February 26, 2017

Last Sunday after the Epiphany Year A

The gospel that we have just heard is the luminous story of a mystical encounter, not only between God and God's Beloved but also between those at the center of the story and those who watch.  Those at the center are Jesus, Moses and Elijah.  Those who watch are Peter, James and John.  And then, of course, there are all of us watching all of them, most of us laboring under the illusion that our job is to figure out what the story means.

In the present case, the most common decoded message is that Moses stands for the Law, Elijah stands for the prophets, and Jesus, of course, is the Messiah.  By singling Jesus out as "my Son, the Beloved," God sets the gospel over the law and the prophets. Listen to him, says the voice from the cloud. There are two auxiliary meanings as well--one about how it is better to keep your mouth shut in the presence of the holy than to blurt things out like Peter does and another about how the purpose of such mountaintop experiences is to strengthen us for the climb back down into the valley of the shadow of death, where our real work remains to be done. 

For all I know, those are exactly the meanings that God meant for us to get from the story; but it's important to note that the passage itself does not say any of those things.  Instead, it describes something so beyond ordinary human experience that most of us are perfectly content to watch it from a distance. 

It starts with a long climb up a windy mountain in the fading light of day, hunting for a place to pray.  No talking for once.  No wall of words between you and the others.  Just breathing for once, just hearing them breath, until you can't tell whether you are breathing or being breathed.

Sit down. You are here to pray, so get on with it.  Pray until you are weighed down with sleep.  Pray until it is dark enough to see light through your eyelids where light should not be.  You don't really want to open your eyes to see where the light is coming from.  But you do. Then you look.

And there he is: someone you thought you knew really well, standing there pulsing with light, leaking light everywhere.  Face like a flame.  Clothes dazzling white.  Then, as if that weren't enough, two other people are there with him, all of them standing in that same bright light.  Who are they?  Can't be.  Moses?  Elijah?  Dead men come back to life.  God's own glory, lighting up the night. Now they're leaving. Peter's saying something.

Tents, he's saying.  We need tents.  He thinks we're on Sinai.  Someone tell him we're not on Sinai.  Now there's a cloud coming in fast that is way more than weather, a terrifying cloud that is also alive. Cutting Peter off. Covering everything up.  Smells like a lightning strike. Can't see a thing.

Then a voice from the cloud lifts the hairs on the back of your neck. Fear so fast and primitive, you're bristling like a dog. What's the voice saying? Not "listen to me" but "listen to him." The Son, the Beloved. But listen to what? He's not saying anything. He's shining.  Or at least he was. Now he's not. Now it's over. Now what?

If anything even remotely that strange has ever happened to you, then you know why Peter, James and John were relieved when Jesus told them to keep what had happened to themselves. Supernatural light. Famous people come back from the dead. God talking to you from inside a cloud. Things like that may happen in the Bible, but try talking about them now and someone's going to give you the name of a good psychiatrist.

Once you emerge from the cloud, you are supposed to be surer than ever what you believe. You are supposed to know who's who, what's what, where you are going in your life and why. You are supposed to have answers to all the important questions, and when you read the Bible you are supposed to know what it means.  

But what if the point is not to decode the cloud but to enter into it? What if the whole Bible is less a book of certainties than it is a book of encounters, in which a staggeringly long parade of people run into God, each other, life--and are never the same again?  I mean, what don't people run into in the Bible?  Not just terrifying clouds and hair-raising voices but also crazy relatives, persistent infertility, armed enemies, and deep depression, along with life-saving strangers, miraculous children, food in the wilderness, and knee-wobbling love.

Whether such biblical encounters come disguised as "good" or "bad," they have a way of breaking people open, of rearranging what they think they know for sure so that there is more room for God in their lives. Certainties can become casualties in these encounters. Things can shift pretty dramatically inside the cloud of unknowing, where faith has more to do with staying fully present to what is happening right in front of you than with being certain of what it all means. The meeting--that's the thing.

Most of you know today is the swing Sunday between the seasons of Epiphany and Lent--the day those who follow Jesus look down at our maps and say, "Uh-oh," because it is time to turn away from the twinkling stars of Christmas toward the deep wilderness of Lent.  As gloomy as that may sound, it is good news.  Most of us are so distracted by our gadgets, so busy with our work, so addicted to our schedules, and so resistant to our depths that a nice long spell in the wilderness is just what we need. 

No one can make you go to the wilderness, but if you've been looking for some excuse to head to your own mountaintop and pray, this is it.  If you've been looking for some way to trade in your old certainties for new movement in your life, look no further.  This is your chance to enter the cloud of unknowing and listen for whatever it is that God has to say to you.  This is your chance to encounter God's contagious glory, so that a little of that love rubs off on you. 

Today you have heard a story you can take with you on your journey.  It tells you that no one has to go up the mountain alone.  It tells you that sometimes things get really scary before they get holy.  Above all, it tells you that there is someone standing in the center of the cloud with you, shining so brightly that you may never be able to wrap your mind around him, but who is worth listening to all the same--because he is God's beloved, and you are his, and whatever comes next, you and he are up to it.