The Transfiguration of Our Lord

"The Transfiguration of Christ" by Carl Bloch, 1872

 Even with the record warmth this week, we know winter is not yet over. There’s snow and cold to come—but we can feel the warmth in the sun. We can see the longer light in the evenings. We know that spring is not far off as we make the turn into Lent this week, the very name coming from the word “lengthen.”

And so we are brought to today, the end of the church season of Epiphany, a funny word, but one that indicates a season at play between darkness and light. What  we have heard in the scriptures read through Epiphany these past 6 weeks is a gradual unveiling of the light of Christ. A revelation has been happening, like a drape that is being pulled aside so we can see the light inside the house. Until--boom! Today. The last stop on the light train--a mountaintop experience, a final ray of sunshine. The Transfiguration of Our Lord marks a bright burst of explosively blinding light before we enter the times of Lent and Holy Week.                     

As a day in the Church Year, Transfiguration ranks right up there in importance with Christmas and Easter, Pentecost and Ash Wednesday. But it is never celebrated like those days. You would search in vain for a Hallmark card marking the occasion, and you would even be hard up to find one in a Christian book store, if you can even find one of those anymore. You know why? Because this is one very strange story. I’ve always thought we should enter Transfiguration Sunday with the theme music from the Twilight Zone bouncing around in our head. It is just that weird. Ready? Here’s the story:                                                             

Jesus takes Peter, James and John to a mountain, probably Mount Tabor in Gallilee. These are the same three disciples who will go with him to the Garden of Gethsemane the night before his death. And before their very eyes, Jesus is “transfigured.” His clothing becomes dazzling white, “as white as the light,” and his face matches the sun. As this happens, the two greatest prophets ever known to Israel—Moses and Elijah—appear and talk with Jesus. These two are the only two other people–-according to the Hebrew scripture–who had experiences even remotely similar to this one. They’re here to talk with Jesus.                                               

This “talking” with Jesus is where the theme music becomes more dramatic. In St. Luke's account of this story,  Moses and Elijah “discuss” with Jesus his “departure.” “Which,” Luke says, “he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem.” That means his crucifixion, his “departure” to be fulfilled in Jerusalem.         

Mark’s gospel doesn’t mention that “departure,” and neither does Matthew.Here Moses and Elijah merely “talk” with Jesus, but it is out there, his “departure” standing there in the background, a lurking shadow cast on everything.

          Now, Peter lurches into his motor-mouth mode and says something random about building little booths or dwellings, part of the custom for the Jewish Festival of Booths that was going on when this event happened. Then a cloud covers them all and a voice speaks; more Twilight Zone music. “This is my Son; listen to him.”       

And then it is done. Retelling the story to you just now probably took more time than the encounter itself. Weird. What a weird story. And to make stuff even weirder, Jesus warns the three disciples to say nothing about it until the Son of Man is raised from death.  

It is hard to know what this Transfiguration means, except to say, of course, it has something to do with the light of God’s presence, unveiled in Jesus Christ. But actually, there is something grand going on here. We just have to dig at it a little.                                                                                                                                   

So stick with me. We are in chapter seventeen of the Gospel of Matthew. By this time, the enemies and opponents of Jesus are growing and gathering strength. They are conspiring, plotting his elimination. If he comes to Jerusalem, they will kill him.  Jesus’ name had come to the attention of the Roman authorities and that is never a good thing for a Jew. The Romans were always nervous about any Jew who attracted large crowds. So, come to think, was everyone with any sort of authority, Gentile or Jew. Crowds are upsetting. Crowds are dangerous. Crowds might start riots.

It is against this backdrop that the Transfiguration takes place.  Up on the mountain, there where humanity has always sought to reach God, and there Jesus was in safe retreat—up and away from all of it. Away from security checks, the poverty and disease in the villages; away from the crowds that pestered him for just one more miracle—up and away from his argumentative opponents, up and away and safe.                                                

But he does not stay there. The journey down from the mountain was a journey to his “departure,” his crucifixion. And instead of the creepy Twilight Zone music, or some peaceful new age music for resting in the mountaintop retreat, here is a different music playing. As Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem, the prophetic gift of myrrh at his birth will find fulfillment, as that old Epiphany hymn comes to life:

Myrrh I bring, its bitter perfume

breathes a life of gathering gloom.

Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding,  dying

sealed in a stone cold tomb.

When Peter offers to build three dwellings for the festival, isn’t that just another temptation—a temptation to stay to stay up and above and away from everything else below? The human temptation is always to get away from it all. Away from the headlines, the bad news, the big sad things we confront, things that undermine our own sense of security and safety and peace for ourselves, our children, for everyone.   

We all just want to get through life with as few scars as possible, but we are consumed by our study, our work, our businesses, our marriages, our children, our doubts, our fears. Some of us are hounded by thick bills and thin billfolds. Some of us confront coming grief, lingering sorrow. Some of us struggle with long sickness of heart or mind. Some of us swim in shame. There are many to whom the hour of death draws near.               

Wouldn’t you like to step into a little of that light for yourself right now, shining on some place far away and safe? Wouldn't it be nice if we could just all have that mountaintop event, that uplifting experience? Lots of people turn to the Church, wanting to be constantly uplifted, stimulated, restored--even entertained. Upbeat music, enlightening preachers, worship that makes us feel good--we can just forget our cares and be at peace.

But, when it becomes obvious that everything from the denomination to the pastor, to the people to the music to the church year and lectionary is just as ordinary as you are, and when it just seems like the same old thing, year in and year out,  you might wonder why you bother. Lots of people have. They want to build booths in the light, not camp out in the dark.                                                               

But we actually live in the valley of the shadow of death. Light is sometimes hard to come by. Where is my light for the darkness I fear ahead? Where is my mountaintop experience? I want to be inspired and revived and be able to feel like a real Christian and really trust God! How come I never see any light? It's been a hard winter, so very many people in our community are suffering, and now we're heading back into Lent, with its somber themes, and come ON--can't we just get a little light?          

Do you remember, or have you been told, how at your Baptism a community prayed over you, that your light would shine for people everywhere that you might be like Jesus? How they prayed for you that, no matter what comes, no matter what happens in your life, you are marked with the sign of the cross and sealed by the Holy Spirit forever?

How that same group of people told you that you belong to God, and that you are loved and cherished by God, no matter what names you get called by the world and those who dislike you? How Jesus walks with you in the darkness, especially when it's really, really dark? How the light is always with you, even when you can't see it?                                                                                      

You need light, you got it. It's in the most ordinary of places: bread, wine, water. Here. You can't stay in this place, but you can take the light with you into the darkness out there. Into the valley of the shadow of death. Into the daily, ordinary life. Into the winter’s cold that will not last forever.                              

And with that Jesus says to you no more and no less than what he said to Peter, James and John: Get up. And do not be afraid. Amen.