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Forget Queen Victoria or Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, even William Shakespeare. On this trip to London, as a Sunday school curriculum editor at the time, I was intent on finding one statue—that of Robert Raikes, the founder of the modern-day Sunday school movement.

With a copy of Access London guide in hand, my supportive and directionally savvy husband spotted the statue first—in the shade in the Victoria Embankment Gardens, behind the Savoy. The description on the base read: “Robert Raikes/Founder of Sunday Schools/1780 This statue was erected under the direction of the Sunday School Union by contributions from teachers and scholars of the Sunday Schools in Great Britain.”

I imagined Sunday school teachers encouraging the children to bring in coins to help build the statue; then organizing a field trip to see it. I was thrilled, and somewhere in an old photo album is a picture of me standing in front of the statue. (This above photo of the statue is from the internet, minus me.)

Statues are back in the news again. Whether you like the statues the way they are or want new ones, we want to control who is placed on our pedestals. That’s the problem—flawed people elevating other flawed people to almost god-like statuses. And even when it isn’t about statues, we still like to elevate ourselves.

In Luke 9:28-36, the account of Jesus’ transfiguration has an ordinary beginning, “. . . he [Jesus] took with him Peter and John and James and went up to the mountain to pray.” Then the most extraordinary event takes place: They saw Jesus’ glory. They saw Moses and Elijah “who appeared in glory” talking with Jesus. They saw glory, and well, look how that turned out.

Let’s build tents, three tents. I think Luke was being generous when he described Peter as “not knowing what he said.” (Luke 9:33)

God had the final say in the cloud on top of the mountain, “This is my son, my Chosen One, listen to him!” He is greater than Elijah, greater than Moses. No need for three tents, only one is necessary. But a handful of verses later, the disciples were ready to unpack the other two tents as they argued about which of them was the greatest, which of them deserved the statue, or should I say status. I would have been right in the thick of that argument.

We people are easily impressed by one another−and also easily disappointed by our failings. And as long as we keep our eye focused horizontally, we can imagine, debate, tear down or build up. The only solution I see is to stop looking at each other,look up first and then see one another a little more like Jesus does.

About eight days before the Transfiguration, Jesus said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23) Jesus didn’t say climb up on a pedestal, but take up your cross and follow him. Lose your life to save it.

There’s one more thing Jesus wants us to take up—his kind yoke and light burden and learn from his gentle and lowly heart for us. He doesn't reject us for carrying around the extra tent or a hard-to-shake sin. He wants to remove our burdens and give us rest for our souls.

Rest from pitching that tent for my idol of the day, rest for that next time I kick the base of my pedestal, tempted to climb back up and rest from trying to earn his grace or prove myself to him.

Jesus sees us as we are, not some idealised version of ourselves that we imagine ourselves or our heroes to be. He not only sees but he loves us exactly as we are. And thereby lies the path to hope and change. The cross and the empty tomb, the words in Scripture are enough, not etched in a monument, but written on our hearts, not by human hands but by the nail-scarred hands of God himself.