Feb. 7, 2016
Ex. 34:29-35
Luke 9:28-43a
I thought I would share the following account with you. The man says, “I remember the night, and almost the very spot on the hilltop, where my soul opened out, as it were, into the Infinite, and there was a rushing together of the two worlds, the inner and the outer. It was deep calling unto deep – the deep that my own struggle had opened up within being answered by the unfathomable deep without, reaching beyond the stars. I stood alone with Him who had made me, and all the beauty of the world, the love, and sorrow, and even temptation. I did not seek Him, but felt the perfect unison of my spirit with His. The ordinary sense of things around me faded. For the moment nothing but an ineffable joy and exultation remained. It is impossible fully to describe the experience. It was like the effect of some great orchestra that leaves the listener conscious of nothing save that his soul is being wafted upwards , and almost bursting with its own emotion. The perfect stillness of the night was thrilled by a more solemn silence. The darkness held a presence that was all the more felt because it was not seen. I could not any more have doubted that He was there than that I was. Indeed, I felt myself to be, if possible, the less real of the two.”[i]
In the early 1900’s William James collected and studied hundreds of accounts of personal encounters with God. I remember reading many of them in college with a great deal of fascination. Most of those who had shared their theophanies hadn’t been seeking them. Many wouldn’t have even called themselves religious. And yet, they all share this remarkable sense of being united with the Really Real, with a brilliant presence which was at once overwhelming, and humbling, and so profoundly true that words to describe their experiences all felt like lame approximations. They describe this ecstatic experience of divine presence and joy and clarity of being, which put them in harmony with an eternal force and beauty that at once both devastated and exalted their own sense of existence.
For each of them the experience came to an end. That kind of ecstasy just can’t last. But, what does last is the sense that their eyes had been opened to a truth from which they could not fully return. They’ve seen life (Reality!) the way it really is and the knowledge of it, whether the ecstasy hits again or not, has painted the world in different colors.
Our gospel story of the transfiguration reminds me of these more modern mystical moments. Those three disciples up on the mountain top, and we the readers, get a glimpse of the reality behind all the preaching and teaching and healing and feeding and challenging and forgiving and living and loving and dying and rising that Jesus does. As Peter sputters out an ill-conceived response to the vision before him a cloud overshadows them and the voice of God thunders, “This is my son, my chosen one. Listen to him.” Peter and the others cower. They are overcome by awe. But when the dust settles and the clouds blow away, there’s Jesus, standing alone, looking just like the Jesus they have known and followed for all this time. Except now, they are silent. There are no words for what they have witnessed. Now they know, this same old Jesus has always been, and always will be, more than they have known.
The epiphany doesn’t last for the disciples either. Back down that mountain they go, and when they get there they return from the extraordinary to the all-too familiar. Right back they go into the mire of human pain and suffering and the vain attempts of the well-intended to do what cannot be done. “Teacher, I beg you. Take a look at my son, my only son,” the man cries out as a spirit throws the boy to the ground and shakes him. Jesus responds, “You faithless and crooked generation, how long will I be with you and put up with you?”
The response seems harsh. Is he upset with the man, who’s yet another voice of need in an endless sea of needs? Is he upset with the disciples, who tried but failed to heal the boy? I’ve read theories for both, but the best theory, I think, is that he’s simply upset. He’s upset at the brokenness. He’s upset at the pain. He’s upset that this is the way life is. A little boy shouldn’t be so bothered. Extreme need shouldn’t be so bountiful. And our human efforts to care and cure shouldn’t be so limited. This “faithless and crooked” generation that he calls out is essentially a God-blind and broken world, a world that needs a savior, but in the end will reject him. “Bring your son here,” Jesus says, knowing the truth of things that shone on the mountain top as well as the dark reality of the cross that awaits him.
I’ve had a handful of theophanies myself. While none of them has been as ecstatic as the one from William James, each has had a similarly humbling and empowering effect. (I’m not sure if I’ve shared this with you before or not.) I was in my seminary dorm room, agonizing over a decision that felt to me to be utterly crucial. How I went with this one would change my life forever. Yet, despite my fervent praying God offered no guidance at all. This, after a while, upset me because it was the kind of thing God ought to care about. So, stuck in indecision and angry with God for not doing his job, I sat in the middle of my room and I told God I wasn’t moving until God showed up and made matters clear. “And, for the record God, you need to be clear – no subtle hints, no gentle nudgings!” I don’t know how long I sat there, but something remarkable eventually happened. God came. The room filled up with love. I felt myself surrounded by love, wrapped in it, and suddenly peaceful. God did not answer my question or solve my problem. But, interestingly, after the moment faded, my question didn’t feel so important anymore. The world, somehow, had been colored differently.
The story of the Transfiguration appears in Matthew and Mark as well, but only Luke’s version shares the detail about the disciples nearly missing the entire experience. As Jesus, Elijah, and Moses shine bright with the glory of God, Luke says, “Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.” Remarkably, or so it might seem, staying awake in the midst of this holy moment when the veil between heaven and earth is lifted, was a challenge, even for this select group of disciples.
It’s a strange detail for Luke to include, but I wonder if we might make something of it. The church, I believe, all of God’s people have since the beginning found wakefulness to be a challenge. We are all, fairly regularly, in the position of missing the miracle of God in the moment. For example, was I loved – wrapped in God’s love – only in that dorm room moment of real need? Or, is that love really there, wrapping me (wrapping us all) all of the time? We are, for whatever reason, sleepy to the glory around us and sleepy to the greater miracle that God wills for that glory to shine in and through us.
To a certain degree, of course, we are at God’s mercy here. We can no more control divine revelation than we can the wind. However, we can cling to the veil-lifting moments that we’ve had; we can let them remind us of the greater truth; we can hear the call to wakefulness; and we can devote ourselves to its practice. That, after all, is exactly what this coming season of Lent is for.
[i] William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience,” New York: The Modern Library, 1936, page 66.