On the Threshold of Mystery
This week as I prepared to preach, my husband (who has been graciously navigating my travel stress these past few days) reminded me of how a pastor we once worked with would in really busy times show up in the pulpit and share his brief reflections on two or three events or articles of the past week, offer a poem, and then abruptly end his sermon by saying – I ask this week that you simply think on these things.
Tempting.
But we are at a really fascinating threshold this week – a threshold between seasons of the church year, a threshold between themes for our worship time here at Faith, a threshold in Jesus’ ministry. I’m also finding myself at a threshold moment in my own experiences – awash these past two weeks in the news of saints who have left this earthly life, learning about lives beautifully lived, reminding survivors of the promise of eternal life and Paul’s understanding of the resurrection…all while I prepare to walk in the places Jesus walked, while I prepare to imagine Paul’s earliest ministry, while I ponder the current tension of those who dwell in lands holy to many great faith traditions, while we all live in a world where swords turned to plowshares feels so out of reach.
We began the season after the Epiphany – way back in early January - with the baptism of Jesus – with God’s voice speaking into the moment – this is my son, the beloved in whom I am well pleased.
Throughout epiphany, as we watched for how Christ’s divinity has been revealed to us, we focused our attention on Paul’s writing to the early church in Corinth, helping them to navigate the troubles that show up in human relationships.
And the past two weeks, Paul has been tackling the difficult topic of resurrection – both Jesus’ resurrection and ours in light of that, landing on the assurance that it is a mystery, and that when we die we are transformed in glory – like stars in the sky.
The season after the Epiphany – a season focused on how Jesus is revealed to us both as a human and as God’s divine Son – ends every year with a version story of the Transfiguration.
Another way to say that would be that the on-ramp each year to Lent is some version of the Transfiguration. And Luke’s version gives us lots of connections to what has come before and what will come after. It is a threshold in itself, connecting one part of God’s big story to the next thing.
Let’s take a look at some of those thematic connection points.
At verse 30, while it is lost in the new revised standard translation which reads “suddenly, they saw two men…”, is the word often translated in Luke’s gospel as “behold” or maybe the truer meaning is “hey look.” This is the word “behold” in the proclamation of angels speaking to Elizabeth, to Mary or to Zechariah, announcing the miracle births to come. It is a literary echo that connects this part of the story to a much earlier part of the story...and to parts of the story still to come.
And what Peter, James and John behold is Jesus standing with Moses and Elijah, talking about Jesus’ “exodus” – again something translated in the NRSV to “his departure.” But what a vital link to the past that sheds light on Jesus’ journey into Jerusalem as an exodus journey – a journey to leave the confines of some sort of slavery and achieve an new kind of freedom and promise. But like the exodus of the Hebrew slaves, Jesus’ journey will include hardship and toil and grief.
The text also explains that Jesus, Moses and Elijah appear in “glory,” a visual image that echoes the way Moses shone brightly as he came down off the mountain after being with God or as he left the tabernacle after being with God.
In yesterday’s Finding Faith Online, I spent a little time geeking out about the word “glory” as a common thread in our scripture for today and the ways Paul describes bodily resurrection. The Westminster Dictionary of Theological Terms defines glory as an attribute of God. And glory is commonly defined as magnificence or greatness, or great beauty.
I am struck that in some ways, God’s glory is the sum total of all of God’s attributes. And Paul instructs the community at Corinth that somehow in resurrection we mirror some of God’s glory - something like Moses, Elijah and Jesus appearing to the disciples in dazzling white, shiny, appearing in glory – with God’s greatness somehow.
Last week’s teaching from Paul that links bodily resurrection to glory seems like kind of a big deal to me. The idea that somehow all of our humanness is transformed into something like God’s glory is pretty amazing. Like I said last week, our frail bodies, our frail human condition – is somehow changed and redeemed...and not redeemed in a human way but in a divine way.
Back on the mountaintop in today’s text, just as Peter (ah, we love Peter, don’t we?) is over functioning and suggesting the construction of dwelling places to capture these grand lives and this moment, a cloud comes and overshadows all of them, hearkening back, again, to Moses on Sinai or in the tabernacle, being with / consulting with God.
While they are all engulfed in the cloud, God speaks into the moment – “This is my Son, my chosen. Listen to him”. It is yet another echo in this text – an echo from Jesus’ baptism.
As I was swimming in the text this week while making preparations for my trip to Israel, it crossed my mind to check our itinerary – would we visit the site of the transfiguration? Would we stand on that mountain where God came close, where Jesus appeared in glory?
Maybe?
The mountain on which they stand in this text is not geographically identified. Some scholars link it to Mount Hermon because that was a named place to which Jesus retreated with the disciples. But that is not specified here. And Peter doesn’t build those booths. And they don’t stay there to remember what has happened. They move on down the mountain and turn their feet toward Jerusalem.
It feels important that whatever happened in this moment is not rooted in a place about which we definitively know. You can’t step off the tour bus to encounter Jesus in glory with a tourist marker nearby.
It is something of a mystery.
Of course it is. So much of this faith journey is a mystery. We talked about that last week, too. We talked about it being ok to dwell in the complicated parts of this story of God, this understanding of God and how God works.
Because…well, because God is mystery, even with attributes I can know.
So…cool, Pastor Laura. You’ve spiraled around in this story and pointed out some echoes and some mystery. That’s awesome. But where does it leave us? How do I live my life this week in light of this?
I’m so glad you asked…
I mentioned earlier that we are standing at a threshold on this particular Sunday.
What if we played a little bit with that word “threshold?”
Of course, a threshold is a point of entry into a next thing. Like a doorway into a house.
A threshold can also be a level at which something comes into effect – like a pain recognition threshold – the level at which you actually begin to feel pain.
When a threshold is reached, something else happens or changes or becomes.
I feel like I’ve spent a lot of time lately on the threshold.
At the bedside of the dying.
Wrestling with Paul to understand resurrection.
Walking with families of the dead as they make meaning of the promise of eternal life.
Preparing to set foot on land where Abraham walked, where Jesus walked, where Muhammad walked.
Wondering what it means to walk the path on which Jesus carried his cross.
And in these thresholds, I am coming face to face with what I experience and how it cannot be fully rationally understood. It can only be embraced in faith.
As I stand at the threshold of the Lenten season, not quite sure what it means
to follow Jesus’ footsteps through the countryside to Jerusalem,
to the Temple,
to the courtyards of Herod and Pilate,
to the crucifixion,
to await resurrection on the third day,
I sense the work of awe and wonder, the work of unknowing, encountering.
I want to carry this into these weeks to come. I want to walk with this openness to mystery and revelation and glory through Lent. I want to let go of timelines and maps. I want to encounter the mystery with faith.
As I’ve pondered this all week, I keep getting drawn back to Charles Wesley’s poetry – initially to Love Divine, All Love’s Excelling, but also the hymn we are about to hear, particularly the last verse:
Visit then this soul of mine;
Pierce the gloom of sin and grief;
Fill me, Radiancy divine,
Scatter all my unbelief;
More and more thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.[1]
I ask this week that you simply think on these things.
May it be so.
Amen.
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