Sunday of the Transfiguration
1.
I’m thinking this Transfiguration Sunday of a picture I saw this week—I think it was published in a Minneapolis paper—of a rather disheveled woman in an ordinary aqua blue bathrobe; and she’s using her phone to film ICE agents in the street, early one morning, as they aggressively detain immigrant neighbors and force them into unmarked vans. And it’s probably 5 degrees outside.
I imagine she’s been sitting at her breakfast table four or five floors up, enjoying a perfect cup of dark roast coffee with a warm English muffin, and closing her eyes with gratitude for the simplicity of a day to herself. And I imagine she’s been listening to a little music in the background, maybe a little morning jazz on her favorite radio station. Something easy and sweet.
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| Photo by Leila Navidi, Minnesota Star Tribune |
But then her phone buzzes, a notice comes in on a Signal channel, and she dashes four flights down, into the street, without wasting even a moment to get dressed. ICE agents masked up and wound up. Whole families traumatized. And the robed woman shows up for her neighbors exactly as she is, precisely as she is, human and heartbroken, her whole self. In her aqua blue bathrobe. Because this moment in our history is not about heroism or saviorism or any of that; it’s about showing up. As we are. As she is. Just showing up. For our neighbors.
The irrepressible Alan Watts once said: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” And it may well be that this is the message, the invitation, even the gospel this Transfiguration Sunday. “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” She is something like an icon. The woman in her bathrobe. Without brushing the hair from her eyes. Leaving the radio on. Down four flights and into the street. Her phone ready to roll. Showing up for her neighbors.
And I’m reminded, then, of these lines in Beverly Tatum’s psalm:
And what does God’s Love require of us?
Throughout the ages it is the same:
to act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with our God.
Let us listen and follow directions.
Let our actions be our song of praise.
Isn’t that the line for 2026? “Let our actions be our song of praise.”
2.
We might say that Transfiguration Sunday is something of a “liminal” moment in liturgical time. Which is to say it’s not yet Lent; that begins on Wednesday, this week, with the tracing of ashes and dust into our skin and skulls. Not Lent, but not Epiphany either. In liturgical time, we’re between seasons, off of one well-worn path, but not yet onto the other. And that’s what liminality is, right? A space where old paths no longer track, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves. A longtime relationship unravels. Graduation beckons. A partner dies. A new calling arrives. Liminal seasons. And in these liminal seasons, we wander a little, or even a lot. We have to. Once trusted truths seem less certain. Trails once loved don’t work. The world seems both bigger and stranger.
I imagine this is something our friends in Minneapolis and Portland have lived with this past month. The world seeming both bigger and stranger. Their streets seeming dangerous and cruel, and yet, and yet, holy ground just the same. Holy ground. Where old paths no longer work, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves.
I don’t know why, exactly, but all those icicles out there, all those spikey, dripping icicles are signs to me of this liminality, this betweenness, today; not yet warming into spring, but not frigid, freezing winter either. Symbols of transformation, spiritual and communal and ecological. Change is in the air, and it’s in our bodies, and it’s in our communities, and it’s even in our eaves and gutters. And where all this change is going is anybody’s guess. But ambiguity need not be the enemy of faith; if we’re prayerful about it.
There are layers and layers of meaning and mystery in the story of Jesus’ transfiguration on that mountain in the countryside. The storyteller wants us to see Jesus, to imagine Jesus, to understand Jesus in the great tradition of the Hebrew prophets, prophets like Moses and Elijah. Like Moses and Elijah, Jesus comes to make a claim for God’s universal love, for God’s justice and mercy. And like Moses and Elijah, Jesus will insist on covenants of compassion and kindness. People of faith showing up.
And then, did you notice how the storyteller playfully mocks Peter’s fascination with permanence? Peter’s passion for memorializing this moment in sanctuaries that mark it forever as more precious, even more holy than others? It’s to be expected. Of course Peter wants to build a retreat, or a temple or maybe even a spa on that mountain. It’s a pretty cool spot.
But of course, Jesus quickly insists that they retrace their steps, that the summit is not their home, that the work of love awaits in the valleys and villages below. And as the disciples follow him down, stepping with him into the lives and heartache of human communities there, the disciples begin to wonder aloud and discuss among themselves what this resurrection business is really all about. When he says he will rise from the dead, what in the world is he meaning to say? It’s not all that obvious.
And again, we’re in a liminal space, a liminal season. A season for conversation and discussion, a season for bewilderment and wonder. Only when we let go sometimes, only when we peel away old habits and certainties, does grace reveal herself anew. Ambiguity is hardly the enemy of faith; it can indeed be faith’s good friend. If we’re prayerful about it.
3.
The most compelling message in all this may be hidden in plain sight. And that’s simply this: that Jesus matters. Jesus matters. You do not have to be a literalist to find that Jesus and the stories of his life awaken in us a spirit of courage that defies complacency and despair. You do not have to be a fundamentalist to find that Jesus and the traditions around his story inspire among us practices that make our hearts tender for service and resistance. And you do not have to be a zealot to find that Jesus walks with you, a source of wisdom in seasons of unrest, a companion and friend along roads once deserted.
Not the fundamentalist version of Jesus, the Jesus who aims to supersede all other teachers and saviors; and not the orthodox version of Jesus, the Jesus who threatens the world with judgment lest we wander from his side.
And then, did you notice how the storyteller playfully mocks Peter’s fascination with permanence? Peter’s passion for memorializing this moment in sanctuaries that mark it forever as more precious, even more holy than others? It’s to be expected. Of course Peter wants to build a retreat, or a temple or maybe even a spa on that mountain. It’s a pretty cool spot.
But of course, Jesus quickly insists that they retrace their steps, that the summit is not their home, that the work of love awaits in the valleys and villages below. And as the disciples follow him down, stepping with him into the lives and heartache of human communities there, the disciples begin to wonder aloud and discuss among themselves what this resurrection business is really all about. When he says he will rise from the dead, what in the world is he meaning to say? It’s not all that obvious.
And again, we’re in a liminal space, a liminal season. A season for conversation and discussion, a season for bewilderment and wonder. Only when we let go sometimes, only when we peel away old habits and certainties, does grace reveal herself anew. Ambiguity is hardly the enemy of faith; it can indeed be faith’s good friend. If we’re prayerful about it.
3.
The most compelling message in all this may be hidden in plain sight. And that’s simply this: that Jesus matters. Jesus matters. You do not have to be a literalist to find that Jesus and the stories of his life awaken in us a spirit of courage that defies complacency and despair. You do not have to be a fundamentalist to find that Jesus and the traditions around his story inspire among us practices that make our hearts tender for service and resistance. And you do not have to be a zealot to find that Jesus walks with you, a source of wisdom in seasons of unrest, a companion and friend along roads once deserted.
Not the fundamentalist version of Jesus, the Jesus who aims to supersede all other teachers and saviors; and not the orthodox version of Jesus, the Jesus who threatens the world with judgment lest we wander from his side.
No, Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to awe and wonder at the heart of biblical faith. Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to the holy gifts discovered in neighborliness and solidarity. Jesus matters, because in his company we find mercy in transgressing boundaries and crossing borders and embracing God’s call to unity and communion. We break the rules that need to be broken, as he does, in order to reveal God’s love in human form and ordinary time.
Turning toward Lent, we hear once again Jesus’ puzzling but crisp call to discipleship. “Take up the cross,” he says, “and follow me.” Across these next forty days, leading eventually to the shadows of Maundy Thursday and his own sacrifice on Good Friday, Jesus will reiterate this call and invite you and me to follow along. It is not an easy path. It requires the deepest kind of courage and a love that bears and believes and endures all things. That’s where Lent will take us.
What happens on that mountain, at the moment of his transfiguration, is for us, for the disciples, for all who would choose the path of Christian discipleship. So it’s important that we know who it is that is calling us. The Christ who takes the child into his lap and calls us to love and protect all the children. It’s important that we know who it is that is calling us. The Christ who wanders homeless and hungry through the streets and begs us for hospitality and kindness. It’s important that we know who it is that is calling us. The Christ who looks upon those, even those who would strike and crucify him, and asks for God’s forgiveness. It’s so, so important that we know who it is that is calling us. “Take up the cross,” he says, “and follow me.”
4.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that Minneapolis woman in the blue bathrobe is today’s text come to life in our American streets. Not the glossy Christ, not the superhero Christ, but the Christ disheveled and determined, the Christ in her bathrobe showing up for her neighbors. She is transfigured by God’s grace, and linked by love to the prophets of old, the lovers of life who cried out for freedom. And she is calling on disciples and friends to forget about being right all the time, and choose love and compassion instead; to set aside weapons and vengeance and take up the tools of kindness and peace; to trust in the perfect imperfections of our lives. And then to show up. Just as we are. Precisely as we are. Unbrushed heads of hair. In our aqua blue bathrobes. To love and love and love so more.
You see, resurrection is not just an improbable mystery; in fact, it’s really not that at all. Resurrection is the gift we receive in practicing our faith, after the manner of Jesus himself. In taking Jesus to heart, in tracing his steps and loving his story, we discover that our days too are transfigured with grace. Not because we’re any better than any other flock or tribe. Not because we’re destined for glory and others for something less. No, we discover that our days are transfigured with grace as we awaken to the love which we never had to earn, the love which has always been ours, the love that frees us to serve and love without fear or hesitation. That’s where discipleship begins.
As we take up the Lenten Journey, then—beginning with Wednesday’s ashes—let us listen for the voice that showers Jesus with love and then falls upon us and the whole, wild, wonderful world. Let us welcome the promise of resurrection, even as we practice resurrection in service to one another and in prayerful thanksgiving and in whispered words of awe and wonder. For the gospel cannot be, it simply cannot be, that Jesus alone is transfigured. His message, his promise has always been this: that we are transfigured together, that we are transfigured for one another, that we are transfigured by God’s grace.
And that’s church.
Amen and Ashe!
