The Transfiguration

sermon by Carrie Eikler
Matthew 17:1-9, 2 Peter 1:16-21

I have to admit something.  I have grown afraid of the dark the older I get.

Not the dark of my bedroom when the lights out.

But pitch black dark, where you can’t see anything.

Now maybe I’m not the only one.  And maybe I didn’t have much experience of being in pitch black dark as a child.  It’s not an easy thing to come by in our electrically wired world.

But I discovered this…discomfort when I was in Japan for the first time.

I say the first time because I have had the wonderful opportunity to visit Japan twice in my life.  The first time was in 2004 when we visited Torin’s parents in Hiroshima, where they were spending two years in Brethren Volunteer Service.  The second time was in 2010 when Torin and I joined two other clergy couples in studying interfaith and intercultural dialogue.

Both times I have gone to Japan it was with the intention of studying the life and work of KoboDaishi, a Buddhist monk and founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism.

Both times were joyful occasions and I long to return to Japan again.

Both times we ventured to mountain peak monasteries.

Both times we explored the wandering grounds of Buddhist temples.

and Both times we went to Zensuji, one of the eighty-eight temples on the pilgrimage around the island of Shikoku, a sacred island to Japan’s Shingon Buddhist community.

And it was here I faced the dark, seemingly for the first time.

Underneath the temple of Zensuji is a circular tunnel.  On the wall of this tunnel are paintings that tell the story of the Buddha.  But you don’t see these pictures because it is dark.  Pitch dark.  Pitch black dark.

Rather than seeing them, you run your hand along the wall and let the wall guide you around the curves of the path.  Your hand passes over the story you don’t see.

Immediately after entering into the tunnel this first time, I knew this was not. for.  me.  I felt my heart racing, I looked around as if I was going to see a lighted exit sign.  And just before I was about to turn around and exit…

I closed my eyes.

And I felt better.

Because, I was used to the dark behind my eyes.  I “see” this all the time.

This dark was my friend, the dark I long for every night when I go to bed.

The dark behind my eyes helped calm me down and I found myself, still uncomfortable…

but able to finish my journey.

Skip ahead 6 years.

Same temple.

Same doorway down into the abyss.

Six clergy-folk ready to go underground.

My breath is already getting shallow and quick.

Everyone else seems so excited.

I don’t remember the trick I learned last time.

The six of us descend.

My heart rate increases.

Panic.  I give a little groan.

And I close my eyes.

And it’s ok.

But I still mutter “I don’t like this”

And then I feel it.

A gentle hand takes mine.

One of my companions, I don’t remember if it was Torin or Russ or Erin or Bill or Sara,

held my hand until the blazing light of the external world came streaming onto us.

The hands of my companion.

As good as, what Peter says, “lamps shining in a dark place”

As good as, Peter saying “this is a good place to be”

As scary as it is in this tunnel,

as terrifying as what life is throwing at you.

There are lamps shining for us, showing us the blessing in the dark places.

The gospel story is commonly known as the Transfiguration because

Jesus is transfigured before Peter, James, and John.  The empty space around him is transfigured into the presence of Elijah and Moses.

Up here are three teachers, wise sages, prophets…blazing bright.

Down there, down in the darkness, three friends, simultaneously terrified and elated.

The theological significance of this moment,

is that in this transfiguration, the true nature of Jesus is revealed.  Human and divine.

I can just picture a hand grasping for a friend in this dazzling moment.

Peter’s shout of “Lord it is good for us to be here!” drowning out

John’s weak confession: “I don’t like this”

Now, really, we don’t know what the others said, but we do know two things happened on this mountain

and this is the important part.

On this mountain, friends accompanied and God affirmed.

Accompany- to be a companion, to be with someone, to walk with someone, to hold the hand of someone, to make a camp and pitch a tent—or at least offer to—to be willing to fall down on your face in fear or joy or grief and let someone see you do it.

Affirm – to offer support, encouragement.  To say that something is true.  God affirms that Jesus is beloved. 

And this my friends,

this is what I believe the Christian walk into our own transfiguration…or maybe transformation…or maybe salvation.

is built on.

A community that accompanies and affirms one another.

I have seen this recently as members sat and vulnerably shared about their struggles of autism in the beloved children in their life.

I have seen this recently as friends have encouraged the gifts in others to pursue new ventures in ministry.

Take a moment and think of the gift we have here.  We here have a group of people who, I hope, are here with a commitment to walk with you and encourage you.  To accompany you and affirm you.  Just think about that?  How many people in this world just wished they had even a taste of that?

But I’ll warn you.  Those who accompany you…who affirm you…they may not look like people you normally choose as friends.  They can be surprising.  And perhaps, because they may be so different than who you would have dinner with on Friday night, or play golf with on Saturday morning, or have a book group discussion with…because they are so different may be the way that they show Christ’s illuminating face to you so clearly.

I have frequently talked about the L’arch Communities around the world, intentional communities of people with mental and physical disabilities and their friends and helpers who live with them.  I have talked about the founder Jean Vanier, and have talked about the way L’arche deepend the spiritual and emotional life of the academic priest from Harvard, Henri Nouwen.

In this little book “In the Name of Jesus” by Nouwen tells a story about being invited to an conference in Washington DC.  At this time he is living with men with mental disabilities at Daybreak, a L’arche community in Canada.  The community decided that Bill should go with Henri.  Bill was one of the higher-functioning residents of the community. As they prepared for their trip to Washington DC, Bill kept telling Henri, perhaps reminding him “We are doing this together, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Bill” said Henri.  “We sure are.”  The little book is about what Nouwen shared at the conference, but he said it was Bill’s presence that gave more lasting influence than his own words.
Henri said that up until the moment he approached the microphone he didn’t exactly know what Bill’s emphasis of “doing it together” would mean. 
Henri took his handwritten text to the podium leaving Bill in the audience. Once Henri began, however, Bill walked up to the podium and “planted himself right behind me” continues Nouwen. 

It was clear that he had a much more concrete idea about the meaning of “doing it together” than I.  Each time I finished reading a page, he took it away and put it upside down on a small table close by.  I felt very much at ease with this and started to feel Bill’s presence as a support.

But Bill had more in mind. When I began to speak about the temptation to turn stones into bread as a temptation to be relevant, he interrupted me and said loudly for everyone to hear, “I have heard that before!”  He had indeed, and he just wanted the priests and ministers who were listening to know that he knew me quite well and was familiar with my ideas.  For me, however, it felt like a gentle loving reminder that my thoughts were not as new as I wanted my audience to believe.  Bill’s intervention created a new atmosphere in the ballroom:  lighter, easier, and more playful.  Somehow Bill had taken away the seriousness of the occasion and had brought to it some homespun normality.  as I continued my presentation, I felt more and more that we were indeed doing this together.  And it felt good.

After I had finished reading my text and people had shown their appreciation, Bill said to me:  Henri, can I say something now?”  My first reaction was, “Oh, how am I going to handle this?  He might start rambling and create an embarrassing situation,”  but then I caught myself in my presumption that he had nothing of importance to say and said to the audience, “…Bill would like to say a few words to you.”

Bill took the microphone and said, with all the difficulties he has in speaking, “Last time, when Henri went to Boston, he took John Smeltzer with him.  This time he wanted me to come with him to Washington, and I am very glad to e here with you.  Thank you very much.”  That was it, and everyone stood up and gave him warm applause.

As we flew back together to Toronto, Bill looked up from the word-puzzle book that he takes with him wherever he goes and said, “Henri, did you like our trip?”

“Oh yes,” I answered, “it was a wonderful trip, and I am so glad you came with me.”

Bill looked at me attentively and then said, “And we did it together, didn’t we?”

“Yes we did, Bill. Yes we did.”

It is this sort of accompanying and affirmation that brings the transfiguration to our lives.  Being with another person and helping them receive a clearer picture of Christ.  Allowing another person to show you more clearly, the face of Christ…perhaps a surprising, potentially embarrassing companion.

But we accompany and affirm in Jesus’ name as we step out of the darkness into the light.