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February 03, 2008 sermon

Making Space
(Exodus 24: 12-18; Psalm 50: 1-6; Matthew 17:1-8)

Reverend Minister Sally Harris

Awaken us God, and shed your light upon us
that we might make space and come to recognize
the hope that you always hold out to us. Amen

The ever changing face of the calendar and the cycles of the moon bring in an early Lent and Easter this year, and so the transfiguration has come early too. Unexpectedly, we find ourselves back on top of the mountain with Jesus. We were just there hearing the description of those who are blessed.

Blessed are the poor in spirit… Blessed are those who mourn…

And now Jesus returns, not with all the disciples this time, but only with Peter and brothers James and John, the zealous sons of Zebedee, or "Sons of Thunder," as Jesus called them. This time they are asked to see before listening, to see past it all— past his words and the rumors, past the healing and his teaching, the preaching and his popularity, past his friends and enemies, his prayer and wisdom; past the gossip and the gospel. Jesus invites them now to see through and beyond all that, all his ministry, to something that can be apprehended most accurately not by ear or eye, but by heart and soul:

"And Jesus was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white."

The transfiguration comes at a critical point in the narrative of Jesus' life, a point of major transition as Jesus shifts from active ministry among them toward Jerusalem, the place of death and resurrection, the place where human and divine will intersect. And perhaps knowing how hard it would be for the disciples to understand this, Jesus takes his closest disciples and heads up a mountain. There they come into the presence of God, and their hearts and souls are opened to see what their eyes can barely believe. Their friend and teacher, the very human Jesus, is transfigured before them. br>
The appearance of his face changes. His clothes become dazzling white. They sense the presence of Moses and Elijah – those mythical figures of ancient Hebrew legend who had also witnessed similar light and sound shows…. They too had experienced the holy gaze across the abyss – spraying light across it... And then a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice was heard, “This is my Beloved; with whom I am well pleased” and then the disciples were overcome by fear.

Can we make space for such stories? What is the evidence of such visions? Must we rely on these ancient stories of faith – is there anything new? Is it faith then rather than evidence… are these stories trustworthy? What do they mean?

Survival in our world demands a certain skepticism. We are trained to cope as social beings by keeping our reality within, shall we say, realistic limits. Can these stories hold at bay the danger of us not trusting at all. Or do these stories demand that we recognize that we are actually a factor in the being of God, the devouring fire, maker of shining faces kind of God. Perhaps these stories highlight our reality that implicitly, where God is concerned, we may desire too little. That growing in the heart of Kitsilano may mean expanding our expectations, making space for a greater reality than we now know. Making God’s generosity, not our realism, the measure of our expectations. Could we…. Would we…. Will we… make space for this kind of God in our lives?

Sometimes I think that the gospel tell us so many times not to be afraid because there really isn’t cause to be afraid of this holy being that brings such brightness to an otherwise bleak horizon.

John of the Cross, who lived a very bleak existence, as a misunderstood and even imprisoned mystic, once wrote that God pours lights out abundantly, without partiality, wherever God finds space, like a ray of sunlight, joyfully disclosing God’s very self to people on the pathway, in the valley, on a mountaintop.

That is what I believe the transfiguration story asks of us: that we do not cease to believe in God’s desire to dazzle us; to fill us. This does not mean the hope that, if I am credulous enough, gullible enough, something magical will happen. It means rather that this, devouring fire, maker of shining faces kind of God, who does not hesitate… this lavish God, this transfiguring God is the horizon within which I chose to live my life.

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God," Jesus had said on the mountain. The Aramaic roots of the verb for "to see God" evoke the image of a flash of lightning that appears suddenly across the sky. In the midst of the murky darkness of a storm, our world is filled with light and we see. For a brief transfiguring moment we see clearly, face to face.

Yet these are very hard times in which to see clearly. A murky human-made smog of dreams deferred, of violence, confusion and fear stings our eyes and blurs even what is closest to us. But wait… make space, be attentive to this transfiguring, lavish God… as attentive as you are to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts."

Toward the end of his life, Carl Jung, the renowned psychologist, was asked if he believed in God. After a long pause, he answered, “I don’t believe, I know. I know.” How do we know? How do we experience the presence of God? Perhaps the world of the soul can only be glimpsed through the opening of a veil that closes again. It is not a place of severe and insistent light. In those clouded places near heaven the light is like that of a candle. There is shadow and color in every candle flame. It befriends the darkness, hospitable to what is reserved and hidden. Will we make space for such befriending?

That is why we read every Sunday from our sacred story, gleaning from the hearts and imaginations of our ancestors in faith, their vision of the world. That is why we continue to struggle with mysterious stories that encourage us to make space, to image a world, a church, a life where God is present, ready, waiting to fill us. In this hope the whole cosmos is renewed.

Julia Ward Howe, one night in November 1861 climbed upon the mountain of the Civil War – the mountain of despair and foreboding in the midst of a battle. In the morning she awoke experiencing the presence of God in the veiled brilliance of sunrise. In that transfiguring moment she experienced this lavish, light shedding presence and chose to this God to be her horizon. And so her pen flew across the page writing out the words Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory.

May it be so among us!

[Resource: Iain Matthew and Patricia Farris]

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