Transfiguration 1997 | Luke 9:28-36

There is a Hasidic Jewish story that tells of a young man who was praying late into the night. "O Lord," he prayed, "teach me your true name." Now the story doesn't say exactly what happened next, but suffice it to say that shortly thereafter, the young Jewish man was quivering underneath the bed, scared to death, and shouting, "O Lord, make me forget your true name!"

In our readings today, some very ordinary people get rather unwelcome first-hand glimpses of God's power and, not surprisingly, in both cases, the experience is pretty unsettling.

Like the Hasidic Jew, Joshua had asked for it. He had asked God for God's help, and like most of us, he was content with the asking and hoped for the best. He certainly was not prepared for a visit from the commander of the armies of the Lord.

Now, in most Old Testament passages like this, there is some ambiguity about exactly who this visitation is from. Is it an angel? Is it God himself coming round for a visit? Was Jacob wrestling with an angel or God? Was the fourth man in the fire with Shadrack, Meeshak and Abednigo an angel or the Lord? Scripture is often unclear, and sometimes inconsistent. The passage about Jacob taking on the stranger uses the word "angel" yet, it is made clear that it was God with whom Jacob wrestles, since his name was changed to Israel, which literally means, "One who struggles with God."

Our Hindu friends may say we are splitting hairs, since all is a manifestation of God. In the Christian tradition, however, these appearances have become known as "theophanies," or appearances in the Old Testament of the pre-incarnate Christ. If we take that as our starting place, Joshua finds himself in a very similar predicament to the disciples in our Gospel reading.

Unlike our Hasidic Jewish friend, though, Peter, having climbed with Jesus, James and John to the top of a mountain, did not beg for the vision to go away. Oh, no doubt he was quaking in his boots when Jesus started glowing like a searchlight flanked by two long-dead prophets. But it is interesting what Peter says. He doesn't say, "Master, make it go away!" No, he says, "Master, it is well that we are here. Let us make three booths, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah."

Peter knew that something glorious was taking place, something inexplicable, a moment that would pass and be gone forever. So he wanted to nail it down. "Let's build tents for these guys!" He was thinking, "talk them into staying a while."

This of course was not at all what Jesus had in mind. In fact, we don't know what Jesus had in mind. The Transfiguration is an odd tale, and it's difficult to know just how to interpret it. Many Bible scholars tell us that the story is a post-resurrection occurrence, nestled in the middle of the Gospels. I prefer to think of it however, as an occurrence OUT OF TIME. An inbreaking of God's Eternal Now into our linear calendar year.

The Greeks have two words for time. Chronos is the kind we are most familiar with. It is linear, moving from one moment to the next. It is the kind of time measured by watches and noted in encyclopedias. But there is another kind of time. The Greeks call it Kairos, God's time, timeless time, the kind that never moves from moment to moment but simply is, at all times and in all places. This is the kind of time that is measured by mythology and dreams, where all things exist silmutaneously. We celebrate chronos by going to work, making our appointments, racking up birthdays. But when we come to church, suddenly we are in a different kind of space.

We come to this table and partake of the meal shared by the faithful in all time and in all places. We witness before our very eyes the mystery of the crucifixion in the breaking of bread, and we proclaim the ever-present reality of the resurrection. The liturgical year does not rack up the numbers like our birthdays and calendars do: it is cyclic, always bringing us back to the manger, to the cross, to the empty tomb.

The veil of ordinary reality is drawn back, and for an instant we see the timeless being of God, a God who is not bound to dogma, or to calendars, or to the ideas of mortals.

Ask Joshua what God looks like. Perhaps he will tremble a little and say, "You don't know what you are asking." Ask the young Hasidic man, and he will say, "Are you nuts???" But ask Jesus and he will say, "I am the Bread of Life. If anyone eats of my bread that I will give you, yet never shall he hunger."

Like all people, we hunger to know God in a way that is personal, visual, human. In Jesus God became all of that and more. In the Eucharist, God gives us the ability to behold him each time we come to this table. We do not need to tremble or to throw ourselves to the ground. We do not need to cower under that bed, for Jesus said, "I do not call you slaves, but friends."

A little girl in Sunday School was asked by her teacher what she was drawing. She replied, "This is a picture of God." "But," said the teacher, "you know, no one knows what God looks like." "Well," said the little girl, "they will now."

Come to this table, expecting to see our God, with faith and thanksgiving. You might not get a clap of thunder or an angel with a flaming sword, but you will get the real presence of our "comfortable" Lord, which, thank God for all of us, is a lot easier on the nerves. Let us pray.

Like all of your people, O God, we long for your face. For many years we have called you "Father" and we ache for the physical sensation of your arms around us, your face smiling at us, your hands tending to our daily wounds. Help us, when we come to this your table, to understand the mystery of incarnation you enact with us each week. Help us to take comfort in your presence, even when it is under the veil of earthly things. For we ask this in the name of Christ our Lord. Amen.