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I remember the first time I ever put on swimming goggles and dipped my head below the surface of the ocean to look at a tropical
reef. I was so struck by the cacophony of colors, the iridescent profusion of fish, the wondrous patterns of corals and sponges
and anemones -- I started to laugh underwater. It seemed like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
And then to remind myself of the contrast, I climbed up out of the water. I looked down to where I had just been swimming.
With the refraction of sun and sky and the turbulence of the waves, it only appeared to be an uninteresting shadowy gray rocky
formation below the beauty of the rolling sea. I never knew before, what wonders lay just below the surface. It seemed to
me like God had saved the most extravagant paints from the divine palette and assigned them to an angel with the spirit of
Monet to color the floor of the ocean. The beauty takes my breath away.
There are moments when it seems like something falls away, and we see deeper, below the surface of everyday attention,
and we get a glimpse of an unseen beauty and wonder that seems to expand our consciousness. Those moments can be so full
that they seem self-authenticating.
Peter, James and John were with their friend Jesus on a mountain. Something happened, and it seemed like Jesus glowed
with a dazzling light. What we know is that for a moment, these friends saw more deeply into the reality of Jesus than they
had before. The saw more clearly into his deeper identity as God's Son. And then it passed, and they weren't sure what to
do with what they had experienced.
I have an acquaintance, Earl, who takes hikes with his wife. She is an amateur botanist and a rather outgoing extrovert.
On their hikes, she likes to point out things to Earl and tell him their botanical Latin names. They were walking along a
mountain path one day, she a couple of steps in front, when suddenly Earl was grasped by a small violet blooming by the side
of the trail. For a moment, everything stopped. It was as though the little flower had seized all of Earl's attention.
He saw its velvet texture, the complex network of veins feeding the earth's nurture into every molecule of the plant, the
rich variation of colors. It seemed like nearly every shade of the color wheel was present in the subtle hues of this small
flower. All was silent. All was still. It was like everything in creation had been concentrated in the beauty and being
of this little plant.
Then, like a blink it was over. His wife was several yards ahead of him on the path, still talking and pointing things
out to him. The violet had shrunk into its place as a small, inconspicuous flower on the side of a large mountain. "Honey,
what's this flower?" "Oh, that's a..." and she gave the Latin name for it. "It's a common variety of
mountain violet." But for Earl, the air fairly tingled with some alive possibilities for some time.
I remember watching my daughter Allison play soccer during those early years when kids play "herd-ball." You
know how it is, when all of the players crowd around the ball trying to kick it, little legs and feet all in one big jumble.
Away from the herd and the ball and the action of the game, on the far side, Allison ran across the field with joyful abandon,
her hair flying behind her, running as though she were filled with delight at the simple freedom to run. To me, she looked
so happy, so beautiful, so free. The image is permanently fixed in my emotional memory. Several times when the complications
of growing up left her appearing not so beautiful and not so free to my eyes, that memory could remind me of who she really
is.
Who hasn't been moved by the peaceful beauty of a child asleep in a crib. Or felt the privilege of watching the little
signs of love shared between a couple that you may not even know. Or been surprised by the joy of a butterfly that suddenly
interrupts whatever is happening, adding a lightness and spontaneous beauty that seems to stop time for a second.
We were at dinner with some friends the other night, and our hostess was having so much fun putting together the complicated
elements of the meal. Her excitement and joy was a contagious energy that seemed to trail behind her as she worked.
These moments seem to me glimpses of Transfiguration, when the veil is lifted, and for a moment we see below the ordinary
surface into the wondrous depths of unseen realities around us. It is seeing with the eyes of the artist, the poet or the
saint. Life is glorious. Or as Gerard Manley Hopkins writes, "And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives
the dearest freshness deep down things." (from God's Grandeur)
It is possible to open our awareness of this "dearest freshness deep down things." It takes a bit of willingness
and expectation. Artists see deeply because they are looking. Poets hear deeply because they are listening. We typically
see and hear whatever we expect to see and hear. What are your expectations? What might it take to suspend your expectations
just a bit?
Ken Kaisch is an Episcopal priest who was raised in Alaska, where on some days the sun shines only a few hours each day.
One day in elementary school his teacher asked the children, "Class, what color is the snow?" Thinking her question
a little daft they all answered, "The snow is white." "No, class. The snow is not white. What color is the
snow?" Now that caused a little confusion for the class, because their teacher was a good one, and usually knew what
she was talking about. But here she was, telling them that snow wasn't white. Her credibility was at stake.
Then, a quiet girl, the artistic one in the class piped up from the back. "You're right. The snow isn't white.
It's purple." Shocked jaws dropped. Purple? They all looked out their window simultaneously. And that's when Ken
saw it. The snow was purple. And others saw it too. They started shouting. Lavender. Pink. Gray. The snow wasn't white.
It was lots of colors. Ken said his walk home that day was a wondrous one, full of colors and amazement he had never seen
before.
We will celebrate baptisms this morning at our 11:00 service. Some people who are willing and awake to the possibility
may see the heavens open and the spirit of God descending upon the baptized like a dove, and a voice from heaven saying, "This
is my child; my beloved." They might remember that same thing happening to them at their own baptism, and they might
feel embraced as God's own beloved child.
We will break bread and share wine this morning. Some people who are willing and awake will sense the presence of the
risen Christ and feel themselves to be nurtured on his divine life, renewed and forgiven, and made one with heaven and with
all humanity.
Some people observe that most folks are doing about the best they can most of the time, given the limitations of our human
finite creatureliness. Some others observe that we are fallen, selfish creatures who will walk a false path whenever it is
presented. Each will probably see what they expect to see. What do you expect to see?
For just a moment, Peter and James and John glimpsed into a deeper reality about their friend Jesus. I wonder what they
did with that, back again when the four of them were fishing or walking from town to town. Did they sustain that memory as
a deeper sense of reality, or did they dismiss it as an odd anomaly, the product of their overactive imaginations?
Look around you. Every person here is a glorious beloved child of God, filled with the Holy Spirit, and grafted into
the Body of the Transfigured Christ. You are simply glowing with the fire of divine life. Can you see it? Class, snow is
not white. People are not just people. Bread and wine are not just bread and wine. Just under the surface, there is something
more dazzling than a tropical reef. Divine life is being expressed in the creaturely. Will you be weighed down with sleep,
or will you see the glory, "the dearest freshness deep down things"?
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