Sunday of the Transfiguration
March 6, 2011
Exodus 24.12-18; Matthew 17. 1-9
+ Already this morning, with our new altar rail, we have had people make comments such as, “It looks so different in here.” And it DOES. But to be honest, the change is slight. It’s still an altar rail. It still kind of looks the old one—it’s the same color, the same basic design.
But…it’s better. It’s more solid. It’s birch wood.
When I brought my mother by St Stephen’s on Friday afternoon to see the altar rail for the first time, she, in her typical way, took the whole sanctuary in, and said “It all just comes together.” And it really does.
When we look at the somewhat slight changes that have been made here in the sanctuary we realize that somehow it all does come together. A lot of this is of course due to the Aesthetics Committee here at St. Stephen’s, who give wonderful suggestions on how to improve the physical beauty of the church building itself. With the beautiful frontals on the altar that Gin Templeton made, we see that our attention is drawn to the place it should be drawn—to the altar. And on the shelf behind the altar, we see that we now usually have some kind of display—whether it be these twigs that are there now or the flowers that are occasionally given, or the living plants we have at the other times. These displays don’t draw attention to themselves. They actually draw attention away from themselves to highlight the cross, which, like the altar, also is the center of our attention at worship. Subtle but well-thought-out-changes highlight and enhance our visual appreciation of things—they bring it all together.
I have heard again and again from people here at St. Stephen’s that these changes add beauty to what we see and also help us in our worship. And something visually appealing can truly enhance our worship experience, just the same way as good music enhances our sense of singing in worship. In a sense, these seemingly minor or inconsequential things transform worship for us. They help us open our hearts and minds and souls to God, yet without completely transforming what we see into something unrecognizable.
No doubt Peter, James and John thought somewhat like this when they gazed upon Jesus transfigured on the mount. He still looked like the Jesus they always knew. He still had the basic features. He was recognizable. But…he was different. He was transformed. He was transfigured by the Light which shone from within him.
On this last Sunday of Epiphany, we hear in our Gospel reading an echo of something we heard on our first Sunday of Epiphany. If you can remember back all the way to January 9, we also heard God speaking words very similar to what we hear this morning in our Gospel reading. On January 9, the First Sunday in Epiphany, we found Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. That morning I preached on the importance of baptism and how we really need to consider how important it is in our lives and how the Baptismal Covenant really does help define us as Christians. As Jesus rises out of those waters of the Jordan, we hear God say,
"This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."
Today, on this last Sunday in Epiphany, as Jesus is transfigured on the mountaintop, flanked by Moses representing the Law and Elijah representing the Prophets, both of which Jesus fulfills, and with Peter, James and John gazing on, we also hear again God speak, almost as an echo to what was said at Jesus’ baptism:
“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”
We find in all of this, that although Jesus is changed somewhat, that the situation has changed somewhat, God has not changed. In fact, in our reading from the Hebrew Bible this morning, we find God speaking to Moses in a very similar way as well. There we find, much as we find in our Gospel reading, a mountaintop, a cloud, and God’s glory—and God speaking to Moses much as God speaks to all of us in today’s Gospel. For us, these readings reveal to us that we too are to be available for such transfigurations.
Last Sunday I preached about being conduits through which God’s light shines, referencing specifically George Herbert’s poem, “Windows.” Being the conduit through which God’s Light shines means allowing ourselves to be transformed by that Light. It means being reborn by that Light. It means that, yes, we are still who we are. We still look the same. Yes, we are still cracked and warped windows. But that somehow, that Light coming through transforms the cracks and the warping and makes the whole window shine and glow.
As the Lenten season starts, we find everything dimming a bit. I often refer to these Lenten days as the long, gray days of Lent. To me they are. They are the time we when, whether we like it or not, we hear more talk in our scriptures and in our liturgy, of sin, of repentance, of being aware of our shortcomings and of trying turn away from those moments in which we fail. It is a time, to continue our Windows analogy, in which we examine the cracks and warps in our glass panes and we try to repair them in some way. But as we progress through Lent toward the glorious, blinding light of Easter morning, we realize that although the Light may seem dimmed, it at no point goes out. Even on Good Friday and Holy Saturday, when it will seem darkest of all, the Light will not be completely extinguished. We end the Season of Epiphany with this glorious vision of the Transfiguration. It essentially sustains us and upholds us until the Light of Easter shines upon us.
At the end of our liturgy this morning, the children will come forward to help me take down the alleluia banner and place it in a box, which will then be taken out and “buried” As we do this, the rest of us will sing “Alleluia! song of gladness.” After Wednesday—Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent—we will not be saying the word “Alleluia” in our liturgies until Easter.
Sometimes it’s very good to do things like this. It’s good to retire a word for a period of time. Because we often take words for granted. We use the word without thinking about it. Alleluia is one of those words. It’s a joyful word. It’s meant, essentially to be an exclamation. It’s what Peter, James and John no doubt exclaimed on the mount when they saw Jesus transfigured and the voice of God speaking to them. And when that word goes away, we miss it.
We find ourselves almost—just almost—saying it on occasion during Lent. And then we catch ourselves. When we do that, we appreciate it even more. We realize how important that word has become to us. We are conditioned to say it. And when it’s gone, we realize—yes, it is important.
It somewhat like when a loved one dies. When they’re gone, all of a sudden we remember little things about them that we wish we could have back—things that when they were here with us, we didn’t fully appreciate. Now that they’re gone, they become even more precious to us.
That’s what the word Alleluia is like. It’s a precious gem in our language that we need to remember is truly precious. And like the Light we experience today, we will carry it with us through Lent, even when we don’t actually say it. We will hold it close. We will still truly be, as St. Augustine once said of all Christians, “an Alleluia from head to toe.” We will still carry the Alleluia and the Light of Christ within us even through the grayness of Lent and the darkness of Holy Week. So that, on Easter morning, seven weeks from today, we will truly rejoice. That morning, we will say that word with all the meaning and joy it carries for us. And that morning, we will find that Light we have carried within us burst forth in glory and truly transfigure us. We will, on that glorious morning, say once again with a true and glorious joy,
“Alleluia!”
“Alleluia! Alleluia!”
March 6, 2011
Exodus 24.12-18; Matthew 17. 1-9
+ Already this morning, with our new altar rail, we have had people make comments such as, “It looks so different in here.” And it DOES. But to be honest, the change is slight. It’s still an altar rail. It still kind of looks the old one—it’s the same color, the same basic design.
But…it’s better. It’s more solid. It’s birch wood.
When I brought my mother by St Stephen’s on Friday afternoon to see the altar rail for the first time, she, in her typical way, took the whole sanctuary in, and said “It all just comes together.” And it really does.
When we look at the somewhat slight changes that have been made here in the sanctuary we realize that somehow it all does come together. A lot of this is of course due to the Aesthetics Committee here at St. Stephen’s, who give wonderful suggestions on how to improve the physical beauty of the church building itself. With the beautiful frontals on the altar that Gin Templeton made, we see that our attention is drawn to the place it should be drawn—to the altar. And on the shelf behind the altar, we see that we now usually have some kind of display—whether it be these twigs that are there now or the flowers that are occasionally given, or the living plants we have at the other times. These displays don’t draw attention to themselves. They actually draw attention away from themselves to highlight the cross, which, like the altar, also is the center of our attention at worship. Subtle but well-thought-out-changes highlight and enhance our visual appreciation of things—they bring it all together.
I have heard again and again from people here at St. Stephen’s that these changes add beauty to what we see and also help us in our worship. And something visually appealing can truly enhance our worship experience, just the same way as good music enhances our sense of singing in worship. In a sense, these seemingly minor or inconsequential things transform worship for us. They help us open our hearts and minds and souls to God, yet without completely transforming what we see into something unrecognizable.
No doubt Peter, James and John thought somewhat like this when they gazed upon Jesus transfigured on the mount. He still looked like the Jesus they always knew. He still had the basic features. He was recognizable. But…he was different. He was transformed. He was transfigured by the Light which shone from within him.
On this last Sunday of Epiphany, we hear in our Gospel reading an echo of something we heard on our first Sunday of Epiphany. If you can remember back all the way to January 9, we also heard God speaking words very similar to what we hear this morning in our Gospel reading. On January 9, the First Sunday in Epiphany, we found Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist in the River Jordan. That morning I preached on the importance of baptism and how we really need to consider how important it is in our lives and how the Baptismal Covenant really does help define us as Christians. As Jesus rises out of those waters of the Jordan, we hear God say,
"This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."
Today, on this last Sunday in Epiphany, as Jesus is transfigured on the mountaintop, flanked by Moses representing the Law and Elijah representing the Prophets, both of which Jesus fulfills, and with Peter, James and John gazing on, we also hear again God speak, almost as an echo to what was said at Jesus’ baptism:
“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”
We find in all of this, that although Jesus is changed somewhat, that the situation has changed somewhat, God has not changed. In fact, in our reading from the Hebrew Bible this morning, we find God speaking to Moses in a very similar way as well. There we find, much as we find in our Gospel reading, a mountaintop, a cloud, and God’s glory—and God speaking to Moses much as God speaks to all of us in today’s Gospel. For us, these readings reveal to us that we too are to be available for such transfigurations.
Last Sunday I preached about being conduits through which God’s light shines, referencing specifically George Herbert’s poem, “Windows.” Being the conduit through which God’s Light shines means allowing ourselves to be transformed by that Light. It means being reborn by that Light. It means that, yes, we are still who we are. We still look the same. Yes, we are still cracked and warped windows. But that somehow, that Light coming through transforms the cracks and the warping and makes the whole window shine and glow.
As the Lenten season starts, we find everything dimming a bit. I often refer to these Lenten days as the long, gray days of Lent. To me they are. They are the time we when, whether we like it or not, we hear more talk in our scriptures and in our liturgy, of sin, of repentance, of being aware of our shortcomings and of trying turn away from those moments in which we fail. It is a time, to continue our Windows analogy, in which we examine the cracks and warps in our glass panes and we try to repair them in some way. But as we progress through Lent toward the glorious, blinding light of Easter morning, we realize that although the Light may seem dimmed, it at no point goes out. Even on Good Friday and Holy Saturday, when it will seem darkest of all, the Light will not be completely extinguished. We end the Season of Epiphany with this glorious vision of the Transfiguration. It essentially sustains us and upholds us until the Light of Easter shines upon us.
At the end of our liturgy this morning, the children will come forward to help me take down the alleluia banner and place it in a box, which will then be taken out and “buried” As we do this, the rest of us will sing “Alleluia! song of gladness.” After Wednesday—Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent—we will not be saying the word “Alleluia” in our liturgies until Easter.
Sometimes it’s very good to do things like this. It’s good to retire a word for a period of time. Because we often take words for granted. We use the word without thinking about it. Alleluia is one of those words. It’s a joyful word. It’s meant, essentially to be an exclamation. It’s what Peter, James and John no doubt exclaimed on the mount when they saw Jesus transfigured and the voice of God speaking to them. And when that word goes away, we miss it.
We find ourselves almost—just almost—saying it on occasion during Lent. And then we catch ourselves. When we do that, we appreciate it even more. We realize how important that word has become to us. We are conditioned to say it. And when it’s gone, we realize—yes, it is important.
It somewhat like when a loved one dies. When they’re gone, all of a sudden we remember little things about them that we wish we could have back—things that when they were here with us, we didn’t fully appreciate. Now that they’re gone, they become even more precious to us.
That’s what the word Alleluia is like. It’s a precious gem in our language that we need to remember is truly precious. And like the Light we experience today, we will carry it with us through Lent, even when we don’t actually say it. We will hold it close. We will still truly be, as St. Augustine once said of all Christians, “an Alleluia from head to toe.” We will still carry the Alleluia and the Light of Christ within us even through the grayness of Lent and the darkness of Holy Week. So that, on Easter morning, seven weeks from today, we will truly rejoice. That morning, we will say that word with all the meaning and joy it carries for us. And that morning, we will find that Light we have carried within us burst forth in glory and truly transfigure us. We will, on that glorious morning, say once again with a true and glorious joy,
“Alleluia!”
“Alleluia! Alleluia!”
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment