He started out one evening for a walk alone and I couldn't help myself. I left shortly after he did, caught up with him and asked if I might tag along. How seconds can become hours! I waited for his reply. Should he say, "No thanks, Dad," what then? His worry had become such an issue for me, I needed the walk more than he did. The answer finally came, a simple, "Thanks, Dad."

A touching journey followed—going nowhere in particular, side by side. After a while, he began to talk and I listened to him explain how he was working out a problem, how he had sifted feelings, sorted alternatives, arrived at conclusions and finally had decided what to do and had done it. (Those of you who know me will have a difficult time believing that I said nothing on the entire walk, except for an occasional affirmative grunt or a non-committal "hm.")

That evening I saw my son as I had never seen him before. As a child, we had told him what to do. As he grew older, we would involve him in the making of decisions by asking his opinion. Later, as he began to make his own decisions, he began asking our opinions and he heeded our advice—most of the time. Still later, he would say that he was going to do this or that and wanted to know what we thought about it. Often, he did not take our advice, although he would listen and defend his decisions.

Now, during our walk, he explained what he had done. He didn't need my advice to reach a decision; he had not even asked for it. What he needed, at that moment, was a presence and, thank God, I was permitted to be there. As we found ourselves back at our front door, we stopped and he gave me a hug and said, "Thanks, Dad, for all your help." I had done nothing but walk beside him and keep my mouth closed and my heart open. God took care of the rest.

Again and again, as I recall events in my life, I am driven to Holy Scripture so that I can learn and test and understand. There is a story involving Simon Peter that bears re-telling or re-living or re-imagining. Perhaps it will help us to see God revealed in a new and re-creating way. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of how He knows us and how we ought to respond in our knowing of Him.

The story begins with the words, "After six days"—six days of walking, teaching, ministering and sharing. Six days of being pressed upon, taken from, and asked about. After six days (I am reminded of the Genesis story) Jesus, on the seventh day, goes apart to rest. This is not just a coincidence, I believe, but of critical necessity. Christ, knowing His father intimately, had come to follow, by nature, the divine habit of giving completely and then needing to be refreshed. Since Christ's nature is also completely human, and we share in his humanness, it might be that we ought to take this divine habit as essential to a fulfilled human nature. Perhaps we should make the cycle of total giving, followed by necessary time for refreshment, our human habit.

Is the time for refreshment—for going to the high mountain—something to be done privately? It can be and, certainly at times, it must be. Still, in my own experience, I find that I do best during this "seventh part" of my life if I am not alone. I am very aware and I deeply appreciate the fact that God will always be there, but it is comforting to me when those persons whom I love and trust beyond measure are with me. At different times, my family, my colleagues, my parish all provide me with the "seventh portion."

It is understandable and not at all unusual that Christ would take Peter, James, and John with Him as He went up to a high mountain apart. Does Christ need time to ponder His mission? Can such words as fatigue, doubt, uncertainty, frustration, pain, suffering, and fear also be a part of the essence of being holy? When I ponder holiness, I think of words such as justice, mercy, love, long-suffering, patience, power, omniscience. It is true that these words do describe the Almighty, but I must look closely at Christ as He reveals who He is for, being the Incarnate, He will also reveal to me who I am. Christ is truly God and truly man. I must continue to be amazed at His love but not surprised to find that He is lonely or in pain or undecided or doubting or even in need of my humble company. I most certainly am in constant need of the assurance of His being present with me.

We would consider being asked by Him to accompany Him to the mountain as the greatest privilege. It seems such a rare and holy thing to be asked by Him, rather than always be asking of Him. Still, when we stop to think, the concept of being asked is not so rare at all. Ponder the words, follow, come, draw near, behold, come and worship. The great privilege that we seek, that of being asked by God, has been ours from the very beginning.

Christ had to go to the mountain top and He went expectantly. When we are bidden to come—just as I believe God bade His son to come apart—we must go expecting something to happen. What happens will take us in at least two directions. We can expect to learn something more about Him, a further revelation and clearer vision, and to gain renewed strength and hope. We, also, can expect to learn more about ourselves, to realize a sense of direction, a greater wonder, more powerful humility, and a freer dependency.

The story tells us what happened to Christ. He was transfigured before Peter, James and John, changed by his Father by such brilliant light that all else would seem dark by comparison. (Somehow this leads me to think of the chaos of creation, the brooding of the very primal elements, the turmoil and uncertainty, the foreboding and pain. Out of that chaos comes God's amazing words, "Let there be light." The world begins; God is in control. New patterns emerge; the darkness disappears, chaos becomes meaning; random becomes purpose; the inert becomes lively. Man is born, a child of the Creator. We must always remember that not only was it so, it was also good.) Christ needed the experience of that light with its intense heat and strength, its goodness and all pervading power that overcomes darkness. Isn't it strange, since He is that Light, that Light that comes into the world, that Light which darkness cannot comprehend nor overcome? Christ surely knew that, but because He is truly human, He needed to be reminded of it. Such a paradox!

Moses and Elijah appear with Christ. Christ is not a modern day phenomenon, but a part of all that went before, begotten of the Father before the world was made, being of the same substance with the Father, Very God of Very God. Moses, Elijah, and Christ are talking together. What could they be saying? Are they speaking of Jehovah, of deliverance, of sacrifice, of miracle, of pain, of hope, of mission, of the restoration of the people of Israel, of the covenant? Imagine you are witnessing this event. What would you talk about if you were drawn into the conversation? (Would you ask who those strangers are with Jesus? I am not certain we would recognize Moses without his hands full of stone tablets.) Should you say something or ought you to say nothing at all? If you do not speak, is there something you should do?

Think of Peter. He speaks and with an incredible understatement, says, "Lord, it is good to be here." Good? It's marvelous! Dear, impulsive Peter, who once again does not take the time to ponder and be amazed at what is transpiring! Why doesn't he fall down in wonder or sing for joy? But, isn't he very much like we are? When we don't know what to say, we feel we must do something. How very outward and visible we are. When we are overwhelmed by the presence and mystery of God, we feel compelled to action so we pay our pledge, repair the roof of the church, or paint its hallway. Why, we ask? It is part of our preparation for the necessary response to God's presence—worship, communion, community, action, and liturgy.

Peter wants to build three altars. Christ understands Peter's reaction because He knows and loves him, but He may be dismayed at the suggestion of building three altars. Shouldn't there be but one? Of course, we say, but how many altars have we built as we prepare to worship Him? Our altars are built to power, to material gain, to youth, to the arts, or to whatever it may be in our lives that finds its way into our hearts to share God's place.

Picture Peter as he runs about gathering stones (or rocks) to build three booths. Do you wonder what James and John are doing? Are they scurrying about picking up stones, too? Yet, aren't they very much like us? In our effort to please, we often become so involved in the preparation that a precious time is lost, a moment passed that may never come again, a time for fellowship, listening, and joy. Imagine what Moses, Elijah, and Christ might think of this. One can almost hear them say, "It has always been so. Times have not changed. They still are busy building temples on the outside." Peter is still running about and shouting how wonderful it is to be here, when, suddenly, it happens! What always happens in the presence of the Almighty? He speaks, a voice from a cloud. (Moses is more used to a burning bush, Elijah to a still, small voice.) The disciples hear the words, "This is my beloved Son." This is no longer just a rumor. God has verified it. This carpenter, this itinerant preacher, this lover of the poor, this miracle worker, this suffering servant, this disturber of souls, this upsetter of society is the Messiah, the Son of God!

Had Jesus sought solitude to be assured of this? Isn't this the proclamation the world has been longing to hear? Is this a startling announcement? Do you remember the voice that John, the Baptizer, had heard months ago? Do you remember what the voice from heaven said? Shouldn't we finally hear what keeps being said from the clouds, or burning bushes, or the mouths of prophets, or the pages of Scripture, or the events of history, or from the depths of our baptized selves?

Now, finally, no words, no building projects—the disciples fall on their faces. The Almighty forces us to assume strange postures. Think of the liturgy. It used to be so simple—stand to praise (evidently Peter, James, and John did not understand this), sit to be instructed, and kneel to pray. Where are the instructions to fall on one's face? It is there in the ordination service, and I did. I did it because I was overwhelmed, scared to death, excited beyond measure, filled with awe, and because I could do nothing else. There is something about falling on one's face, isn't there? It is a common figure of speech, and in that sense, how many times has it happened to you? It has happened to me many times in varied places and in front of many different people. Sometimes it seems that my life is more prone than upright, more prostrate than standing tall. But did you ever take time to think that it is when we are "flat on our faces," we are touched by God? We hear the words, "Rise and have no fear." This may sound simple, but it is impossible to rise if you are absolutely certain you are already upright.

When the disciples fell on their faces, Jesus came and touched them. There is a kind of touch that comes after an unexpected victory. I have hugged my boys as they walked victoriously from a basketball court. It is a special time, rather rough and rowdy, but it is a celebration of a fleeting accomplishment, a sharing in their victory. When they were small children and had fallen or were afraid, there was a different kind of touch, firm, but gentle and tender, and, of necessity, strong. This touch is not one that shares victory or accomplishment, but is intended to convey love and caring. It is an intimate, lingering, reassuring touch. It isn't followed by the words, "Good job," but by "Don't be afraid." It is with this latter kind of touch that Jesus must have touched the disciples. How sensitive and strong and precious God is! He is there when we need Him most, reaching out and touching us. It is the wonderful sacramental reality that we are permitted, yes, invited to be in the presence of, the mystery of, God Himself. The 100th Psalm says beautifully, "Rejoice in the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness, and come before His presence with thanksgiving. Know that the Lord, He is God. It is He that has made us and not we ourselves. We are His people and the sheep of His pasture. Come, let us fall down before Him"—with His mysterious life-giving touch, die and rise to newness of life.

Now we, too, must come down from the mountain top with Jesus and Peter, James and John. There is much to be done in the valley—that which needs to be shared, suffered over, and died for. There are miracles to be performed in His name. There is a sinful world to be encountered, one filled with the spirit of evil. Look—here comes a man whose son needs to be healed. May the power of God touch him and may our faith and His presence permit us to do the impossible.

Lydia Talbot: Bishop Wiedrich, in your vision for the mission of the church, you see a servant community sharing boldly, if I am quoting correctly, in an intimate encounter with those around it. How did you make that vision, not just you alone of course, but in your community of faith in Madison, Wisconsin? How did you make that come alive in the form of a shelter for the homeless?

William Wiedrich: What we had to do, Lydia, in that wonderful parish was discover our ministry. It was a fine parish in no danger of dying, filled with good people who had always tried to please God, but had never asked what God might want them to do in that building on that corner across from the capitol.

When they asked that question, they were confronted by all the people who walked by and they suddenly realized that they had a ministry. It was different than they had ever imagined and that was to feed the hungry, to give refuge to the homeless, to be advocates for people who were mentally ill. When they got that vision, then the intimacy of God's touch which revealed that vision was translated into action and very quickly the ministry was decided on.

A shelter was opened without adequate preparation. Forty-one churches raced to help us. Within a year, we had 1,200 volunteers who were helping an emergency shelter and a feeding program. Then it rapidly grew into interim housing, but people knew what it was. They just had to articulate it and feel touched by God. Then they did it.

Talbot: At one point you thought you were going to have to close that shelter.

Wiedrich: It appeared after about a year and a half that the financial part of it was going to collapse on us. It looked like we would have to close it just before Christmas. It is almost like a miracle story.

Christmas Eve was not a happy one in the parish because we knew the inevitability of having to close the shelter and stop the ministry. That evening at the late mass, there was an anonymous check for $10,000 that perpetuated the ministry. From then on, money was never a problem and the ministry just grew rapidly. It grew to the point, Lydia, that when I left in 1991, it had served 22,000 people a year in the city of Madison. I received the report for the year 1992 and they served 47,000 clients.

Talbot: That is just a transforming kind of story where you see the Savior's face in others.

Wiedrich: Absolutely.

Talbot: Since you have been in Chicago briefly, Bishop Wiedrich, tell us, when you celebrated the eucharist at the diocesan convention last year you challenged delegates to transcend their differences. What was at the top of the list of those differences?

Wiedrich: Often when the church enters an arena that it is not familiar with, there are people disenchanted with the church and feel it shouldn't be there. So it is with the Episcopal Church. Some people think it ought to be there; some think it shouldn't be there. We had to come together no matter where we are in the church because we are intimately bound one to the other. I was so afraid that maybe with all the differences of opinion that the body would come apart, would be dismembered. I wanted the word "re-member" to be our key word, that the body has to be put together, not just the Anglican body but the body of Christians, to not make light of our differences but to realize that we do have a shared ministry.

Talbot: The historic vote in London to ordain women in the Anglican Church was a vote that was difficult but there is healing happening now, isn't there?

Wiedrich: I believe there is. I believe the pain that is caused by that will be with us for awhile and we will have to deal with it compassionately and with forgiveness. None of us is absolutely certain, but in coming together, God will permit the church to be what He intends it to be. It will be our mission as men and women of the church to come together in that marvelous mystery of who God is and where He calls us. I believe it will happen. I believe it happens in things as dramatic as a change in who can be ordained. I believe it happens when we share.