Matthew 17: 1–9
Luke 9: 28–36
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Send out your light and your truth, Lord, that they may lead us to your
holy hill and to your dwelling. Amen.
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Many of us here this morning have known moments we later realized were
holy moments — moments when we realized that God was closer to us
than we’d ever imagined. Maybe it was a moment when you saw
great beauty in God’s Creation — and were touched and awed
by the experience. Maybe it was a moment when you realized God was
speaking to you through his Word – to reveal some new purpose,
some new direction for your life. Or maybe that holy moment came
when God answered your prayer – and you were startled to realize
that he did, indeed, love you – and was delighted to answer
this prayer of your heart. After those moments your prayers to him
would not be the same, for now there was new trust, new faith between
you. And not just between you and the Lord; for whenever
those moments occur – they change the way we see
everything. After holy moments like these we see the
whole world shot through with love.
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Certainly, Peter, James and John experienced a whole series of holy
moments when they saw Jesus speaking to Moses and Elijah on that
mountaintop, saw him transfigured before them in heavenly
light – and then were themselves enveloped by a radiant
cloud. Before they climbed that mountain, they thought they knew
Jesus – a wonderfully insightful rabbi with extraordinary healing
powers.¹ But once they see the Shekinah glory of God shining
out from him, they realize he’s not just reflecting
God’s glory ’ as if light was shining on him from far
away. They realize God’s glory is shining out from him,
from within him.
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And maybe they didn’t get it right away – that Jesus was
God. Maybe that is why Jesus warned them not to say anything
about this whole experience until after he’d been raised from
the dead. But that night – seeing him transfigured by that
heavenly light – changed them from within. It didn’t
just transfigure Jesus; it transfigured those disciples
too. Some new understanding, like a seed, had been planted in
them. And by the grace of God it would grow.
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And they weren’t the only ones who were touched by that
light. Moses was too – and in him, people’s
understanding of the Law. So was Elijah, who represented the
Prophets. From that evening onward, people would begin to read
the Law and the Prophets in new ways – by the light, by the
example of Jesus. Last but not least, Jesus’ three disciples
would begin to realize that God was in their very midst, deeply
concerned with all human life. And that realization would
change the way they saw each other, saw all other people.
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We revisit this story of the Transfiguration every year just before
Lent begins. It’s as if the Lectionary editors want us to
know that during Lent the undoing of ourselves, the voluntary
humbling of ourselves before God has extraordinary
potential. For when we admit we don’t understand something,
when we make ourselves more vulnerable, when we open ourselves up to
new ways of living, new ways of seeing things – the King of Glory
may well come in. It’s all about
renewal . . . as we practice a holy
Lent . . . and look forward to the new
life promised by Resurrection.
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An old story called “The Rabbi’s Gift” shows how a
single ray of divine light can transform not only the one person who
receives it, but a whole community. Some of you have heard me
tell this story before, but it fits so well here, I hope you will
forgive me for telling it again.
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There was a famous monastery which once had been full of monks and
visitors seeking spiritual guidance. But the monastery had
fallen on dry spiritual days and now fewer and fewer pilgrims came to
seek guidance. Fewer and fewer young people came, seeking to
become monks themselves. There was only a handful of elderly
monks going about their work, their prayers and their study with heavy
hearts. The only time their spirits seemed to lift was when word
went out that the rabbi was walking in the woods. You see, in
the woods near the monastery, there was a small hut that a local
rabbi had constructed as a place of retreat, and he came there from
time to time to fast and pray. Whenever the monks in the monastery
heard he was fasting and praying in that little hut, they felt
supported by his prayer.
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One day, the abbot of the monastery, hearing that the rabbi was walking
in the nearby woods, decided to go and visit him. And when he
reached the hut, there was the rabbi standing in the doorway with his
arms outstretched — as if he had been standing there waiting to
welcome the abbot, who had given no notice of his visit. They
greeted one another, and then went into the hut where there was a table
with a book of scripture opened on the table. The two men sat
there together, praying silently, and then the abbot began to
weep. He poured out his concerns for the monastery and for the
spiritual health of the monks.
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Finally, the rabbi spoke. “You seek a teaching from me, and I
have one for you. It is a teaching which I will say to you just
once . . . and then I will never
repeat. When you share this teaching with the monks, you too
are to say it once and then never repeat it. The teaching is
this. Listen carefully. The Messiah is among
you.”
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Well, when the abbot heard that teaching, he thanked the rabbi and
went back to the monastery to gather the monks and tell them what he
had been told. Just as he had been instructed, he told them he
would say this teaching once, and then they were to talk about it no
more. “Listen carefully,” he said. “The
teaching is this:. One of us is the
Messiah.” That wasn’t exactly what the rabbi had
said, but once they heard it the monks began to look at one another
in a whole new light. Is Brother John the Messiah? Or
Father James? Am I the Messiah?
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And from that day forward, as the monks went about their prayers and
their work, they began to treat one another differently. Any
one of them might be the Messiah, and this new respect for one another
was noted by the few pilgrims who came. Soon enough, the word
spread. What a spirit of concern, compassion and expectation was
felt at the monastery! Young people began to offer themselves
in service. Pilgrims began to come in greater numbers, and all
because the monks looked at each other as people of infinite worth.
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Why do I love this old story so much? I love it because I see
it happening all around me – here at All Angels. Because
here, too, We seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our
neighbors as ourselves. And I’m not the only one who
senses this. Bishop Wright remarked on it to me when he entered
our sanctuary three weeks ago. Sensing the Presence of the Lord
in this place, that holy hush we all sense here, he said, “Oh, no
one will raise their voice in this place.”
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And he was right. In fact, every person who has joined us here
at All Angels in the past year or so has remarked on what they feel,
what they sense when they enter into this church. God has
touched people here. They have touched others. And that
seed continues to grow, to multiply.
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We don’t talk about it much – but we don’t have
to. It’s simply what keeps us coming back here. As we
treat each one as if he or she were Christ, Christ himself enters in
here, among us. This is a place where God happens.
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To God be the glory!
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Amen.
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¹ The Right Reverend Charles F. Duvall “Seeing Things in
a New Light” Sermon given on Day !, February 18, 2007.
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