Transfiguration Light

I don't know why we celebrate the Transfiguration in August, but it seems only fitting for its feast to come the day after my birthday. So often, the contemplation of entering another year opens my eyes to the light of heaven around me, urging me to pay attention to the thresholds, beckoning me to wonder: where is the veil torn? Where is the light coming through?

“And it came to pass about an eight days after these sayings, he took Peter and John and James, and went up into a mountain to pray. And as he prayed, the fashion of his countenance was altered and his raiment was white and glistering. And, behold, there talked with him two men which were Moses and Elias: who appeared in glory, and spake of his decease which he should accomplish at Jerusalem. But Peter and they that were with him were heavy with sleep: and when they were awake, they saw his glory, and the two men that stood with him. And it came to pass, as they departed from him, Peter said unto Jesus, Master, it is good for us to be here: and let us make three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias: not knowing what he said. While he thus spake, there came a cloud, and overshadowed them: and they feared as they entered into the cloud. And there came a voice out of the cloud, saying This is my beloved Son; hear him. And when the voice was past, Jesus was found alone. And they kept it close, and told no man in those days any of those things which they had seen.” – St. Luke ix 28

I know how Peter feels. I know that heart ache. One moment in my memory stands out as encapsulating this feeling, although sometimes I feel it nearly weekly it seems. It was the night of my senior undergrad voice recital, and my whole family came into town, including both sets of grandparents, and even some of Ethan’s family, and we all got to eat supper together afterward. I think my heart is happiest when all my family is in one place together—that is one of the most right and true feelings in all the world, as though some searching, unsettled part of me can finally rest.

When it was time for everyone to leave, I remember that desperate feeling, that throat-tightening thought of: already? That wasn’t enough. I don’t know if I ever have enough family time. That ache when leaving those we love, when we think “it is good for us to be here, let’s build dwellings here and stay forever”—that ache beckons to us, asking “Can’t you sense it? The mountain light of his transfiguration is caught up in the joy and pain tangled in your heart here.” That moment’s hesitation of longing, of slight disbelief, when we have to leave the hand-in-hand worship and fellowship of church to go out into the world, when we have to leave the dew-spangled refreshment of prayer to go do our earthly work—that longing tells us, “You’ve caught a glimpse of Love himself in all his heavenly raiment. It is good for you to be here.” But we cannot stay here forever. (I cannot tell you how many times I’ve wished I could.) I think that’s why Luke says Peter didn’t know what he was saying—because the time has not yet come for us to dwell forever with Christ in all his glory. We must go out into the mess of this world and do our work—but no matter how draining and exhausting, the mountain light of his transfiguration will find us. And for all those moments in murky valleys, it is the faithful memory of that light that is a light in itself.

“But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done;

I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun:

How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run,

I am lit with the Sun. (Sidney Lanier “Sunrise”).

When I partake of the Eucharist, and pray the phrase in the liturgy “that he may evermore dwell in us, and we in him,” I so often find myself also praying with a sort of guilty automaticity, “help me to dwell in you, Lord. Help me to dwell in you.” And my lack of time spent with him in the past week often weighs heavily on me in that moment—as though my effort determines God’s presence within me, as though God will only dwell in me if I am in him. But on this Transfiguration Sunday, he murmured to me in the silences of the liturgy, “it is the other way around, my child. You can only dwell in me if I am first in you—and look, here I am, within the doorways of your heart, as I have been for so long. Stop your straining. Come and rest in me.” And I ran to his altar and told him I loved him, and he fed me holy mysteries, and he promised me a mountain in the distance where I can forever dwell with him, the dear desire of my heart, the one behind all my heart aches, who looks at longings and names them good.