Feb. 26, 2017
Matthew 17:1-9
The theme for the sabbatical I took a bunch of years back now was: finding the spiritual in the physical. That included physical presence with others, physical activity like yoga and the martial arts, as well as physical expressions of piety like architecture, and song, and art. Angela and I took a trip to Italy together and, of course, saw a great deal of remarkable and moving (not to mention, priceless!) art. However, one piece that stood out for me may not even exist anymore. It was painted on the wall of a small courtyard that was created by the intersection of a number of small cobblestoned streets. Between lines of added graffiti read the words, “There is a light that will never go out.” I wondered a bit about the artist – what made him share such a message? – and I took a picture.
“There is a light that will never go out.” …I think of the light that Peter, James, and John see as Jesus takes them to the mountain top and is “transfigured” before them. Now, no one knows exactly what a transfiguration is because its only referent (at least in scripture) is this particular moment. Jesus radiates a bright light before their very eyes, a cloud overshadows them, and the voice of God echoes the same words of Christ’s baptism: “This is my son the beloved, with him I am well pleased.”
Clearly, it is a moment of divine revelation. Cleary, it is a special moment of Godly glory shining with a splendor that is both miraculous and terrifying. But, what strikes me about the moment is that when the dust settles, when the ghosts of prophets past are gone, when the cloud dissipates and the disciples open their fearful eyes what they see is just Jesus, the still very human Jesus, their teacher and friend. They feel him because he touches them. They hear him because he tells them once again, “Do not be afraid.”
I do not believe that Jesus was changed in any way on that mountain top. He was endowed there with nothing more than what he already had. Rather, I believe he was revealed. I believe the disciples got to see what was always there, the divine truth and light that is behind and within this friend of theirs named Jesus.
That is what the transfiguration is. It is the message of light from a wall of graffiti. It is the divine within the human. It is the truth of holy love and holy presence that has gracefully and generously identified with this mortal life of ours. It is the expression of the truth that there is more, there is always more, and this more is given to us.
These words from a devotional that I read last week came to mind: “Jesus taught that we are completely drenched through and through with God’s love. In the parable of the prodigal son, in his miracles of healing, in his love for everyone he encountered, Jesus’ message rang out to one and all: a divine benevolence gives itself to you whole and complete in and as your very life. Your incremental degrees of awareness of this mystery are stages of realizing what is from all eternity the brimming-over fullness of your true and everlasting life.”[1]
The funny thing about these incremental discoveries is that we can’t force them. We can’t make them happen. I think I told you about praying all day as an associate pastor for the words to the one sermon that I would preach for the church that month. I thought, and I read, I studied, and I prayed but by Saturday evening I had nothing of value to say to the church the next day. I could, on my own, offer not a bit of inspiration. So I got mad, and I scolded God, and I told God to start talking, and what I heard back from God, to my surprise, was laughter. God laughed at me, which, weirdly, was exactly what I needed. I stopped trying so hard, and I found the joy in what I was doing, and the words to preach began to come.
God was there all along, and God is here in light and splendor; the question is: are we opening ourselves, humbling ourselves, readying ourselves to receive the revelation? Maybe it means being present in worship; maybe it means turning to a friend for help; maybe it means stopping and insisting on some silence in your life; maybe it means serving someone beyond your immediate circle; maybe it is some other way. The important thing is to seek it with some sincerity.
Have you seen HBO’s new series, The Young Pope? It’s the oddly compelling story of a young American Pope, played by Jude Law, who’s first year in the papacy leaves the Vatican, the Catholics of the world, and the viewers scratching their heads over the Pope’s strange mix of brokenness, fallibility, brilliance, compassion, pig-headedness, and even a bit of miracle-working. Until the very last episode the Pope refuses to show his face to the public masses because, as he says, there’s no need. It seems his thinking is that the people need to see God’s face, not his.
But, in the last episode, in a turn of events, the young Pope decides to preach his Christmas sermon in St. Mark’s square in Venice. Thousands of people pack the square and stand there in silent anticipation. The[2]n he begins. He tells the story of a young saint named the Blessed Juana. Though only 14, she’s lying on her deathbed and all the children are coming to her for wisdom and insight before she’s gone. They ask her questions, all sorts of questions about human existence. “Are we good or are we bad? Are we true or are we false? Are we rich or are we poor?” On and on the question and contrasts go until at last the dying saint replies, “It doesn’t matter.”
And then she adds, “God does not allow Himself to be seen. God does not shout. God does not whisper. God does not write. God does not hear. God does not chat. God does not comfort us.” You can imagine the confusion the people must feel from her words. So, the children ask, “Who is God?” And Juana replies, “God smiles.”
Then comes what I love about the sermon. “And now,” says the Pope, “I beg all of you, smile! Smile! That’s right, smile!” And the Pope pulls out a telescope and he pans the massive crowds as the camera focuses in on smile after beautiful smile.
They had come to see the face of the Pope, but instead it is their faces that matter. Instead, it is their smiles smiling along with the smile of God that shows the deep truth of that Christmas moment, the deep truth of their entire lives.
Their smiles were shining a light that will never go out. And, my friends, so might ours.
[1] Center for Action and Contemplation, Feb. 22, 2017.