So, I've not posted in almost a year...I'm lazy.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen
A few weeks ago, when I had been here for a week or two, I was wandering around and enjoying the beauty of St Simon’s windows. In the sanctuary, I stopped at the large window behind me, depicting the crucifixion. It was created from an unusual angle, looking up from the side, rather than directly on Christ as he hung from the cross. In my mind’s eye, I imagined who might have had that viewpoint of Christ as he hung dying. St John? Christ’s mother, Mary? Fr Ralph mentioned to me then that the Christmas tree is displayed near that window, and he had reflected on the juxtaposition of the tree representing Christ’s birth growing next to the window illustrating His death. I’ve been thinking, lately, of just those juxtapositions in the story of Christ’s life, when life is coupled with death, doubt with hope, revelation with missing the point, and like in Christ’s transfiguration in the Gospel today: divine glory with foretelling of ignoble death.
On January 6, we celebrated the great feast of the church that lends its name to the entire season that follows it: Epiphany. On that day, we were mesmerized by a bright alluring star, and mesmerized by the Magi whom that star had coerced to leave their homes in the East. Today closes the season that those Magi inaugurated. The trip of those Mai is summarized in only a few verses, namely as they achieved their ultimate destination in Bethlehem, but their trip surely lasted weeks. What were they thinking as they crossed difficult terrain, in pursuit of what must have seemed like such a tiny new glow far from their homes? How sure of themselves were they as they trekked to the west? What if they were wrong? What if they had made a mistake? How many times did doubts arise and how many times had they questioned during their long journey whether all their trouble would be worth what they hoped to find at the star’s resting place? Imagine how weary they were, crossing barren and lonely desert, hoping against hope that their mission would be fruitful. The Gospel speaks of the Magi’s success and joy, but that success and joy was only a result of the unmentioned struggle and hardship they endured to achieve it. So, this is the juxtaposition of Epiphany: the entire season is named for their success, for their wonder and amazement; might it also be named for their doubt and insecurity, for their perseverance in the face of difficulties and contradictory desires? This Sunday is the last Sunday in the season of Epiphany, and our Gospel today, then, points back to their work and travel to Bethlehem, least among the villages of Judah. Our Gospel today, as Christ is transfigured on Tabor, is the last Epiphany in the season.
Our story of Christ today in the Gospel, like the Epiphany story, includes brilliant light. Instead of a hovering star glowing above an infant Christ, now, on Mt Tabor, Christ Himself is the star. The Magi came as Gentiles, and received the news that God had taken on a body of flesh, and appeared as an infant, with the star pointing and leading the Gentile Magi to come and worship. On Mt Tabor, Christ does not reveal Himself to Gentiles as God to be worshiped as he did with the Magi as an infant: on Tabor, Christ reveals Himself to his apostles, sons of the chosen people, as God to be worshipped. Christ’s first Epiphany to the Gentile Magi is perfected by his epiphany now to the Chosen people, as light to be followed, amidst difficulties and doubts, searing deserts and an almost painful expectation of joy. Six days earlier, as the Gospel today recounts, Peter had confessed Christ to be the Messiah. On Tabor, Christ confirms that He is Messiah, and that the Messiah is God enfolded in human flesh.
It’s pretty clear that Peter didn’t get the point. He was overwhelmed by the events, almost babbling, and clearly not coherent. Upon seeing Christ glowing, attended by the great Jewish heroes, Moses and Elijah, instead of falling down in worship and awe, Peter offers to put up tents. Maybe the moment was so great that he wanted it to last forever, and so he offered to put up tents in order to make this epiphany on Tabor permanent. But permanent things have a tendency to be fixed, Peter. Permanent things do not grow; permanent things do not change; permanent things are not Transfigured things. And Peter was never the best at change, it seems. So, no tents were built, and Moses and Elijah went away. The transfigured Christ became his everyday self again, and the Transfiguration was over. But the change was not yet completed. As they left the mountain, Christ told them that they were not to speak of what they had seen until He had risen from the dead. And here is the juxtaposition in the transfiguration: the White Christ, shining in supernatural and terrible light, returns to his normal life and then speaks of his death. What a contrast: the divine Christ who converses with the giants of the Jewish past would be crushed in death.
The transfiguration is always the last Gospel every year as Epiphany ends and Lent begins. It is a bridge that leads us and connects us to both glory and horror. During Epiphany, we are reminded both of the cradle and of the cross, and particularly in the Transfiguration, we witness the resplendent God who shines through His human body and reveals his glory. But in the midst of His shining through, He speaks of His death. The transfiguration concludes Epiphany, and inaugurates Lent.
During Lent, we will hear of temptation, of opposition, of suffering, pain, bleeding sweat, whipping, betrayals, and crucified flesh. And then. There’s always an And then. After the suffering, the pain, the death, and then there is glory. After the blood and the whipping and the betrayals of Lent, and then there is the resplendent Christ, clothed in light like on Mt Tabor. The and then of Epiphany is Christ’s death, but the And then of Lent is Christ’ s resurrection.
The life of Christ is a series of And thens: no joy is not coupled with sorrow and no pain is not followed by glory. But this is not just a pattern in Christ’s life: it’s our story, too. How many times in our own lives have we witnessed good come from a defeat? I might lose my job, but then realize I want to do something completely different, anyway, and never would have taken the initiative to pursue my dream, had I not been encountered by the need to. You might be wrapped up in the joy of having a new baby, which leads you to reflect on others who lack joy in their lives, and to pray for the joyless. Our victories and successes are always balanced by sobering truths: no matter how accomplished, wealthy, admired I might be, I too will grow old, sicken, and pass the way of all flesh. And no matter how sick, weak, and less autonomous I become as I age, I will pass into glory, prepare for me since the foundation of the world. As a church, we may wring our hands, wondering why fewer each year turn toward the church for support and the living of a common life in faith. We may think that these are the darkest of times, and we may wonder if we will see in our own lifetimes the end of our tradition and if across our nation, no church will remain open. But these dark thoughts must be coupled with faith in Christ and his work in the world as Lord of the Church: the Church has suffered worse challenges, and the Christ who was transfigured on Tabor is the one who guides the Church, and who will shepherd its ultimate end, all for the greater glory. No worry or horror is without hope, and no success or triumph will last forever, and the challenges we face as individuals, as a community, and as a nation will end. Each Christmas morning must be eventually followed by Calvary’s afternoon. And every sealed tomb, will, in turn, burst forth again in new life. Lent is not separated and disconnected from Epiphany. Actually, in the Transfiguration glory is coupled with a prediction of suffering, and we see that Lent is Epiphany’s natural progression.
How well, then, do we accept and embrace the transfigurations in our own lives? When the things to which we’ve grown accustomed shake off their earthly appearance and display their divine nature, how frequently do we take notice? Transfigurations happen everyday to us. But do we notice them everyday? Elisha witnessed a transfiguration, and immediately accepted and allowed himself to be changed by accepting that Elijah was leaving him, and that things would not be the same. And Peter? He struggled with transfiguration, and had difficulty with thinking that Christ could be something other than what Peter had experienced Christ as. Peter fumbled when he witnessed Christ shining as God, and he stumbled when he heard Christ foretell his death. Peter may not have wanted Christ as a gloriously shining God and may not have wanted Christ as a dead body. He wanted Christ as the teacher and friend he knew; Peter was comfortable with that Christ, and any transfigured Christ disturbed him.
Don’t we find, sometimes, that we do not want to be transfigured, and don’t want transfiguration touching our lives? As we have seen, transfiguration is disrupting, can be painful, and requires change. I know that I rail against change sometimes and can feel that the stress and struggle that are part of transfiguration might be too much. Maybe the Magi wanted to give up. Peter certainly struggled with it for quite a while. But each time we accept that God works to transfigure us, works to make our sorrows joyful and works to ground us in times of plenty, each time we work with God in our own Transfiguration, we, too, shine like Christ on Mt Tabor. Rarely do we get to see it, and never do we get to build tents and bask in it forever. But radiant light shines out of each of us, through the tiniest of cracks, and we can just catch a glimpse of the divine glory in all of our neighbors, in the person kneeling next to you at the communion rail or in front f you at Wegman’s. It’s hard, sometimes to see that light of Tabor in those around us. But nothing changes the fact that it’s there. We are a transfigured people, and need to work diligently at becoming a transfiguring people, who accept change as growth, and are never afraid of the growing darkness of night, of storm clouds and distant thunder. Our Christ is the White Christ, resplendent and glorious, who underwent all pain in order to transfer to us all glory. In the crib under the Star of Bethlehem at Epiphany, shining with Moses and Elijah on Mt Tabor, and hanging from the tree and gasping lowly, Christ is Transfigured and invites us to accept our own Transfiguration.
Amen.
2 comments:
I like how you teach through your sermons. People are so starved for liturgical teaching these days, and I find that when it is done as part of the sermon, folks really pay attention. I also like how you have connected the entire Epiphany season as a forerunner to Lent. Finally, your imagery of the window at the beginning is good . . . as a newcomer, you probably showed some of the older members something about their church they had forgotten, which can actually be a very profound discovery for people in the pews--something which makes them feel proud again.
I have to second Father Paul on the connection of Epiphany with Lent, another great interpretation of Lent that I've never considered. Now here's my own "And then..." It's always difficult to read sermons when you know it is meant to be heard from the pulpit. As a result some constructive criticism may be misplaced because the reader is adding their own flow. I do think you could've taken the opportunity to bring it back to something personal or analogous to our lives. As a analogy man myself, I understand better when your analysis is applied in examples that I can easily digest. But, the basis of this is analysis, and I think that you've done a great job in deciphering the Biblical text. Oh, and I liked the image of the three dudes following a faint light for weeks in contrast to three wise kings following a bright star.
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