(Luke 9:28-36) -- About eight days after Jesus had foretold his death and resurrection, Jesus took with him Peter and
John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his
clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were
speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with
sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him,
Peter said to Jesus, "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses,
and one for Elijah"--not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they
were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen
to him!" When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of
the things they had seen.
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There are moments when something catches our attention with
enough power that we stop whatever agenda we may have, and we become fully present -- focused and expansive -- open to an
encounter with reality at its depths.
Dee Eisenhauer, a U.C.C. minister, remembers this from a college retreat
in Montana. During the afternoon free time, I climbed up to a high place, a little
grassy area on the side of an enormous mountain. For some reason, with all that expansiveness surrounding -- valley
below, mountain peaks above -- I became fascinated with the complexity of the close view of a little two-foot square area
of ground. I spent a long time just noticing fully everything that was living in that tiny patch of earth and
it was amazing . I found a tiny little thing, about the size of three grains of rice stuck together, that was
a pure, luminous amber color.
I picked it up, thinking it was a
rock or a gem, and then was overcome with the sudden understanding that it was alive . It was extremely mysterious,
unbelievably beautiful, this tiny, radiant unidentifiable living golden thing. Words can’t really express
what it meant to me; it was a sign of holy mystery hidden in the world, revealed to the attentive, but not fully comprehendible.
I lost the golden thingy as soon as I had absorbed the wonder of it. Of course I lost it; you can’t bring
something like that back into the real world. ...But all these years I have carried the memory of it like a diamond in the
pocket of my heart. It rides there, sparkling, whispering, “Don’t try to tell me there is no God.
My eyes have seen the glory.” (from her sermon, "A Diamond in the Pocket of Your Heart," 2/6/05;
Eagle Harbor Congregational Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington)
I think that kind of thing that happens to all
of us from time to time. The artists and poets among us seem more conscious of these possibilities. But I'm
convinced that Transfiguration moments happen to everyone. Moments when the veil tears apart, and we glimpse an inner
reality that hints at the transcendent possibilities within all creation. A few years ago our parishioners collected
our memories of Transfiguration moments into a booklet that we printed and shared on this feast day.
There are
several other kinds of Transfiguration events that some scientists have researched. Psychologist William R. Miller
has spent nearly twenty years studying what he called "quantum change" -- "a vivid, surprising, benevolent,
and enduring personal transformation." He says that though people often hesitate to share these experiences, they
are "surprisingly common."
A quantum change might be a sudden "aha!" that leaves you
breathless with a new understanding or new truth. Some are mystical, like St. Paul's vision on the road to Damascus.
Both kinds of events tend to leave a sense of enduring peace. Dr. Miller has documented how these events leave lasting
changes in a person's life. (from "Spirituality and Health," Jan/Feb, 2005, p. 52)
What's
a quantum change? Some familiar literary examples:
"Bah, humbug!" scowls the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge
before curling up in bed one night. In his dreams he is visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future.
He awakes a changed man.
Threatened with bankruptcy and depressed because he's never lived out his dreams,
drunken George Bailey is about to end his life off the Bedford Falls bridge when Clarence, his guardian angel lets him see
the true value of his modest life. I always get a tear at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life" when Harry
Bailey toasts, "To my big brother George. The richest man in town."
Yes, those are fictional stories,
but I'll bet we all know some real stories.
Maybe you recall when my friend Fred Burnham visited St.
Paul's a few years ago. Fred worked at Trinity Church in the shadow of the World Trade Center. He was there
on September 11, filming a documentary with a group of religious leaders. At a point in that traumatic morning, when
he was certain of his immanent death, Fred realized suddenly that he was not afraid to die. He was a priest, and he
had talked and preached about death. But he never knew for sure what he felt in his depths. Now he knows.
He's not afraid to die. The other thing he realized was that he loved ever other person that was there about to
die with him. He loved them all, each of them, with a profound and powerful care. Amazingly they all escaped.
And in subsequent weeks Fred discovered that his sense of love for all of those who were with him had expanded to include
all humanity. He says that everything about him has changed. Oh, he's the same; but different.
Parishioner
Nancy Burris will tell nearly anyone that she is thankful for her cancer. She is glad over what she has learned and
experienced because of cancer. Before her illness, she didn't know how much she was loved. She had no idea
so many people cared about her. During this journey, every time she has been faced with losing something she thought
she couldn't live without, something amazing has happened. "I was very attached to my hair," she'll
tell you. "It was curly, thick, without any gray. My hair was my adornment." So she shopped carefully
for wonderful wigs that would keep her glorious. But she had an unusual chemotherapy side effect; her hair follicles
were painfully sensitive to touch -- she couldn't stand to wear a wig. When she walked out into public completely
bald, she experienced a profound sense of liberation. She felt gloriously alive and free. She didn't need
her hair to be radiant. "It's weird," she says, in her wonderful Southern accent, "but wonderful."
Talk with Nancy these days. She is effervescent.
You don't have to face death to have a quantum change,
to experience transfiguration. It happens in quiet ways, too. Former U.N. general secretary Dag Hammarskjold,
wrote in his diary ("Markings") about experiencing the mystery of God while watching a distant sail atop a boat:
Summoned
To carry it,
Alone
To assay it,
Chosen
To suffer it,
And free
To deny
it,
I saw
For one moment
The sail
In the sun storm
Far off
On a wave crest,
Alone, bearing
from land.
And he continued:
"I
don't know Who -- or what -- put the question, I don't know when it was put. I don't even remember answering.
But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone -- or Something -- and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful
and that, therefore, my life, in self-surrender, had a goal."
I've often had these little moments
here in this holy place, in this church. When water is poured over someone, and I can almost see the heavens open and
the Spirit alight and a voice speak, "This is my beloved child." When bread is broken and the words, "The
gifts of God for the people of God" bring divine life to us. When the sounds of feet walking toward communion or
the words of a hymn touch something so deeply real. There is gratitude. And peace. Deep gladness.
Wonder.
I carry these things like little diamonds in the pocket of my heart. Sometimes it seems like the
whole world shimmers with teeming energy. And then it recedes. And I notice the scratch on the furniture in front
of me or the time that reminds me of a pressing duty. And I'm the same. But different.
