02/10/2013 ~ Last Sunday Before Lent ~ Known in Some Traditions as the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany ~ Known in Some Traditions as the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time ~ Known in Some Traditions as Transfiguration Sunday ~ Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36, (37-43a).
Seeing But Silent
“Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my Own, my Chosen; listen!’ When the voice had finished speaking, they saw no one but Jesus standing there. The disciples kept silent, telling nothing of what they had seen at that time to anyone.” — Luke 9:35-36.
Mary Oliver has won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. The New York Times describes her as (quote): “far and away, America’s best-selling poet.” Given the snow event which obviously effected others more than us— to be clear, I have no interest in diminishing the trouble it caused for some— but given the snow event which obviously did not effect us as much as it effected others, I thought it appropriate to start my comments with a poem by Mary Oliver. It is called White Eyes. (Slight pause.)
In winter / all the singing is in / the tops of the trees / where the wind-bird // with its white eyes / shoves and pushes / among the branches. / Like any of us // he wants to go to sleep, / but he’s restless— / he has an idea, / and slowly it unfolds // from under his beating wings / as long as he stays awake / But his big, round music, after all, / is too breathy to last. // So, it’s over. / In the pine-crown / he makes his nest, / he’s done all he can. // I don’t know the name of this bird, / I only imagine his glittering beak / while the clouds— // which he has summoned / from the north— / which he has taught / to be mild, and silent— // thicken, and begin to fall / into the world below / like stars, or the feathers / of some unimaginable bird // that loves us, / that is asleep now, and silent— / that has turned itself / into snow. (Slight pause.)
That is certainly a different take on winter weather than snow-mageddon style predictions— some of which are accurate and some of which are not— it is different than the snow-mageddon predictions the media tends to give us these days. Indeed, what has always impressed me about snow is not the clamor nor the disruption it causes— and it can and sometimes does cause those.
What impresses me about snow is the silence. You see, I think one hears rain. But one feels snow.
I remember playing in the snow when I was a child. I remember building snow castles, snow forts on the streets of Brooklyn, fortified positions from which we threw snowballs at kids across the street or at unsuspecting adults who passed by. In some ways the point was to make noise.
But all that happened after it had stopped snowing, when the sun was out. It was the aftermath. I remember once looking out the window of my house for hours in the depth of night as better than a foot of snow fell gently, softly, silently.
Then, as the snow was not quite finished, I threw on a coat and rushed out the door into the dark of that night, into the middle of what had been just hours earlier a busy street filled with traffic. Now it was simply a deserted field of snow. I did a belly flop and pretended I could swim my way to the other side.
But again, I remember the silence of it all. That, I think— the silence— is what Oliver’s poem captures so well.
I also think we live in a society which likes noise. Therefore, we turn the silent snow, snow which is meant to be felt not heard, we turn snow into noise before it even happens. And so, we predict snow-mageddons. (Slight pause.)
And these words are from the work known as Luke/Acts in the section commonly called Luke: “Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my Own, my Chosen; listen!’ When the voice had finished speaking, they saw no one but Jesus standing there. The disciples kept silent, telling nothing of what they had seen at that time to anyone.” (Slight pause.)
As was mentioned when today’s readings were introduced, these are both stories of theophanies— theophany— an experience of the real presence of God. [1] It was also said the Christmas story is a theophany. Indeed, I think one point we miss as we read Scripture is it’s filled with theophanies— experiences of the real presence of God and descriptions of the experience are repeated over and over.
After all, what else is the Christmas story about but an announcement of the in-breaking of God into our world? That is a theophany by any definition.
And so, the church goes from the theophany of Christmas into the Season of Epiphany, a season which proclaims the revelation of God by its very name and then ends the season with the story— the specific story— of yet another theophany, the Transfiguration. It is a way to say this is a prime message found in Scripture. So Scripture is, indeed, constantly telling us and telling us and telling us yet again that the experience of God is real.
Scripture actually constantly tells us not just that the experience of God is real. Scripture tells us God is real. (Slight pause.)
The language we use to tell that story, to tell others about the presence of God, matters not. The content matters not. Telling the story with exactness or even artfully is not the point. The point is to tell the story.
And point of the story? God is real. God is present among us. God is working in our lives. God is a part of our lives.
Hence, in making the point that God is real, the Transfiguration is one of the more fascinating stories of a theophany in all Scripture. The way I see it, several things make it so, make it fascinating. First, the voice of God says: “listen!”
In the era the New Testament was first heard, any Jew would have recognized this word, “listen,” as an echo of the Shema, the great commandment. “Hear, O Israel, Yahweh, our God, is one.”
This explains an understanding of the early church concerning the person of Jesus. Jesus is one with God. Further, this one word— “listen”— underscores the meaning in this passage and declarers there should be no mistake when it comes to understating that meaning. The story is a theophany.
Second, we have this (quote): “The disciples kept silent, telling nothing of what they had seen at that time to anyone.” (Slight pause.) In a telling of the same story but as it is found in another Gospel, Jesus instructs the disciples to keep silent. In this version Jesus says nothing.
So, in this telling they keep silent on their own. Why? Were they overwhelmed? Did they not understand? We are not told in the text.
I, myself, like to think the event we call the Transfiguration is both silent and demands silence— there is no noise in the background— it is silent and demands silence— so we can listen. I also think the voices we hear about in the story are more felt than heard.
So, in that sense, I think this is also true of our own experiences of God. God is more felt than heard. We may eventually put words to that experience. But unless we feel God, we do not hear God and we cannot, then, put our own voice to that experience.
This is one reason our denomination, the United Church of Christ, is on such solid ground in saying “God Is Still Speaking.” Our claim is that God speaks not because we discern words but because we experience God. Our claim is that God is real. Our claim is God is present among us. God is working in our lives. God is a part of our lives. (Pause.)
Arguably the greatest play ever written was Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Just before Hamlet dies, he makes a request of his best friend, Horatio. “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart / Absent thee from felicity awhile, / And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, / To tell my story.” (Sight pause.)
Tell my story. It is the request of a dying friend to testify to his reality. And that is where we struggle. If God is real for us, if God is working in our lives, if God is a part of our lives, if we experience God, can we, do we, tell the story?
To be clear: for those of us reticent to voice what we think about God, how God feels to us, I am not confining telling about our experience of God to mere language. Actions often do speak louder than words. And there are many ways to speak. (Slight pause.)
So, what is a theophany about? It is about the experience of the real presence of God. (Slight pause.) Well, what is your experience of the real presence of God? And how are you willing to share it in whatever way you are called, in whatever way you can? Amen.
02/10/2013
United Church of Christ, First Congregational, Norwich, New York
ENDPIECE: It is the practice of the Pastor to speak after the Closing Hymn, but before the Congregational Response and Benediction. This is an précis of what was said: “A pastor friend of mine recently posted on Facebook a cartoon of two people standing in an airport. One has a “tee shirt” on. The shirt is emblazoned with the words: ‘Let’s talk about Jesus.’ The caption has the one person saying to the other: ‘I figure this way no one will talk to me for the entire flight.’ But remember, telling the story is not and should not be confined to only to language. Language might prove to be inadequate.”
BENEDICTION: God heals and restores. God grants to us the grace and the talent to witness to the love God has for us. So let us live in the light God offers. And, therefore, let us be ready as we go into the world, for we are baptized in the power of the Spirit. And may the peace of Christ, which surpasses understanding, keep our minds and hearts in the companionship and will of the Holy Spirit, this day and forever more. Amen.
[1] The readings used were the ones assigned by the Lectionary from Exodus and Luke.
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