Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36
Being in a cloud disorients.
When fog envelops the landscape, the familiar drive up the curvy, hilly road to my home suddenly becomes scary and unpredictable, especially at night. Buck Island Road twists and turns. Under normal circumstances I navigate the corners mindlessly, although always with an eye for the route’s namesakes. But when the clouds hover on the ground I creep around each bend, able to see only a few feet in front of me. I become hyper alert despite my usual comfort with the terrain.
Being in the cloud disorients. The gray mist casts a mystical shadow over trees, meadows and mountains. Our sense of sound becomes critical as our range and acuity of vision diminishes. Movement slows because we cannot see very far in front of us and have no idea what might emerge around us. As a child, I remember living near a large sea port, the surreal quality of hearing the fog horns of ships that I could not see until they revealed themselves at the dock. How could something so large utterly disappear or be so close but absolutely invisible?
Jesus takes Peter, James and John up the mountain to pray, but once the cloud descends, they find themselves terrified and confused. The dazzling white of Jesus’ clothes no longer shines as brightly. Perhaps they cannot see Jesus’ changed face. Moses and Elijah – those pillars of the faith, reminders of the law and prophets, purveyors of tradition and promised future, boundaries and challenge – vanish. Being in the cloud, lost in the fog, disorients. No longer weighed down with sleep, their senses grow heightened with adrenaline as they wonder what might be revealed and from where.
The voice from heaven must have been as unnerving as a cargo ship’s horn coming to dock on a foggy morning, everything quite and cloaked, until God says: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” God is far closer than Peter, James and John ever imagined, unquestionably present and yet invisible.
Maybe that’s what mountaintop experiences reveal: Sometimes we need to be disoriented in order to truly find our way. Sometimes we must not only just keep awake but be on high alert in order to experience the divine. Sometimes the familiar transforms into the holy and God appears on roads we’ve traveled countless times. Sometimes the pillars of the past point the way to a transfigured, unforeseen new future. Sometimes in our terror, the glory of God surrounds us. Sometimes, once we’ve seen Jesus’ face, been in the company of Moses and Elijah and heard God’s voice, all we can do is keep silent and await further instructions.
The story of the Transfiguration disorients. I am not sure what to do with visions of long-dead people or clothes that glow or the face of Jesus somehow changed or a fast-descending fog or a booming voice from heaven. I know about prayer, at least a little. I know about going to a beautiful or far-off or secluded place in search of solace or a sense of the holy. I know about gathering a few close friends in hopes of not being alone or for some semblance of safety. I know about being dog tired and forcing myself to stay awake because circumstances didn’t allow for rest in that moment. I know about being terrified, lost in a fog, literally and metaphorically, every sense on hyper alert. But all I can do is wonder what it might be like to see Jesus radiate with light in the company of Moses and Elijah only to have them fade from sight while God tells me to shut up and listen to the One sent to save me.
Seeing God’s glory as reflected in a mirror disorients. We know only in part. And yet, we act with boldness because the dazzling light of Christ and the beautiful image of God permeates through the densest of fog. The Word echoes through creation and we cannot help but keep silent, lean in, listen and wait. We may not know everything, but we know unmistakably God’s presence and power and therefore we do not lose heart even as we wonder what will come next.
I’ve always found it ironic that when driving in the fog the best way to see is to keep the headlights on the lowest setting. I know this from drivers’ education and experience, and yet every time I test what I already know. In my fear, I desire to see farther ahead than I am able; I flip the headlights to bright. It takes mere seconds before I turn them down again, the reflection off the mist too much and too confusing. The only way to navigate is slowly, with minimal light and maximum alertness, looking for what might unexpectedly come from the shadows, listening for signs of other people and creatures on the road, aware that one never knows what might emerge as if out of nowhere, even on very familiar terrain.
The story of the Transfiguration reminds me that when I am weighed down with sleep, tired, barely able to function, desperately trying to be dutiful and attentive to Jesus, I am not alone. Other disciples surround me. The covenant of God includes me. The promises and admonishments of the prophets offer me hope and spur me to action. I am enveloped in the cloud that connects heaven and earth. If I can do nothing else, I can be silent and listen. I am in the very presence of the Son of God and a divine Word will come, a great, certain mercy that enables me to not lose no matter how terrifying the fog.
This week:
- When have you heard the voice of God? How did you know it was God speaking? What did you do as a result?
- What is the significance of going to the mountain to pray? What difference does our physical location make in communicating with God?
- When have you been disoriented, either literally or metaphorically? What happened? How did you find your way?
- What is the role of community in hearing the voice of God and discerning what God is saying?
- Are you individually and as a community of faith listening to Jesus? How are you doing so? What are you hearing?
- Look at other passages in Luke where Jesus is praying (3:21, 5:16, 6:12, 9:18, 11:1). What do you notice in these passages?
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