Friends, this week, we finish up Epiphany and move into Lent, a word that is tied to the coming of Spring (yay!). Need some ideas for a Lenten practice? Just ask!
I’m considering a Lenten poetry study, through a theological lens. Because sometimes the world seems so fraught with complexity and ambiguity, because we often cannot wrap our minds around some change – (For example, the Alaska Stand on the Ocean City Boardwalk closing after 90 years!) I need scripture. I need poetry. They offer an alternate way into the complex and the ambiguous. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on this poem. See if you recognize it by its first line:
“Not like the brazen giant of Greek Fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land…”
Did that line ring a bell?
This one might be more familiar:
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”
The New Colossus was written by 19th Century poet Emma Lazarus. Intended as a gesture of worldwide welcome when it was mounted on a bronze plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty in 1903, the poem sparked some heated debate.
This poem, as poems will do, spurred reflection on a sixth-grade field trip to New York City. Daffodils had started to poke through the earth, but there was still a chill in the air as my boisterous classmates and I bounced and giggled, snacked, and serenaded our way up I-95 on the hard green vinyl bench seats of a yellow school bus. As I recall, it was even chillier when we finally got to our destination, but our bodies warmed quickly as we scrambled up the endless circular stairs into the glorious crown of the iconic statue gifted to us by France in 1886.
Looking out over New York Harbor would be a thrilling experience for any kid. But even from a cloud-high perspective, there’s no way our young minds could fully comprehend the monumental (get it?) symbolism of Lady Liberty’s light.
Similarly, in our Gospel reading, Peter, James, and John seemed to be having some difficulty of their own grasping the full magnitude of the light on that mountain.
Early church tradition holds that Mount Tabor is where the Transfiguration of Jesus took place. A dome-shaped hill in Northern Israel about 11 kilometers from the Sea of Galilee, and seven km from Nazareth, Mount Tabor was situated near a major trade route, one that was apparently worth fighting for, as it was home to countless bloody battles. Although several religious structures were built there over the centuries, only two remain, a Catholic and a Greek Orthodox church. There’s a 12K race around the mountain each April and a 5K hiking trail that’ll take you to the top. One source suggests the Hebrew word Taborcomes from the root word meaning “something fragile or easily broken.” Mount Tabor is a popular pilgrimage site, considered to be a “thin place.”
A thin place is where heaven and earth are said to meet, where profound spiritual experiences can and do happen. Stories of thin spaces vary from culture to culture. In these mystical places, it is said, the veil between the ordinary and the sacred is so thin, so fragile that one can get a glimpse into another realm.
Today’s thin space atop the mountain is chock full of fascinating details like a visitation from deceased Biblical luminaries, otherworldly light, and God’s voice from inside a cloud. And yet, theologians in general, especially Protestant ones, do not seem to know what to make of the Transfiguration. One writer suggests that we avoid it because it’s just too complex, ambiguous, and mystical, which makes some of us squirm. Not me. I say, bring it on.
All three synoptic Gospels include this story, albeit with slight variations. In his second letter, Peter recalls the event for his readers (2 Peter 1:16-17). And even though John’s Gospel doesn’t have a transfiguration story per se, one might make the case that the entirety of his gospel is infused with mystical light. In John, Jesus is the light.
In light of all that is happening in our world, perhaps we could use some special reminding that the veil between heaven and earth might actually be thinner than we might think.
Here’s what the 13th Century Sufi mystic poet Jalaluddin Rumi has to say about that veil:
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.
In such a fast-paced world, it’s tempting to go back to sleep, to check out. To numb out. But keep awake friends. Lent is almost here. We are but dust. Remember?
This just in from the farthest reaches of the cosmos: The Webb Telescope reveals Unpredictable bursts of light pulsing from the gas and dust surrounding Sagittarius A*, offering new insights into the mysterious behavior of the most massive object in our galaxy
.
Back on earth, some churches are distributing tiny little red cards with detailed instructions for what to do if confronted by immigration officials. Indeed, some things do feel quite fragile, if not completely broken.
Here’s the poet Mary Oliver:
"Why do people keep asking to see
God's identity papers
when the darkness opening into morning
is more than enough?”
Certainly, any god might turn away in disgust.
Think of Sheba approaching
the kingdom of Solomon.
Do you think she had to ask,
“Is this the place?"
Is this the place? Asking for our future children. Asking for anyone who, like me, has ever taken their comfortable life for granted. Is this the place? Or is it a thin place? It’s hard to say. Things feel a little cloudy these days. I refuse to stop looking for the light (Mt. 13:43).
Transfiguration by Madeline L’Engle:
Suddenly they saw him
the way he was,
the way he really was
all the time,
although they had never
seen it before,
the glory which blinds
the everyday eye
and so becomes invisible.
This is how
he was, radiant, brilliant,
carrying joy
like a flaming sun
in his hands.
This is the way he was—is—
from the beginning,
and we cannot bear it.
So he manned himself,
came manifest to us;
and there on the mountain
they saw him, really saw him,
saw his light.
We all know that if we really
See him we die.
But isn’t that what is
required of us?
Then, perhaps, we will see
each other, too.
I keep thinking about those little red cards tucked away in pockets and purses.
And then I hear Rumi’s words:
“Ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep.”
We cannot always comprehend the meaning while we’re all up inside a monumental moment. Sometimes silence is the only appropriate response to the holy. Silence and listening, and looking at one another with the sincere intention of seeing Christ there.
The veil is thin my friends. Your own light is near blinding. Don’t go back to sleep.
Amen.
