Transfiguration Sunday

Guest Homily by Malcolm Heath
2 Kings 2:1-12
Psalm 50:1-6
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9
Texts available here

Today is Transfiguration Sunday.

This is one of those Sundays in our calendar that I don’t really feel all that comfortable with, one of the Sundays I call, at least to myself, “Yay! God!” Sundays.  Sundays that seem to exist to remind us of the glory and power of God; of miracles and strange events.  Sundays where, quite often, we get to sing some glorious hymns - and put on special vestments - and celebrate.

There’s nothing wrong with that, mind you.  Celebrations are good things.  I’m just not super comfortable with it, mostly because I don’t quite understand _why_ we’re doing it.

We’re presented with two stories of Transfiguration - or really, one of Ascension, and one of Transfiguration.

In the first, Elijah and Elisha go for a walk, out into the wilderness, further and further, and Elijah tries very hard to ditch Elisha.  Elisha knows what’s coming - he’s going to lose his friend.  Elijah knows that too - and I think is trying to spare his friend from having to be there, when he goes.

Various piles of prophets come out of the various towns they pass - they all know what’s going on too - and try to get Elisha to stay with them, or warn him.

I wonder, at the end, if this is not so much a story about something we might celebrate, but about something else entirely - perhaps it is about grief.

About the parting of friends.

I think it’s very interesting that Elijah offers Elisha a wish, offers to grant him a boon.  He asks for what is traditionally the portion of a first born son - and heir.  The first born always got two shares, with the other children getting one share each, when the father died.   Elisha is asking for nothing less than the authority to carry on for Elijah after he’s gone.

Elijah’s response is telling - he says that if he can stay with him until the very end, watching and not turning away, he will get the inheritance.  And he does.

And then grieves, ripping his clothes.  Because, even though he got the full inheritance, with that “double portion of spirit”, he also has to realize that he will never see his friend again.

We all have perhaps been in a similar situation - a friendship ending, or a loved one approaching death.  There is a strong temptation during those times to cut our losses, to want to flee, to turn away.  It seems too terrible to face.  It seems too mysterious, too powerful, too painful for us to bear.  This may be one of the only times we can come face to face with the power of God, and the mystery of God.   And yet, if we are to receive the spirit, we must not give into that urge, because to do so denies ourselves our full potential.  To do so denies ourselves the full experience of the life that God has granted us.

Peter and James and Paul are a little bit less bright than Elisha.  They really don’t know what’s going on, although, perhaps, Peter starts to get it.  He alone seems to realize what is at stake here, and even proclaims it good.  Good to be at the top of some lonely mountain, seeing visions of ancient prophets.

He also seems to get that there would be bad times ahead.  His suggestion that they make tents is reminiscent of the Festival of Sukkot - a time in the Jewish calendar when devout Jews make tents, made of natural things, and pray, eat, and sometimes sleep in them.  They do this to remind themselves of the many years that the Israelites spent in the wilderness, a time of great suffering and travail, but ultimately leading to the promised land.

Perhaps Peter realizes that Jesus isn’t going to be around, at least as they have known him, for much longer.  Perhaps he, alone, realizes that they are headed into the desert, and that there are rough times ahead.

No wonder “they were terrified”.

Yes, I think these stories aren’t so much about the glory of God, at least in any way that I would feel comfortable about celebrating - these are points of mystery, of grief, of expectation of something happening, but no one really knowing what that might be.

We’re all presented with these moments.  Big changes - endings, death - all these are moments when we know, deep in our hearts, that nothing will ever be the same again.  But we can never know exactly how it will be different.

But it is that very unknowing, that darkness, that ignorance, where, I think, the power of God can break into our lives.  It is terrifying to be present at those times.  Everything in us says “turn away”.

And yet, we must not.  We have to be there.  To see.  And for those in our lives who aren’t there when it happens, what we see will remain a mystery.

For it is the God who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.  

Paul has it right.  God will give us light out of the darkness.  But we have to be in the darkness first.

As we approach Lent - a desert time, a time of grief, I think we need to think about how much we want to turn away from it - and what God might give us if we don’t.  If we instead turn towards it, and remain present, and allow that darkness to surround us, open to the promise that God gives us, that light will indeed shine out, but not in any way that we can predict.