Lectionary reading: TRANSFIGURATION SUNDAY - February 14, 2010

Exodus 34:29-35; Luke 9:28-36 (37-43a)

Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!"

MT. METAPHOR by Larry Patten

Moses. God Almighty. The mountain.

After the notorious “golden calf affair,” and after the once-shattered commandments were given a second time, the children of Israel’s leader’s face glowed. His visit with the divine had been, literally, a mountaintop experience. Indeed, Moses veiled his countenance since his appearance intimidated his followers.

Jesus also climbed a mountain and had—with his whole being aglow—a Holy encounter. Tradition refers to this Moses-like moment as the transfiguration. Changed. Transformed. Like a light piercing the darkness of a sunlit day.

The mountaintop epiphany is the ultimate metaphor for the old becoming new.

Take it literally. Ask the next person you see when they’ve had a mountaintop experience. Maybe they’ll tell you about climbing Everest. More likely it’ll be when they parked their car on the road’s shoulder while driving over the Rockies to view deer or mist forming in the valley or a rainbow painting the sky. The first time I asked my wife to marry me occurred in the mountains during a church backpack. A rainsquall had passed. Water dribbled from nearby trees. Suddenly I had to propose. I couldn’t stop the words tumbling from my mouth. The light changed. Her face (yes, really) glowed. And then she said something like . . . isn’t this too soon? Let’s wait more. Let’s pray more. Let’s think about this more. Yup, I had to propose again. But let me literally tell ya: I know, deep in my heart, a personal, literal mountaintop moment*. We still chuckle about my first, unexpected question and her request for us to wait. Our faces possess a hint of a glow when we share the story.

Take it metaphorically. Ask another person: tell me about one of your mountaintop moments in life. Who needs a real Everest or a rainbow or a grove of dripping trees? You’ll hear about a job promotion. The birth of a child. One forgiving another. A doctor saying, “Remission.” Changed. Transformed. A light blazing in the darkness. History claims the metaphorical mountaintop with Martin Luther King Jr. dreaming in a crowded Washington D.C. park or the signers of the Declaration of Independence scheming behind closed doors in a Philadelphia room.

When I read about Jesus’ transfiguration, about that exhilarating experience, I must confess to irreverence. The writer of Luke’s Gospel pens, “Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him.” Him being Jesus. But how did the they—Peter, James and John—know who those guys were? Of course they knew Jesus. But did they know Elijah because they were friends on his Facebook page? Had they seen photos of Moses from a Ken Burns documentary? My silliness expands and I wonder if the transfiguration played out like a comic strip or political cartoon with Moses identified because he carried stone tablets tucked under his arm and Isaiah—ever the prophet—angrily gestured with a clenched fist or a wagging finger. Or maybe both, in fine cartoon form, had dialog clouds labeled with their names.

How did the disciples know it was Elijah the prophet and Moses the lawgiver from generations before? How silly of me. But I read Luke and that’s where I get stuck.

Until I remember the mountaintop experiences I’ve had. Even the literal ones are metaphorical. Even the most essential ones in my life are less a memory and more a living, ongoing truth. A light for today. A mixture of knowing and believing, of trusting and hoping, that seems right. That makes even insignificant me feel, to be bluntly Biblical, chosen. That’s what God said to Jesus, announced to the bewildered disciples, claimed for those who dare faith: this is my chosen.

A transfigurative moment chooses you and makes you feel chosen. Alive. Living. Now.

How could James and John and Peter know they gazed upon the man who’d wandered in the wilderness for forty years or the fellow whose lips were touched by a live coal and shouted “Send me!”? My literal and rational side suspects it’s Luke (or Mark first, and then Luke and Matthew) concocting a tall tale as high as a mountain.

Maybe.

And yet, the tall tale is all truth. We look back on the mountaintop moments and what do we honestly remember? Strap me to a lie detector and ask me blunt questions about sputtering Will you marry me? to my then not-wife. That moment mattered so much to me. And still does. But who was on the backpack with us? How long before had it rained? What Sierra lake were we near? Was it the first or last day of the trip? What did I wear? What did my future wife wear?

Oh yes, I’ll get some facts straight. I’m not a complete idiot. But you know what’s most important? Her face glowed. It did. It was, and remains, a transformative moment. And it’s only mine and doesn’t compare well with God’s declaration of claiming Jesus as the “chosen one.”

But it helps me inadequately understand. Was that really Elijah? Really Moses? Doesn’t matter. All of the life-giving law and all of the power of the prophetic call to justice had changed in Jesus. And with the language of metaphor, of fractured memory and faithful courage, we—along with James and John and Peter—look back so that we will look forward: the Holy chooses to claim a relationship with us.

*And aren’t I a clever lad to share a mountaintop proposal for a Bible reading that will be read on Valentine’s Day. Good boy!

in Peace,

Larry Patten

(Written on February 2, 2010)

Why AND YET?

As a conjunction, and yet connects two parts of a sentence or thought. When “and yet” appears, it bridges the two "parts" to declare more is coming.

I always use the phrase And Yet in my weekly reflections to remember that with God, there is always "more." I believe, in God's Realm of Love, that even the worst news is never the last news.