Today is the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, the end of this season which caps off Advent and Christmas. It is the last Sunday we will be hearing or saying the word “Alleluia” until Easter. It is the last Sunday before Lent — which is quite late this year in case you hadn’t noticed — begins on Wednesday.
Today, the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, we always hear the same story whether from Matthew’s Gospel as we do today, or Mark’s or Luke’s. It is the story of Jesus going up Mt Tabor with three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John and being “transfigured” in their presence. This event is viewed by many as a foreshadowing of another mount Jesus will ascend on the other end of Lent, namely Mount Calvary where he dies only to be eternally transfigured. This story gives us a glimpse of what is to come.
Whenever I encounter stories of supernatural occurrences, like this one, in the Bible I tend to leave the question “what actually happened” in that space of faith and mystery, hoping that one day God will explain it all to me. Instead I choose to focus not so much on the actual events (did Moses and Elijah literally appear alongside Jesus? Did a literal voice come out of a cloud and actually speak those audible words in a deep baritone voice “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased, listen to him”?). I focus rather on the truth that this particular narrative points to, the truth that is contained within it.
So what is the truth within this narrative, what truth is contained in the story of Jesus’ ascending a mountain with three of his disciples, being transfigured in their presence, being seen along with the two giants of the Hebrew scriptures: Moses representing the Law and Elijah representing the Prophets? What truth do the words “this is my Son, my beloved with whom I am well pleased, listen to him” point to?
These questions and the setting of today’s story being on top of a mountain brings to my mind a quote I once heard: “There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but if we try to take them all we will never get there.” I believe that. I honor other ways of experiencing God, other faith traditions. I do know though, that for me, the path I choose to follow to get to the mountaintop is the path of following Jesus Christ. Listening to him, as that “voice” said from the cloud. Because in Jesus Christ the divine entered fully into human experience, becoming one of us. Living as one of us, dying as one of us, and then taking our experience one step further by transforming death once and for all. Rising to new, eternal, resurrected life giving full credence to the words he spoke to his disciples on Mt. Tabor that day: “…do not be afraid.”
I follow Jesus Christ to the top of the mountain because he gives meaning to the minutiae of my everyday life. Because the path to the top of the mountain both articulated and lived by Jesus involves engaging completely with our human condition. Pulling meaning out of pain and suffering.
I know that through Jesus Christ the divine is fully present in my goings out and comings in, the drudgery of washing dishes as well as the joy of an evening well spent with friends. I know that through him the divine is fully present in meetings and mix-ups, in the chaotic as well as the comedic. I know that through Jesus Christ the divine is fully present with me not only when I have moment of brilliance, but also when I totally blow it. And I know, as the old hymn says, that “because he lives, I can face tomorrow.”
But today’s story, the story of Jesus going up the mountain with three of his friends and suddenly being changed in their presence also gives credence to another human experience. And strengthens my belief that there is ultimately meaning and purpose and hope both within and beyond this life we’re all living.
Have you ever had an experience, if even for a fleeting moment, when you suddenly see things with new eyes? Suddenly “get” the bigger picture — or at least have a flash that there actually is a bigger picture? An experience, a moment perhaps, when everything aligns, when perhaps you’re flooded with a profound sense of love or joy or gratitude? An aha moment when instead of seeing the tangled knots on the back of a tapestry you, metaphorically speaking at least, get a glimpse of the beautiful front of that tapestry and are overwhelmed with a sense of “ah — so this is what it’s all about!”
I have a friend whom I’ve now known for almost 30 years (one of the joys of getting older is being able to say things like “whom I’ve known for almost 30 years”!). He has a painting that I love contemplating whenever I visit his house. Most of the painting doesn’t make a whole lot of sense– it is dark, brown and rusty looking, and filled with random objects: gears and bolts and other random bits of rusting tools. But throughout the painting there are little areas where it’s as if someone had ripped a piece of the canvas to reveal what actually lies behind the random darkness. The small torn areas reveal a brilliant blue sky with small puffs of clouds. A land beyond the imagination of what the rest of the painting depicts.
For me this is what happened when Jesus and his friends went to the top of Mt. Tabor: The canvas was torn to reveal the incredible beauty and sense and order beyond the chaos and confusion of their daily lives. It was an enhanced “aha” moment when suddenly it all made sense, suddenly there was a glimpse into the eternal and that glimpse was good. That glimpse was followed by Jesus’ words “…do not be afraid.”
Do not be afraid. The one through whom the divine is very present in our everyday goings out and comings in is also present in the great unknown beyond this life. He will be there also as we cross the threshold into that realm beyond this life as well. On Mt. Tabor that day Peter, James, and John had a glimpse of that eternal Presence, just as we are given those glimpses at certain moments throughout our own lives. Today’s story simply gives us the vocabulary to understand and describe them.
There is a hymn we sing every year during our annual Art Show mass. It’s not in our hymnal, which is why we probably don’t sing it more often. But the words, for me, capture the essence of what happened on Mt. Tabor that day, what happens each time we get a glimpse of the Big Picture in which our daily goings out and comings in, if even for a moment, suddenly take on new meaning, new sense. It has roots in the early days of the Quaker movement and two of the verses are as follows:
My life flows on in endless song;
Above earth’s lamentation,
I hear the sweet, tho’ far-off hymn
That hails a new creation;
Thro’ all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul—
How can I keep from singing?
I lift my eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it;
And day by day this pathway smooths,
Since first I learned to love it;
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing;
All things are mine since I am his—
How can I keep from singing?
AMEN.