only to realize that this was wildly out of the ordinary and then him sinking into the depths of the sea. All this immediately following the feeding of an immense crowd with just a few loaves and fishes. One of the largest and most impressive miracles of all time, followed by him sinking into dark water. A sea, a cliff.

Life is filled with hills and valleys, clouds and seas, and sometimes, cliffs. Peter experienced this. Many of us here have experienced this. 

Several of Paul’s letters were written when he was in prison, yet frequently in those letters, he describes his own joy and peace.

You would think that prison, particularly in that era for Christians, would have been just about the worst place you could be. Yet, Paul often spoke of his hope and his joy while there. That’s because Paul truly believed in the promise of Christ: that when the cross comes, and it comes, it does not hold the final word. And that we must not be defined by our suffering; rather we can show the world that time and space are not our prison cells, and that cliffs will hold no lasting power over us.

It isn’t always easy to be a people of hope… and I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t ever feel frustration, anger, or despair. But what defines us as a people more so than hope? And what more persuasively shows others that what we believe in is the better path?

To be a people of hope and joy.

To pass under a cloud and through the sea… with a savior by our side who chose not to direct us from the safety of some protected perch, across the millennia with words of mere commandment, or from the grandeur of a stately heavenly throne. Rather, he did so from a crouching position on the floor with a wash cloth, inside a darkened holding cell awaiting his trial, and while hanging upon a blood stained crucifix.

He asks us to be a people who trust. And who see light where there seems to be only darkness.

To be a people of hope and joy.

Even when we encounter the cloud and the sea. Even when we face the cliff.