But only they who listen

More than a hundred years ago, Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote four short lines I love, and she hid them in her impossibly long poem, Aurora Leigh. [1]

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries.

I love the majestic elegance of that third line, But only he who sees, takes off his shoes – and I love how the rhythm and elegance then simply collapse into the rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries. Plucking blackberries – something so sweet and familiar, and suddenly it sounds so banal.

Browning tells us that the divine is not a far-away reality in terms of space and time, but rather one that crams the everyday: every common bush is afire with God. The thing to consider, this Victorian writer insists, is not the presence or absence or distance of the divine, but whether or not we see what is there and respond to what is there.

We have built microscopes that allow us to look deep into things, we have come up with powerful telescopes that give us glimpses of cosmic events that happened millions of years ago, but we also sense that even the most advanced technology will not necessarily open our eyes to see what is there: a universe crammed with heaven.

Every year, between the seasons of Epiphany and Lent, we hear this story of Jesus leading Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. Every year, we climb this mountain with them in order to see with greater clarity. This mountain is the vantage point from where we look back on Jesus’ birth and his ministry in Galilee, and forward to his journey to Jerusalem and the conflicts that lead to his death. We look back and we look forward and we ask ourselves, “Where is God in all this?”

It doesn’t matter where we locate the mountain on a map; it’s not a matter of geography, and this mountain is not for tourists. You can fly to Israel, take a bus to Galilee, and local guides will gladly take you to the place where Jesus was transfigured. But chances are you’ll find yourself on top of a hill that doesn’t look any more glorious than the rest. The mountain of the transfiguration belongs in the landscape of our spiritual imagination, not on a topographical map.

According to the story we heard, strange and wonderful things happened on the top of that mountain. Peter, James and John saw Jesus like they had not seen him before. His face shining like the sun. His hands that had touched the sick and broken bread with thousands by the lake – his hands were afire. His feet, dusty from walking the streets and fields of Galilee – his feet had light pouring out of them. His whole body was aglow with the glory of heaven. Moses and Elijah appeared, the friends of God, and they were talking with him.

Peter, James and John were on the mountain with Jesus, and in one glorious moment their insight into who he was, was changed profoundly. Their perception of where he belonged in the story of God and God’s people was opened, and they saw a great deal more than they had ever imagined: They saw the body of Jesus crammed with heaven, light pouring out in every direction. “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God,” Peter had declared only days earlier, only half knowing what he was saying – but now he saw it!

“Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” What do we do when by the grace of God we see who God’s Messiah is with greater clarity than we ever thought possible? Peter gives voice to an inclination that is common among us. We want to build something to capture the moment and make it last. We want to stay and behold the glory, floating far above the fray of the world below, at home on the mountain of light and truth. We want to build a tent, a booth, a tabernacle, a church – something to make a home on earth for heaven’s glory.

But there is a voice that dashes our pious phantasies in mid-flight. “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” The same voice was heard when Jesus was baptized down in the river, down in the valley, down in the world below.

No matter how glorious the vision on the top of the mountain, the way of Jesus doesn’t end there. Our journey with him doesn’t take us out of the world and into realms of pure spiritual splendor. Jesus leads the disciples down the mountain to the foothills and the plains below, to the towns where people are hurting and to the camps where people seek refuge from violence, to the streets where people are crying out for justice and dignity, and to the many places where the heavy blanket of despair threatens to smother all hope. Our journey with Jesus doesn’t take us out of the world but deeper into it.

“Get up and do not be afraid,” Jesus said to the disciples. And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. Without heavenly companions, without heavenly splendor, he himself is the tabernacle, the reality of God’s abiding presence in the world. No need for us to make a home on earth for heaven’s glory when heaven’s glory has come down to be with us until the end. And so we follow him down the mountain and then on the long climb up to Jerusalem and to the hill they called Golgotha.

In startling contrast, the mountain of the transfiguration becomes the hill of execution. There it is not a bright cloud overshadowing the scene, but rather a great and dreadful darkness. On the mountain, Jesus’ clothes became dazzling white, but under the cross soldiers divided his clothes among themselves by casting lots. On the mountain, Jesus spoke with Moses and Elijah, but on the cross he was taunted by two criminals. On the mountain, a heavenly voice declared, “This is my Son, the Beloved,” but on Golgotha the hostile crowd shouted, “If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.” On the mountain, Peter wanted to stay and build dwellings, but at the crucifixion he was nowhere to be found. The contrast is startling and stark.

On the mountain of the transfiguration, we reflect on our desire to see and be with God, but on Golgotha, we reflect on God’s desire to be with us.

We climb this mountain before the long journey of Lent so we remember in the darkness of Good Friday who this Jesus is: God’s Beloved whom we despised, the judge who bears our verdict, Emmanuel, God with us to the end of the age.

The long journey of Lent is about our transfiguration and the transfiguration of the world. During the season leading up to Holy Week and Easter, we are intentional about centering our lives in God’s will for us, and to that end we pray, we study, or practice another spiritual discipline. We ask for the light of God to shine in our hearts that we might be filled with the knowledge of God’s glory shining in the face of Jesus (2 Corinthians 4:6).

The long journey is about our transfiguration and the transfiguration of the world. We begin to see God’s glory in the face of Jesus, and soon we see the face of Jesus in the faces of every man, woman or child. Love is the light shining in our hearts that opens our eyes to see what is there, in every common bush and every human face.

When Moses came down from the mountain he brought with him ten commandments and some 603 more. When the disciples followed Jesus down the mountain there was just one commandment resounding in their heart: Listen to him. You may think that simplified things considerably, but it didn’t. Listening is just as difficult as seeing what is there. The world resounds with Christ’s presence and call, but only they who listen, hear — the rest sit around or go about their business. To listen to Jesus is not just a matter of paying attention to what he says or reading very carefully the words printed in red. To listen to him is to let his whole life speak to us down here in the foothills and plains of everyday. To listen to him is to let his whole life speak to our fragmented lives until they shine like the sun.

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[1] Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh (New York: C. S. Francis & Co, 1857)  p. 275-276

Glory in the Gray

Friday night, I watched the opening ceremony for the Olympic winter games in Vancouver. I was mesmerized by the play of light and sound, celebrating Canada’s cultures and regions.

I watched with awe as ice turned into water, and I saw whales gliding across the bottom of the stadium – as if we all sat in a giant glass bottom space ship hovering above the sea.

I saw a boy flying like Peter Pan, carried by the wind, across the undulating prairie. I saw mountains rising from the plains, giant trees dwarfing the men and women dancing around their trunks. I saw towers of glass, athletes on snow and ice, I saw thousands of flickering lights and faces reflecting the wonder.

I heard drums and fiddles, poetry and chant, songs and hymns – it was amazing, beautiful, deeply moving, and I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to call it a spiritual experience.

NBC, however, made sure I didn’t get too carried away. Whenever I got close to jumping up from the couch and joining the dance or whenever I was being pulled in so completely that I started to forget where I was—they cut to commercials.

In the blink of an eye, I found myself transported from the heights of imagination and creativity back to the van with the two guys at Sonic discussing the benefits of the value menu.

Friday night was the first time I remember that I got angry at actors in a commercial for completely ruining the moment. It was just like you and your sweetheart enjoying a romantic dinner at home; across the flames of the candles you are looking into each other’s eyes, and the moment is filled with all your happiest memories and your sweetest dreams. And then the phone rings, and you do let the machine get it, but you can still hear the voice of some stranger eager to talk with you about something that’s missing in your life – when the only thing missing is the beauty of the moment that abruptly ended just seconds ago, the moment you wanted to last, the moment you hoped would take you away like a ride on a magic carpet.

Two obvious lessons:

One – turn off all phones and stick a sock in the door bell before you light the candles tonight.

Two – don’t count on tv to take you anywhere without trying to convince you that fulfillment awaits those who purchase more stuff.

We are near the beginning of Lent, only three days away from Ash Wednesday, and during Lent we practice and proclaim the Christian counter argument to our culture of consumption: Fulfillment awaits those who know God, and that knowledge is acquired in an entirely different way.

In the middle of Luke’s narrative of the gospel there is this mountain; it simply appears, without name or introduction:

Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.

Not a mountain, but the mountain. What mountain was that? I don’t believe it’s a matter of geography. Just like the river in the song, As I went down in the river to pray, any river can be the river – and ultimately, prayer itself is the river. Any mountain can be the mountain, because ultimately prayer itself is the mountain.

Jesus went up and the three went with him, with sore feet and weary legs. They had been working long hours bringing the good news to villages in Galilee and curing diseases everywhere, setting food before thousands and gathering the left over pieces into baskets. They were tired. When Jesus went up on the mountain, they stumbled along behind him.

And while Jesus was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes were shining like the sun was rising inside of them. Everything the three looked at was bathed in that dazzling light; they were weighed down with sleep, but they saw Jesus, talking with Moses and Elijah. They saw their master and friend in glory, talking with the lawgiver and the prophet.

What were they talking about? Moses, Elijah and Jesus were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. They were in fact talking about his death on that hill outside of Jerusalem, at the end of the way he was on, but they did not use the word death. And they did not speak of it as something that would happen to him, but something he would accomplish. The word translated as departure is the Greek exodos, and with Moses right there, no other hint was needed.

Jesus would go to Jerusalem to set God’s people free, leading them from bondage to freedom. This time the great opponent wasn’t pharaoh, it wasn’t even caesar; the struggle was against sin and death and all the powers that cut off God’s creatures from abundant life, that keep God’s people from entering the joy of the kingdom and from knowing fulfillment in the presence of God. It would be another exodus, with Jesus laying down his own body to part the waters and the Risen One being the first on the other side.

Elijah was the ancient prophet whose reappearance meant that redemption was near, that the Messiah was due, and there was Elijah talking to Jesus; everything was coming together perfectly.

The light they saw was the glory of God illuminating the way of Christ and confirming it to be the way of God. They were only watching, but it was awesome and holy, and they wanted it to last; everything was beautiful and clear, bathed in heavenly light. They knew God like they hadn’t known God before, and all they could think of was, abide.

“Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Master, don’t let this end; abide, and let us behold this beauty for good.

Prayer has the power to mediate divine presence; the mountain can be any mountain, the river can be any river. God’s glory can erupt anytime and anywhere, and when it does we can mark the spot with a rock like Jacob who saw a stairway set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven, and the angels of God ascending and descending on it. “How awesome is this place!” he said. “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it,” and he called it Beth-El, house of God.

We can mark the spot with a cairn or a rock or a temple or three dwellings or a sanctuary, but God’s glory will not abide in our dwellings, God’s glory will not stay on our map.

On the mountain, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were terrified. In that darkness nothing dazzled, nothing shone, all they could see was the absence of all things visible. Whereas before everything had been exceedingly clear and orderly, now they were completely in the dark without any sense of place or direction. It was as if they had fallen from the heights of holy awe to the depths of trembling fear. And that’s when they heard the voice.

"This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him."

Just one commandment for the road ahead. Just one commandment for the search for the glory of God in the lowlands of life.

They didn’t say a word about what they had seen. They followed Jesus down from the mountain, down to where the needy crowd was waiting, down to the lowlands of life. And there, at the foot of the mountain, the silence was broken by a father who cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son; he is my only child.”

His cry was like the echo of the voice they had heard on the top of the mountain, only here it was filled with pain and helplessness in the face of shrieking, unrelenting demons that maul and abuse us.

This is where we long to see transfiguration, down here in the valleys and plains where demons need to be cast out and children wait for healing. This is where we work and watch and pray for the transfiguration that illumines all the earth with the light of heaven. Down here is where we encounter God’s Chosen One, who teaches us to pray and watch and work, always trusting in God’s presence and promise. Down here is where we listen to the One who embodies God’s boundless grace and unceasing compassion. This is where we hear him, calling us to repentance and challenging us to follow him all the way to the cross and to Easter in our search for the glory of God.

The mountain is there so we can climb to the summit and catch a more complete vision of the valleys and plains below and the land beyond. The mountain is there for us not to settle down on it but to come down from it.

In her novel, Gilead Marilynne Robinson tells the story of John Ames, a minister in a little town called Gilead in Iowa. The novel takes the form of a letter that this old man begins to write in 1956 to his young son, and just before the letter ends and the novel closes, the author has John Ames write,

It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of creation and it turns to radiance for a moment or a year or the span of a life and then it sinks back into itself again and to look at it no one would know it had anything to do with fire or light. (…) But the Lord is more constant and far more extravagant than it seems to imply. Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see [Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004), p. 245]

That little willingness to see is what we nurture during Lent with simple disciplines like turning off the phone for thirty minutes of prayer every day; or leaving work early twice a week for a walk through the neighborhood; or trading tv time for reading time; or preparing food for strangers.

And we nurture more than just a little willingness to see.

We nurture our courage to trust that the Lord never ceases to breathe on this poor gray ember of creation.

We nurture our desire to be present when the Spirit blows away the ashes to show us the glory in the gray. [ With thanks to George MacLeod for the beautiful expression, “Show us the glory in the grey.”]