Now
that you probably don’t ever want to go hiking with me, let’s all admit one
thing: It’s scary when we start to slip, isn’t it? When we lose control of our
lives? When the world around us is so full of change that there's nothing to
hold onto? When our leaders and time-tested principles fail? When the truth no
longer holds us steady? Most of us don't like that at all, do we? At times like
that, we might even ask God to step in and get things under control for us. We
often long for a God who will hold us upright when life gets topsy-turvy. We
pray for God to keep us from falling on our metaphorical bottoms. But sometimes
it's God who challenges us to change. Sometimes it's a glimpse of God that
turns us upside down and sends us careening into unfamiliar places.
That's
what happens in today's Gospel lesson. Look at this icon of the
Transfiguration. Here’s Jesus standing glorious and powerful in his white robes, shining like the sun. So far, so good. Here’s Moses, the
mighty lawgiver, and Elijah, the brave prophet, standing proudly on either side
of him. How wonderful! But where are Jesus's disciples, James, Peter, and John?
They aren't standing with Jesus on the heights in this image. They didn't get
to build a cozy dwelling up there on the mountain. They weren’t permitted to huddle
safely with Jesus, like Peter wanted to do. Look at them lying sprawled out on
the ground quite a way back down the mountain. They look as if they have been
physically thrown down from the higher slopes. Talk about slipping and sliding!
What
is it about seeing Jesus filled with light that sends the disciples sliding
down the mountain, dignity and control clearly abandoned? If the light
surrounding Jesus is just a sign that Jesus is the Son of God, what's the big
surprise? They've already seen him cure the sick and drive out demons. Why
would a bit of light have pushed them over the edge?
What
Jesus' early Jewish followers knew that we don't, is that this scene on the
mountain is revolutionary. According to the Hebrew Scriptures, Moses and Elijah
never died. Instead, they were both taken straight up to heaven by God. If
Moses and Elijah are standing with Jesus on this mountain, then that means that
the disciples must be witnessing a vision of heaven itself. For a brief moment,
heaven and earth are one. God’s Dream for the world has come true in this
moment. The disciples realize that they are glimpsing the New Creation, the
longed-for Reign of God.
But
that's not all. The white clothes that appear on Jesus are a symbol for the
Glory of God. God's Glory is the powerful, awe-inspiring manifestation of God’s
presence that goes before God into the world. In the Hebrew Bible, God’s Glory
is too dangerously powerful for humans to see it and live. Remember the Exodus story,
when God covers Moses’ face with God’s hand as God’s Glory passes by. Even Moses,
as faithful as he is, can only dare to look at God’s backside. But now, on this
mountain, Jesus is radiating God's Glory for everyone to see. Here,
we see the Glory of Almighty God shining in all of its fullness through a human
body. Eternity is appearing in human flesh. Divine love and grace are pouring
forth into the world through Jesus.
What
does this sight mean for us today? I like the way our Eastern Orthodox brothers
and sisters put it. They believe that the light that poured through Jesus at
the Transfiguration still pours into us today. They describe God’s Glory as a
kind of Energy, a kind of Light that constantly streams forth from God’s hidden Essence. This Light is a
gift of the Spirit. It's found everywhere but can only be seen through matter,
the "stuff" of this world. Think of the way in which music pours through
musicians while they are performing. In making music, musicians are carried on
the tide of an energy. They are lifted by a great current of music that is
becoming present and immediate in their actions.[1]
When God’s energy fills us, it doesn’t change who we are, but it fills us with
a power that allows who we truly are to shine forth—it’s our “beloved-ness”
that beams.
Eastern
Orthodox Christians call the process of being filled with God's light
“deification,” becoming God. Such language might make us uncomfortable. “Becoming
God” is just for Jesus, we think. This deification isn't something that we get
from being perfect, though. It's not even something that we can earn for
ourselves by our good deeds. It's something that we open ourselves up to in
prayer.
I
was excited to hear today’s opening song, which I had never heard before I put
it in our slide presentation. The choir sings: “Thou, O Lord, art a shield about
me. You're my glory. You're the lifter of my head.” I will bet you that this song
comes from a Pentecostal tradition, rather than from our Anglican one. That’s
because the Pentecostals, like the Orthodox, understand Glory. They know that
it is God’s Glory shining in us that takes away our shame, that “lifts our
heads." When Jesus is transfigured on that mountain, beloved community
becomes possible here on earth. Beloved community becomes possible because the
shame that causes us to hide from one another, the shame that pushes us to
judge and condemn one another, the shame that deforms all of our relationships,
melts in God’s burning love. We can lift our heads. We can see God’s Glory. We
can see Christ in one another.
When
I was in college, buried in grades and ambition and papers to write, I had my
own transfiguration experience. One day, I wandered from my fancy liberal arts
college through the Tennessee woods into an Appalachian Headstart Center. And
there the innocent blue eyes of a three-year-old pierced my heart. Those eyes
were so clear, so imploring, so wise, that I saw God's Light in them. I saw the
truth in them. I saw that children matter. All children. And my world
shook, and I slid down the mountain, never again free from the responsibility
that that light laid upon my heart.
Indeed. The
trouble with seeing the world lit up by the Energy of God is that it means that
we are not the ones in control of the world. God’s Energy shifts the
boundaries. It makes us vulnerable. It charges our environment with possibilities
we don’t even know about.[2]
For Jesus and the disciples, those possibilities include crucifixion and death.
For us, those possibilities mean lives uprooted, beliefs overturned. They mean
sliding backwards down the mountain, arms held up in surrender. Transfiguration
does indeed rob us of our balance and destroy our sense of control.
Today,
it is my prayer that we can welcome God’s painfully powerful Energy in us, in
our world, and in our parish, even when it opens doors that we would prefer to
close. Even when it breaks down walls that we would prefer to maintain. It is
my prayer that God’s Energy will open us, not merely to change, but to divine
transfiguration.
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