Transfiguration Sunday (Year C)
Text: Luke 9:28-36
And while [Jesus] was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. (Luke 9:29)
Years ago, I was in active ministry in what was then called Kamloops-Okanagan Presbytery, which covered about 160,000 square kilometres (almost 100,000 square miles) of the British Columbia interior. We used to have regular meetings where delegates from all over the region would gather in a kind of denominational parliament. One of the things I most appreciated about presbytery meetings in that neck of the woods was that they weren’t all business. Along with the usually quite mundane dreariness of church government, we got some stuff that was just plain fun.
The people who organized these meetings ensured that those who made the long trek to serve in that court of the church had a chance to unwind and relax and get to know one another.
One time, at a wind-up meeting, the fun took the shape of a “coffee house” in the United Church hall. I guess you could say it was sort of a “Presbytery Talent Night.” There were musicians, and singers, and even a couple of stand-up comedians—and much of it was impromptu.
Anyway, I was quite surprised on that Saturday evening when a retired minister I knew—a man who was normally quiet and reserved—got on stage to sing!
I never would have expected that of him—to stand up in front of people and sing. But he did it, and he did it well. In fact, he was amazingly good. And so, I saw a side of him that I had never glimpsed before.
In a far more profound sense, this was the kind of experience the disciples had at the Transfiguration of Jesus.
Picture it. Upon a mountaintop, Peter, James, and John see an entirely different side of this teacher whom they have been following. These three have travelled with Jesus, walking with him across the Galilean countryside. Surely they know this man intimately.
Yet now, with crystal clarity, they suddenly realize that this Jesus is not just a good man, not merely a great prophet, not simply a miracle worker. No. This Jesus is the Son of the living God.
For a moment, the veil of flesh is drawn aside and the disciples witness the unmasked, brilliant glory of the Christ. They see the work of God manifest in a human being, the face of God in a human face.
To say that the disciples were shocked is an understatement. Peter is reduced to babbling. Never in their wildest dreams had these three followers suspected what lay beneath the surface of this Nazarene carpenter’s son. Certainly they loved and respected this man, but they were unprepared to find God so wonderfully and fearfully present just beneath the surface of Jesus and his ministry.
But then, we never know just when and where God is going to pop up, do we? We can never predict when the veil is going to slip, revealing a burst of glory in the midst of the everyday.
We find it comforting to draw boundary lines between the holy and the secular, but our dividing lines don’t count for much. Heaven and earth are constantly getting mixed up together. If we look at the world through eyes of expectant faith, we may discover God in all sorts of unexpected places.
Whether we see it or not, the world is full of God’s glorious presence. The story of the Transfiguration reminds us that we are never far from God. Even when we cannot see it, we are surrounded by God’s radiance. Even when we cannot discern it, the protecting grace of God is behind us and before us. Behind the flimsy veil of what we call reality is the eternal, sustaining, strengthening presence of God. And it is close—as close as our breathing. Invisible to the eyes, perhaps—but not to the heart.
It is no coincidence that Luke places the story of the Transfiguration immediately after a sermon in which Jesus proclaims his own approaching death and the suffering of his disciples.
We Christians are not exempt from suffering—but we are exempt from suffering alone. All around us, God is working incognito in the ebb and flow of ordinary life.
And once in a while, we are blessed with a clear vision of God’s glory. Sometimes we get that vision on a mountain top, and sometimes …
Here’s a story I heard once. It’s about a man called “Joe.”
Joe was a down-and-out “skid row” alcoholic who frequented a downtown-core men’s hostel and mission in a big Canadian city.
Joe had been in terrible shape. The disease of alcoholism had almost destroyed him, and most of those who knew him thought he was a hopeless case.
But something happened to Joe.
Over a period of time, he got a measure of sobriety. Somehow or other, life came to mean something to him again, and seemed worth living.
Perhaps it was because of the preaching he heard at the mission (or perhaps it was in spite of it). Maybe it had something to do with the A.A. meetings he’d been going to. At any rate, Joe started to get better.
In chapel one day, while everyone was listening to the preacher at the mission deliver the sermon they were all supposed to hear before they could get a bowl of soup, Joe walked up to the front of the room and said:
“I don’t want to drink any more. And while I’m here, not drinking, I’m going to do everything I can to help the rest of you.”
From that day, Joe set about to make good on his promise. He did everything he could to help out at the mission. He considered no task too menial, or too disgusting. If a toilet needed scrubbing, Joe would scrub it. If someone vomited on the floor, Joe would rush to clean it up.
If a man needed help to get through the horrors of withdrawal, Joe was there for him. Joe helped serve the soup, and more than once he helped feed it, too—when a man was too shaky to hold the spoon himself.
Joe became the servant of all. He stayed sober, and he helped others stay sober and clean, too—if they wanted help.
Years passed, and Joe eventually died—but he died sober. At his funeral, the minister said that Joe’s changed life demonstrated the grace of God.
Not long after that, back at the mission, while the preacher was holding forth with another before-dinner sermon, another broken-down drunk came up to the front of the room. He fell to his knees and began to pray loudly, saying, “Dear God, make me like Joe, please. Make me like Joe.”
On hearing this, the preacher leaned forward and said to him, “Friend, I think you mean to pray, ‘Make me like Jesus.’”
And the kneeling man asked him, “Who’s Jesus? Is he like Joe?”
I think that’s a story about transfiguration. About grace. About God appearing in human form. It’s a story about the intimate closeness of God—a nearness which changes lives.
All around us, every day, God is being revealed within arm’s reach. But how often do we notice?
How often do we overlook the glorious presence of God in a human encounter? In a moment of beauty—or of pain? In an act of quiet heroism or self-sacrifice? In the face of a child?
These are fitting things upon which to reflect on this last Sunday in the season of Epiphany; the last Sunday in this season of light. Soon, another season will begin: the season of Lent, which traditionally has been a season of gathering darkness. As we begin our walk through Lent—our walk toward Calvary’s torment and Good Friday’s despair—we will do well to remember this: God is always present, even in the deepest gloom. And the light of Christ is always shining, no matter how hard the darkness tries to put it out.
May God remind us to look for that light—on the highest peaks and in the deepest valleys. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.