Luke 9:28-36 Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” —not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.
Reflection If I were smart and had the courage I would invite you to set a timer for ten minutes, and stop writing right here because there are no words sufficient to engage our Hebrew and Christian texts wherein we meet Moses, Jesus, Peter, James and John at the top of the mountain and the cloud of glory descends upon all of us.
Like many preachers years past I have tried to master these texts and in my meagre attempts have turned them into pedestrian tales by focusing on the foibles of bumbling Peter and his ever so human inclination to cling to his experience of the divine by building dwelling places. I do it and I submit, you do it too. When the cloud of glory descends upon us and we are rapt in the radiance of unknowing we try to grasp it, wrap our minds around it, build wordy dwellings to contain it. Until the Word, God, plunges us into immutable silence and the voiceless voice that stretches from before beginningless time to forever whispers, “Listen. Listen. Stop talking and listen.”
It is good for us to be here. It is good for us to be rapt in the radiance of divine presence. It is good for us to put the veil on our faces and stop talking because the glory of God is upon us.
Is it not interesting that like monks and nuns and hermits, these days we are sent to our cells to be still and wait for we know not what to happen? When we dare to venture out we put a mask over our mouths, turn our faces away from others, stop talking and keep our distance?
Could it be that this time of global pandemic is an opportunity to rekindle the light in each one of us? Could it be this time of confinement and uncertainty is the cloud of glory overshadowing and sequestering us in silence? Could it be the radiance of Divine Presence is straining to spill its light over our lives, revive our dwindling spirits and ignite our wholehearted actions?
Divine Light or as Christians call it, the Light of Christ appears in multiple dimensions. We witness the Light as the mysterious radiance of Divinity revealed on mountaintops about which we may only be rightly silent, and, we experience the Light as the glow of Divine Presence radiates through our lives in our willing acts of kindness, generosity, hospitality and compassion. To be embodied and fulfilled Divine Light depends upon each one of us to be silent in the presence of glory and to act with vigor and unfailing spirits to spread the Light by our deliberate acts of kindness.
It is good for us to be here. It is good for us to be rapt in the radiance of Divine Presence. It is good for us to put the mask on our faces and stop talking because the glory of God is upon us. It is good for us to act with vigor and unfailing spirits to spread Divine Light by our deliberate acts of kindness.
Now is the time for us to stop talking about things we cannot grasp, stop grasping for things that cannot last. Now let us use this time in the cloud of sequestered uncertainty as an opportunity to pause in our places, be still and listen for the glory of God and allow divine radiance to illumine our darkness; admit it is much easier to see the error of other’s ways than to recognize our own, confess our inclination to aggrandize our strengths while pointing to another’s weakness, admit that our lights are dimmed when we think we are always right and therefore the other person is always wrong.
The other day I was talking with a priest friend who was delighted with a new tee shirt he acquired. It reads, “God loves the people you hate.” It is hard to breath that in and breath that out. And the cloud comes and overshadows us. We are terrified as we enter the cloud, terrified by the unutterable questions, “What if I am wrong? What if I cannot know? What if like well-intended Peter I am speaking without knowing what I am saying? And the Word, God, plunges us into immutable silence and the voiceless voice that stretches from before beginningless time to forever whispers, “Listen. Listen. Stop talking and listen.”
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