We
have just heard the story of the transfiguration in Luke’s gospel. It’s a strange story. Matthew, Mark and Luke all recount the event
and they all report the disciples who were with Jesus were confused by it. They don’t know how to react or what to
say. Luke has them in some kind of a
state between sleep and wakefulness.
So
what does it mean for Jesus to be transfigured – to become dazzling? And what does it mean for this burst of
brightness to bring on fear and confusion in the disciples?
Our
coming to know another person – as that person truly, deeply is – does require
of us profound self-denial. It requires
we give up our favorite expectations and easy projections onto that person. And when that other person is Jesus, then a
particular kind of self-denial is called for.
It requires what biblical and spiritual writers call “unknowing”. They speak of the necessity of entering into
“the cloud of unknowing” – just as we see in today’s story of the transfiguration. There – in “the cloud of unknowing” – the
disciples learn by unlearning – they know by unknowing. But what does that mean?
In
the cloud the disciples learn – Jesus is my beloved son – in him you see
what pleases me – listen and learn from him what it means to be child of God –
what it means to be divine – listen and learn from him what I, God, am like. And that’s a frightening task – for the
disciples – and for us. It requires our
unlearning much that we hold dear and sacred – unlearning much that we think
holy and godly – unlearning cherished notions of God. In Jesus we unlearn what it means to have
divine power. In Jesus we see wielding
divine power means becoming vulnerable – hurt-able – not punishing – not
becoming violent – never lording it over people. In Jesus we see divine power in turning the
other cheek. In Jesus we see the Image
of God in a bruised body hanging from a cross.
Our
difficult learning continues in this liturgy. This liturgy brings us into “the cloud of
unknowing”. It is our school of
unlearning where we are summoned to unlearn ourselves. It calls us to costly self-denial that can be
frightening. The liturgy challenges us
to move from being a small “I” to becoming a big “We” – to move into a world
where public presence and public belonging replace private aloneness – where
messy interdependence trumps cool self-sufficiency. The liturgy intones “let us” – not “I
insist.”
Perhaps
most challenging for us is the liturgy’s call that we move into hope – radical
Christian hope in what God will bring about in our lives. The contrary to hope is control – my final
reliance on what I can make of myself.
Control’s mantra rigidly repeats: “It all depends on me.” The substance of our hope – what we hope for
– is our own transfiguration into what God will make of us. We hope for our transfiguration into God –
for our holy communion with God as we come to love as He loves. Our hope is that we be empowered to say to
our world: “Take and eat. Take and
drink. Here I am – for you and for all –
for friend and enemy.”
Our
transfiguration requires a self-denial that leads us into accepting our deepest
truth: we are the living Body of Christ.
We are what God is making of us.
As Paul told us in our second reading: “He will change our lowly body to
conform with his glorified body…” In
Lent we learn to live in hope. We learn
to join Abraham in looking up at the stars.
Come, Lord Jesus! Come!
Unlearning
ourselves – a self-denial that leads us into accepting our deepest truth: we are
the living Body of Christ. We are what
God makes of us. As Paul tells us in his
letter to the Philippians: He will change our lowly body to conform with his
glorified body by the power that enables him to bring all things into
subjection to himself. And so we
live in hope. We join Abraham in looking
up at the stars. Come, Lord Jesus! Maranatha!
