Transfiguration - and Humanity

 Sunday next before Lent      Year A         Eucharist – 19.ii.2023

 (Exodus 24.12-18; 2 Peter 1.16-21; Matthew 17.1-9)

Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. 

In the presence of the disciples who are closest to him, Jesus is transfigured in their midst; the appearance of his face changes and his clothes become dazzling white; Moses and Elijah appear, talking with him - their appearance bears witness to the glory of God revealed in Christ.

What do words like “transfigured” or “transfiguration” and “glory” mean to you? Writing in the second century, St. Irenaeus of Lyons declared: 

The glory of God is a man fully alive. 

You can see it in our Gospel reading. Not only Jesus, but Moses and Elijah themselves, appear before the disciples in “glory.” It’s a dazzling vision which contrasts with the state of the disciples, Peter, James and John. Today we read St. Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration. In St. Luke’s version he tells us that the disciples were “weighed down with sleep.” In all the accounts there’s that strange offer by Peter to build three dwellings, “one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” It’s an inadequate response, an attempt to deal with something beyond their understanding. St. Luke’s Gospel actually makes that point: “Peter did not know what he had said.” It might make us think of our own inadequacy when we say that we are simply lost for words. And then the disciples find themselves reduced to terror as a cloud covers them. The cloud signifies the presence of God - and the disciples hear God speak: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him.” If you read on to find out what happens next, you discover that when the disciples go down the hill from the Mount of the Transfiguration they are asked to heal a young boy - and they fail. Where is the effect of God’s glory on them?

We need to go back to those words of St. Irenaeus which I quoted: “The glory of God is a man fully alive.” That’s what we see in Jesus - the Son of God, but at the same time fully human. The glory of his Transfiguration is not something alien coming upon him. The Transfiguration of Christ reveals the true glory, the real nature of a man who some want to write off as “all too human.” Our humanity is a calling to share the glory of God. Our weakness is something to be transfigured. God can use us because we are human.

“Glory” is not something to escape into from our human condition. Glory is revealed because we are human with all the frailty and frustrations of being what we are. But we wrestle with the frailty and the frustration.

So much going that’s on in our world reinforces our sense of frailty and frustration. While we might look for a brightness which speaks of the glory of God and the glory of humanity, instead we find a cloud of darkness. When I preached on this final Sunday before Lent last year, Russia had invaded its neighbour Ukraine just a few days earlier. Later this week we come to the anniversary of that terrible event - and the war goes on. Cruelties inflicted on one nation by another - a nation led by a capricious tyrant, who wears a cross given to him when he was baptised but who denies the image of God that is basic to our human being. The church of his nation in its public statements has given him support. Those of his own people who have dared to dissent have met with repression.

A year on and we have all felt the implications for our wider world: surrounding nations fearful for their own security; western nations which had been dependent so much on Russia for our energy needs now meeting the cost - and that is a cost which has been laid so heavily on the poorest and most needy in our own society as food and energy costs have soared; and as the countries of the world have been forced to take sides the real possibility that a still wider war might follow.

Last year at this time I found myself quoting the poet W H Auden’s words written from his experience of the Civil War in 1930s Spain. The hopes which we should all have of a bright tomorrow - of lives lived to the full, contrasting with the evil of war which denies our humanity in the darkness of today: 

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,

The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle. 

 Auden goes on:

But to-day the struggle.

To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.

To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette,
The cards in the candlelit barn, and the scraping concert,
The masculine jokes; to-day the
Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.

I had read those words and thought of the early days of the invasion of Ukraine: women making Molotov Cocktails in the streets of Kyiv and the volunteers queueing to be given weapons for use in resistance to the Russian tanks. What is their hope? I had asked. A year on, the resistance still holds - but at such a huge cost. While we try to keep our heating costs down and complain about the price of food, the people of Ukraine have had lands stolen, homes and infrastructure destroyed, supply chains disrupted, and electricity and power supplies an often intermittent luxury. And how many hundreds of thousands have died or suffered injuries from which they will never recover?

Two questions have come back to me which I have found helpful to contemplate - they were first asked in a group meditation. The first, “Have you ever gone through a moment in your life of feeling totally overwhelmed by life?” and the second, “Have you ever gone through a period of life when you discovered the meaning of your life?”

So often we might feel overwhelmed by so many emotions, fears, anger or hopelessness. But we might look back on other occasions which are now behind us. And what about the times when we have discovered real meaning? Many in the group which first discussed these questions made their reply that, “It was at the moment of overwhelming that we discovered the meaning.”

Where do we discover meaning? What do we do with the sense of being overwhelmed?

The fourteenth century mystic, Julian of Norwich, suffered illness so grave that she was given the Last Rites to prepare her for death. She lived in a city which suffered the devastating effects of the Black Death, the Peasants’ Revolt and occasions of religious repression. But she found new hope in a vision of Christ now known as her Revelations of Divine Love. She wrote of her experience of Christ’s goodness - and his assurance: 

… take it; believe it; hold on to it; comfort yourself with it and trust it. You will not be overcome. 

And Julian goes on to affirm that this is a message for all her fellow Christians: 

This word, ‘You will not be overcome’ was said very distinctly and firmly to give us confidence and comfort for whatever troubles may come. He did not say, ‘You will never have a rough passage, you will never be over-strained, you will never feel uncomfortable,’ but he did say, ‘You will never be overcome.’ God wants us to pay attention to these words, so as to trust him always with strong confidence, through thick and thin. For he loves us, and delights in us; so he wills that we should love and delight in him in return, and trust him with all our strength. So all will be well. 

We can’t deny those times when we might feel quite overwhelmed by life, but even there we might find what we need to show us what is truly important, what lies deepest within us to give meaning to our lives.

The disciples will descend the Mount of Transfiguration immediately to be confronted by their own failures and failings. But they have had that experience of Christ’s glory and it cannot be taken away. They hear the voice of God, and the best they can do is themselves keep silent. Not to be able to put our feelings and our faith into words is not to be a failure - it is God who sustains us. We are called simply to be - but living as his children bearing his image.